The refrigerator in my new home groans quietly every fifteen minutes. The footsteps of passerby on the sidewalk just outside my windows sound like brushes gliding over snare drums. These ambient noises accompanied my first experiences with claire rousay’s hushed new album on holding. I’m certain the artist would approve of my choice to listen to the thirty-minute recording at a volume so low that I can’t always distinguish what’s emanating from on holding and my actual surroundings. Heretical as it may be, I prefer domestic appreciation of rousay’s recordings to the live performance I attended last year.