The track opens with the kind of acoustic guitar figure that makes you stop whatever you are doing. Not flashy, not technically ostentatious — just right. Two guitars move around each other with the unhurried patience of old friends finishing each other's sentences, and Turner's vocal arrives almost apologetically above them, as though he had been waiting in the hallway before deciding to come in. It is a deeply appealing entrance.

Lyrically, the song operates in the territory that the best singer-songwriters have always known is the richest: the moment between despair and resolution, when the storm has passed but the sun has not yet fully appeared. Turner has spoken about writing from "a moment of not having answers yet", and that productive uncertainty runs through every melodic choice on the track. The chorus does not resolve triumphantly; it opens, like a window being left ajar rather than flung wide. This is a songwriter who trusts his audience not to need everything spelled out.

The production deserves particular attention. Warm and spacious without ever tipping into the kind of reverb-heavy atmospheric soup that bogs down so much contemporary indie folk, it has been constructed with genuine care for the dynamics of each instrument. The guitars breathe. The low end sits just far enough back to give the vocals room to live in the foreground without crowding. If this is the work of a man recording the core of things himself, it suggests an artist with unusually good ears for self-editing — the most undervalued skill in home recording.

Comparisons will inevitably be reached for. Traces of early Bon Iver, perhaps a shadow of Iron & Wine at his most unadorned, a faint structural kinship with the quieter rooms in the Fleet Foxes catalogue. But Turner wears these influences lightly; he has absorbed rather than aped them, and the emotional register of *A New Moon* feels distinctly his own. The song's central metaphor — the lunar cycle as a model for human resilience, the waning and returning of hope — could easily become ponderous in clumsier hands. Here it lands with the naturalness of a conversation rather than a lecture.

The Dudes of Hazard, whoever they may be on any given recording session, serve the song rather than themselves, which is precisely as it should be. This is Turner's show and he knows it, leading from a place of quiet authority.

Thirteen tracks await. On this evidence, that is very good news indeed.