The press materials tell us Neimeijer originally performed the song at Amsterdam's legendary Paradiso, playing double bass as the opening act for 16 Down, back when he fronted the English-language rock outfit Soundsurfer. That origin story matters, because *Birds Of A Feather* carries the particular gravity of something that has been lived in rather than merely written. A lesser songwriter might have polished away that patina. Neimeijer has had the good sense to leave it intact.

Musically, the track opens in the shadowy, whisky-soaked territory of Tom Waits — all low rumble and restrained menace — before gradually unfurling into the sun-drenched brass and communal joy of New Orleans. It's a journey that spans continents and moods without ever feeling forced or cartographic. The transition feels earned, organic, the way a good conversation drifts from melancholy into laughter. A mandolin appears along the way, unexpected and perfectly placed, lending a rustic intimacy to the arrangement. Then the brass arrives, and everything lifts.

That trumpet solo deserves special mention. Neimeijer himself acknowledges the uplifting quality he was chasing on record, and he caught it. The horn doesn't merely solo — it preaches, it soars, it offers something that functions almost as release. Combined with the elastic space given to guitar and even bass guitar, the song transforms into the kind of extended, breathing jam that rewards listeners who stay through to the end. Live, one imagines, this must be something close to transcendent.

Lyrically, the song takes aim at the culture of performative opinion — the endless roundabout of talk-show chatter and people who, as Neimeijer puts it, like to hear themselves talk. The title riffs on the old proverb "birds of a feather flock together," suggesting that these voices don't so much illuminate as echo each other endlessly, a closed circuit of noise mistaken for thought. The critique lands without moralising, embedded in rhythm and melody rather than wielded like a lecture. Neimeijer smiles at the absurdity rather than raging against it, which makes the point land all the more cleanly.

Compositionally, the song is deceptively simple — deliberately so. Neimeijer has signalled that this simplicity might be a preview of future directions, and if that's the case, the prospects are genuinely exciting. Complexity can dazzle; simplicity, done right, endures. *Birds Of A Feather* endures.

The album *Green Eyed Soul* frames itself around atmospheric Americana and soul, brass and strings, a debt to Paul Weller's blue-eyed soul tradition recast through green eyes and Dutch sensibility. As a closing track, *Birds Of A Feather* functions as both culmination and declaration of intent — wrapping up one chapter while hinting plainly at the next. Neimeijer has reportedly also picked up the banjo again, spotted one lying in the studio and unable to resist. Good. That impulsive, joyful instinct — grab the instrument, play the song, trust the moment — runs through every bar of this recording.

Twenty years from first performance to final cut. Some songs need that time. This one did.