top of page



I’ve been lucky in my life to be surrounded by weirdos. People who wake up looking more organized and put together than they will at 5 PM. They practice bird calls in the shower but claim they’re “vocal exercises”. Their resting faces always look like they’re 2/3 of the way through the most interesting fantasy novel; wide eyed but with a furled brow. There’s always someone from out of town sleeping on their couch. They own a car but chose to ride a bike, even during a Chicago winter. Their close relationship with smoking weed and it’s proclivity to boost appetite has only refined their tastebuds, now they eat organic. Their dogs are always a mix of every ugly breed and they won’t leave you alone. 

These are some of my favorite things about a friend that’s so damn close to me that I can’t begin to describe how much I love the guy. But maybe we’re not close at all, I’m not sure. We’ve only known each other a few months. Maybe this is just the way everyone feels about him. 

Elijah has that sense of humor that makes him the perfect audience for any joke, especially when they’re at his expense. He’ll hop in the car for a 4 hour trip to see a friend. Most impressively, he’s one of the strongest and most rapidly progressing songwriters that I’ve ever heard. He might be the best songwriter I’ve ever met.


His words are a conversation with an absent nature, pulling at something almost mythological, like the once circular thinking of a deer that’s now roadkill, and reshaping it into a thinly disguised metaphor for the anxiety of not knowing which way to run. Directionless melodic phrasing resembling an undetermined house fly trapped indoors, once you believe you’ve spotted it’s aim he moves and lands once more. 


And in that spinning, the room gets louder and sometimes dizzy. The panic, the push and pull, the wanting to shake so that we can stand still. In love with his own frailties, there’s no shame when the song needs to stop, not to end, but to give the room a moment to gather themselves. We barely remember how we got here, train or taxi, walking or running, but we’re certain that it’s over now so that it can start again. 

-Jeremy Quentin; Songwriter (Small Houses)

Filmed at Fox Den Motel

in Dubuque, IA

Directed by:

Jeremy Quentin

Filmed by:

John Woerdehoff

Nick Riedman

Jeremy Quentin

Recorded by:

Laird Scott

Forward by:

Jeremy Quentin


Special thanks to:

Natalie Gassman

John McDermott

bottom of page