New cultural artefacts are in vastly shorter supply than they once were, thanks to the pandemic-induced standstill in which we find ourselves. At this existential crossroads, two things seem to have happened. One is that we have flocked in our (socially-networked, socially-distanced) masses to fervently consume those rare fragments of fresh content that have emerged onto this considerably more open field — consider the palpable collective lockdown lust for Normal People’s Connell and Marianne, or the woodland pixie delirium resultant from the surprise release of Taylor Swift’s Folklore. The other response has been a turn to the old, to the vast expanse of art objects available at our fingertips — some criminally overlooked, some nostalgically rediscovered — in the online age of archives and streaming services. With the release of Candid, a widely-sourced and deeply affectionate covers album, Chicago soft-rock outfit Whitney present an exemplary fulfilment of this second mode; a tasteful mining of both the recent and distant history of popular music to illuminate on our collective response to this unprecedented moment.

Ironically enough, Candid is actually a product of live recording sessions carried out by the project’s full ensemble in person back in January and February, possibly making it one of the last musical projects completed before the western world retreated into quarantine. Because of this, its spirit of warmth and ease allows it to work with dual purpose. For one, it’s a fruitful, impressive extension of the band’s robust, soul-infused sound (established over two exceptional albums since the band’s formation in 2015). For another, it works as a welcome, soothing salve to the shared societal pain of physical separation. Dramatic jazz piano chords and an insistent bass drum open the album on a spacious, tranquil version of contemporary alt-R&B singer Kelela’s “Bank Head.” Singer/drummer Julien Ehrlich’s distinctive falsetto lilts “I remember one time / I remember passing you by” over the instrumental, like he’s grasping for a faded memory of the world as it was, or the people he knew there.

Whitney co-founders Ehrlich and guitarist Max Kakacek take the opportunity on Candid to pay tribute to songwriting at its purest and most powerfully simplistic, a notion that their work can effectively transcend the barriers of genre. The 10 selected tracks have been pared back to their most skeletal forms and rebuilt in the distinct Whitney mould, which makes for appealingly easy listening but more significantly emphasises the raw authorial prowess of these songs’ original creators. Take the muted, folksy strum on their rendition of British funk poet Labi Siffre’s “Crying, Laughing, Loving, Lying,” which allows for the song’s melancholic verse-based progression to soar as more instrumental elements are layered on bit by bit, or the smoky organ riffs and fluid reverb guitars on a blissed-out version of 90s R&B vocal group SWV’s “Rain.” Whitney’s tender, soft reimagining of these artists’ works renders their words like folk songs — simplistic and elegant in their timeless wisdom.

Some of the choices round the edges of songs originally more jagged. A cover of David Byrne’s “Strange Overtones” is wistful where the source track is wonky, replacing glitchy synth-pop beats with a rhythmic acoustic shuffle. It’s a sweet reworking that brings to the fore the track’s lyrical preoccupations with the pleasure of musical experimentation and the need to connect with others across distances and through walls. It’s in sync with the album’s wider thematic objectives, not least on the final chorus as Ehrlich soars to the climactic, Byrne/Eno-penned proclamation: “we’re not alone.”

Other tracks are more straightforward in their approach to the original material, though that’s not to their detriment. Whitney’s country-inflected brand of AOR melancholia is irrefutably indebted to the stylings of John Denver, so it stands to reason that the band’s cover of his gargantuan hit “Take Me Home, Country Roads” would be the track to stray least from the provided template. Nonetheless, it’s an undeniable standout on the album. Its yearning country textures belie the band’s kinship with the New Mexico-born troubadour, as shimmering organs, pianos and slide guitars build up a bright, cinematic sonic landscape. Over the top of this, an exchange of harmonies between Ehrlich and a gorgeous guest vocal from Waxahatchee’s Katie Crutchfield is infectious in its joyous abandon.

While Candid is intended as Ehrlich and Kakacek’s love letter to their idols and contemporaries, it stands to reason that any listener unfamiliar with the tracks may simply enjoy the record as a new Whitney release. It moves fluently through those signature moments appreciators of 2016’s Light Upon the Lake or last year’s Forever Turned Around might expect. This is apparent in the easy, piano-drive groove and soaring choruses on their version of Moondog’s “High on a Rocky Ledge” or the dusty desert rock instrumental retooling of French composer Jack Arel’s “Something Happen.”

Whether enjoyed as a fresh musical offering or an affectionate archival excursion, Candid is an easy album to appreciate. Its core interplay, a conversation between the old and the new, is the key to its success. If the cultural landscape has been rendered barren by the necessity of the present crisis, perhaps this offers a moment to pause and look backwards — to breathe deep and drink in what we might have missed in the furious hustle of the world as it was before. Perhaps there’s something new to be found in the old, whether it’s comfort, entertainment or wisdom. Across 10 impeccably-performed tracks on Candid, Whitney explore this idea with dexterity and grace. Damien Jurado’s words on second track “AM AM” lament to being “stuck here in a life that repeats,” but the simple words on the Blaze Foley cover “Rainbows & Ridges” that closes the album respond simply: “everything passes.” Candid is old and new, calm and joyous; a chance to take stock before we reemerge into the unrelenting rush of our wounded, recuperating world.

Rhys Handley (@RhysHandley2113) is a journalist and film writer from Yorkshire in England. Now based in London, he is the biggest Talking Heads fan who still hasn’t seen Stop Making Sense.