.H.M’s artist page HERE
When I first listened to “My Open Hand” by J.H.M., I wasn’t sure what to expect. The opening is built around acoustic guitars with a sound that feels distinctly rooted in the 1990s. The tone is so evocative that R.E.M. came to mind almost automatically—not because the song imitates R.E.M., but because that guitar sound is closely associated with them in my own musical memory.
At first, the introduction lasts longer than expected. It creates a tranquil space that feels as though it might never leave that moment. Then, after a very short but dry fill, the bass and drums enter. They aren’t flashy or overly dramatic, yet their arrival quickly brings the music down to earth. Up to this point, the song feels like it has been hovering rather than moving forward; once the rhythm section enters, it gains direction and momentum.
The rhythm section never tries to call attention to itself—they simply do exactly what the song needs. Even in its quieter moments, the track never fully rests. There’s a subtle sense of movement throughout, small but significant, that keeps the song alive.
Vocally, J.H.M.’s delivery is darker than expected. Rather than sounding overly polished or performative, the vocals are slightly ragged and unmistakably human. While the lyrics touch on promises, they aren’t presented in a comforting or uplifting way. Instead, there’s a lingering sense of incompleteness that adds emotional weight.
At first, the chorus may not feel particularly impactful. You might hear it as just another part of a song you’re not fully paying attention to. But as it repeats throughout the track, it slowly becomes familiar and eventually settles into your mind—not in an irritating way, but like an echo. Over time, you begin to notice smaller details you might have missed on earlier listens.
What makes this song special is the way it rewards patience. That patience is what gives it a feeling of life. The song feels alive, wrapping around you like an embrace.
Near the end, the instrumentation is stripped down almost entirely, leaving only voice and guitar. This raw moment feels exposed, unguarded, and perhaps a little vulnerable. Most songs would build toward a crescendo from here, but this one takes the opposite approach. When the chorus returns, it doesn’t arrive as a dramatic buildup—it feels like a landing, as though the song has finally said everything it needed to say. It’s understated, but very well executed.
There’s something quietly impressive about how everything fits together. The song doesn’t demand attention, doesn’t try to impress, and never feels flashy. You have to meet it halfway—and if you do, it rewards you. It’s the kind of track that lingers after it ends, not through force but through subtlety, making you want to listen again just to catch the details you might have missed.
This review was submitted by fellow NAS artist Arnoldos’s Lizards.
There Spotify Artist page can be found HERE.
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