Bec Stevens is an old soul. Not in the dust-and-mothballs fashion, but in that tugging, goosebump-raising way – something wholly familiar yet captivating and un-pinpointable. Her voice is a trigger, prompting reflections of your own life while she brazenly steps us through her own. All of it’s there in its worn grooves, its pitched valleys. Line-by-line, verse-by-verse, it’s a voice that threads you back to something thought completely faded: that first house you moved into after finishing school, a party in motion, a moment – a lost feeling – somehow intact, frozen in time.