For the last couple of years, Iowa City’s James Hirsch has been releasing music under the name diistancing. His latest, releasing on good old Saint Valentine’s Day, is this love ain’t a film. Featuring seven slow-burning, melancholic love/breakup songs, this diistancing release is stripped-down and raw, incorporating elements of alt-folk and emo into a tight collection of brooding bedroom pop. With the seemingly simple formula of a pair of acoustic chords and swelling reverb, Hirsch is able to faithfully interpret some of the coldness of that most sanguine holiday.
The album opens up with “enclosed: emotional dust,” a two-chord rumination that reaches its pinnacle when Hirsch sings “I can feel your growing absence / More than I ever felt your presence.” If it seems overwrought written out, I promise it’s earnest when he sings it. On “i love you, i’m sorry,” the music breaks entirely after the first verse, and Hirsch opts for a flat-out monologue addressing the person who is no longer in love with him. It’s a real, powerful moment for both Hirsch and the listener — an old-school pop music move that I, for one, could stand hearing more of.
“looking for you” reads like a voice memo that Hirsch couldn’t stop thinking about. “Are you a broken mirror? Are you an open window?” he asks without fear. “I really don’t know,” he concludes, pop-strumming a guitar against the heartbreak. Keep in mind the musical and emotional mileage he is capable of wringing out of just a few chords, especially on the title track. Here, Hirsch is at his most bruised, but there’s something persistent — and yes, cinematic — hiding underneath it all.
By the last three songs, full joy emerges, even if it’s tough now, jaded. And yet, Hirsch is able to finally reach for acceptance, via the lingering exploration of “want” and the gentle twang of “break me gently.” Wrapping up with “i hear you,” Hirsch crafts an echo chamber of his own salvation. Defiant guitar strums create sweeping, vibrating echoes. The song concludes while he repeats “I’m still here,” more and more sure each time around.
Wrapping up at just under 19 minutes, Hirsch imparts his tale of love and loss efficiently, then fades away. His music here is about that lowercase love that winds up causing a capital-letter kind of pain. So if all the silly pink hearts and throw-away bouquets this time of year bring you down even a little, then this love ain’t a film is your record. Just don’t listen to it in despair. Take solace in knowing someone else is out there that feels that same heartbroken feeling as you. And they aren’t that far away.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s February 2024 issue.
