Evening Hymns are sung from the cathedrals of tall trees. They capture the spirit of moments, friends around a beach bonfire, the crunching of snowshoes on a winter night and memories of boys with pellet guns, fishing rods and handmade forts. Their latest record spills its guts out on the floor so softly it leaves the listener to reflect on their own mortality. Both dense and spatial, their music moves from droning bliss into anthemic chants. Narratives are woven together in songs that operate outside of hook-laden populist frameworks to create sprawling folk and lush orchestral pop. If Canadian campfire music was a genre, Evening Hymns would be its chief proponents.