The single opens with a flutter of acoustic guitar—fingerpicked, intimate, almost apologetic—before Bull's voice enters, weathered and considerably more lived-in than the urgent bark that characterised City Reign's indie-rock assault. Where *Dasein* crackled with the manic energy of a band trying to outrun their demons, this track sits with them, makes them tea, asks how they've been. The production, recorded in his mother's garage on his late father's equipment, carries the warmth of analog tape and the particular emotional weight of inherited tools. Every crackle feels deliberate. Every hiss, sacred.

Bull has always possessed a gift for transforming personal devastation into universal hymns, but here he strips away the protective layers of distortion and volume that once shielded his more vulnerable moments. The clattering drums—signature Bull, to be sure—arrive halfway through like a heartbeat finally finding its rhythm again after arrhythmia. When they do, accompanied by those jangling guitars that recall The Smiths at their most contemplative, the song doesn't explode so much as exhale. It's a release, not a catharsis. The distinction matters.

Lyrically, Bull walks a tightrope between confession and conversation. "Come back when you feel like" functions as both invitation and absolution—permission granted to oneself to step away from the things we love when survival demands it, and permission to return without shame or explanation. The verses chronicle absence without wallowing in it; the chorus offers reassurance without false comfort. It's the sound of someone who has done the difficult work of grief and emerged, if not unscathed, then at least intact enough to document the journey.

The shadow of his father looms large over this material, as it did over *Dasein*, but whereas *There You Are* confronted mortality with raw immediacy, "Come Back (When You Feel Like)" grapples with the longer, lonelier aftermath. This is music made in the wreckage, assembled from salvaged parts—both literal and metaphorical. That Bull chose to work with his father's recording equipment transforms the track into something beyond autobiography; it becomes conversation across the veil, collaboration with memory itself.

Mick Morrison's engineering lends the production a professional sheen without sacrificing intimacy. The mix allows space for silence, for breath, for the creak of a guitar strap or the click of a pedal. These imperfections aren't mistakes but rather signatures of authenticity. The song sounds like it was made by human hands in a specific place at a specific time, and in our current landscape of algorithmic perfection and bedroom-producer polish, that alone feels radical.

Bull describes the track as "a hymn to self-forgiveness," and that's precisely what elevates it above mere comeback single into genuine artistic statement. This isn't a man announcing his return with confidence; it's someone quietly admitting he might be ready to try again. The humility is disarming. The honesty, devastating.

Whether Every Other Weekend can sustain an entire album at this emotional register remains to be seen, but "Come Back (When You Feel Like)" succeeds brilliantly on its own terms. It's a song about permission—to grieve, to rest, to stop, to start—and it extends that permission generously to anyone who needs it. In a musical landscape obsessed with triumph and resilience, Bull offers something rarer: the radical acceptance of our own fragility, and the patient hope that joy, once set down, might someday be lifted again.

Welcome back, Chris Bull. Take all the time you need.