B-Side Guys

Glenn Thomas’s “Between a Steeple and a Satellite” spins existential vertigo into Americana gold, creating something rare in contemporary roots music: a philosophical inquiry you can tap your foot to. The Nashville-based artist has crafted a meditation on memory and meaning that somehow manages to swing.

The song’s genius lies in its marriage of metaphysical questioning with tactile imagery. “A tissue paper heart / Two tickets for the Ark” opens the narrative with objects you can almost hold, before diving into the vast unknown of consciousness. Thomas, handling nearly every instrument himself, creates a sonic landscape that mirrors this dance between concrete and abstract, grounding ethereal questions in earthy arrangements.

That rolling train beat isn’t just keeping time – it’s measuring the distance between certainty and doubt, between past and present versions of ourselves. When Thomas asks “Was I here ten years ago or was it just a dream?” the rhythm section feels like the pulse of memory itself, steady but somehow always just out of reach.

The titular image arrives like a revelation: “God bless the acrobat / Twirling on the wire / Between a steeple and a satellite.” It’s a perfect metaphor for modern existence, suspended between faith and technology, tradition and progress. Thomas delivers these lines with the casual precision of someone who’s spent years honing his craft, evident in his previous collaborations with artists like Edie Brickell and Langhorne Slim.

There’s a particular poignancy to the bridge section, where Thomas zooms in on an intimate moment: “I’m brought back to the room / With your fingertips in mine.” After all the cosmic questioning, this return to human connection feels like coming up for air. The arrangement here grows more sparse, as if clearing space for the weight of the observation.

The recurring refrain “Why is it I can’t tell you exactly what I mean?” serves as both confession and universal truth. It’s delivered with increasing urgency each time, supported by a building instrumental arrangement that suggests both frustration and acceptance of our limited ability to communicate the ineffable.

Most impressively, Thomas manages to make the song’s central question – “Am I a liar for my ever-shifting, changing beliefs?” – feel less like philosophical navel-gazing and more like an essential inquiry into the nature of personal growth. The clanging guitars and rollicking piano create a celebratory atmosphere around this uncertainty, suggesting that maybe our inability to remain static is actually cause for celebration.

Following his 2020 debut Reassure Me There’s a Window, this single suggests Thomas is pushing beyond traditional Americana constraints while remaining rooted in the genre’s storytelling traditions. He’s created something that feels both timeless and decidedly contemporary – much like that acrobat, balanced perfectly between heaven and earth.