Tantalizingly incomplete, a prelude to a song that never materializes. The song's lack of forward momentum--most evident in Newman's singing, which draws out every other syllable--leads us to anticipate an eventual and fundamental change, a change portended with each swelling of the brass and strings. Throughout, the music struggles to reach Newman's unusually deep and rich vocal track, as though the song would achieve its transformation, and would be made whole, if only the music rose and met his voice. But the music never quite reaches such heights, and therefore we're pointedly denied the culmination of what we're hearing. Between the background singing (yo-oh-uh-oh-uh ...) and Newman's vocals, which sound like an incantation reverberating off marbled walls in a deserted cathedral, there's a sense that we're witnessing the beginning of some secret ritual, and that the song fades away because we're forced to slip out a side entrance before our eavesdropping is discovered.