Pretty amazing for what started as writer’s block.

These mystical tracks are self-evident from the get-go. The sparse production and airy vocal work of “Fall” and “Snow” feel as if they belong in a fairytale world.

I’m aware that some of you might take that to mean her voice is high-pitched and squeaky, but it’s not that at all. Her voice is lower than many women’s, but the way she sings — using all of her breath — evokes the feeling of being whispered to. Listening to Hannigan’s music feels like discovering a treasure only you and her know about.

Some of this work might be due to Aaron Dessner’s production. As he usually does on a record, Dessner’s created an emptiness with each track here that feels very much like the space occupying much of The National’s music.

On At Swim, that approach largely work. When Hannigan sings that she wants to “swim in your current” on “Undertow”, the production’s sparseness makes it feel like she already is. In “Fall”, the space within the track makes it feel larger than it really is.

It’s a powerful effect; an undercurrent in the music, if you will, that makes it feel more emotionally visceral. “Ora” leaves Hannigan’s voice almost naked on top of a piano, and while most songs fall apart with such minimal construction, the production (and Hannigan’s voice) bring it together.

Like many fairytales, the stories Hannigan tells us aren’t always pretty. “We, the ashes: We spend our days like matches / As we burn our ships as black as / The end, the end,” she sings on “We, the Drowned”. It’s as dark as it is beautiful, as lyrically powerful as the production is spacious.

Perhaps what’s most powerful about At Swim, though, is Hannigan’s awareness of being lost in an undertow. It’s a record about fighting a series of fights that we can’t win.

At one point, Hannigan pleads for us to hang the rich so we can spare the young. The thought is both sobering and damning. Hannigan must know what she asks for could never be.

So much like many fairytales, the scenery is gorgeous, but the ending isn’t pretty. In At Swim, we’re all in deep water. And we’re not going to make it. And any morals of the story will come too late.

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The album was put together by Aaron and Bryce Dessner of The National for charity. Each sale of the record goes towards funding HIV and AIDs awareness and research. It’s a good cause, but as far as I’m concerned, any reason is a good reason to re-visit the Dead’s catalogue.

Some of the tracks deviate from the originals in significant ways. Vijay Iver’s version of King Solomon’s Marbles, for example, renders the song completely on piano instead of the band’s traditional guitar work. The result feels like a hybrid of old-time jazz with some of Rey’s theme from Star Wars: The Force Awakens, which was surprising and wonderful.

Other tracks stick closer to the script. And We Bid You Goodnight feels as powerful as ever (save its final live performance, which is thankfully available on Youtube). It’s a tremendous track, and I’m glad that Sam Amidon knew he had a good thing.

Other tracks surprise, in both good and bad ways: Mumford & Sons strip Friend of the Devil of its usual controversy and make it mass-audience friendly (which is a typical Mumford move). Each track from The National feels like a taste of heaven. The War on Drugs turn in a performance on Touch of Grey that could be described as “expected,” but I’d rather call it “effective.”

The whole album reads like a “who’s who” of indie, and some of the genre’s less well-known artists put out the best tracks. In particular, I love Courtney Barnett’s take on New Speedway Boogie and Perfume Genius & Sharon Van Etten & Friends’ work on To Lay Me Down.

Not all of the album is perfect: there’s five and a half hours of music here, so your mileage may vary. A few tracks had me hovering over the skip button. But at least an hour of the album is impeccable, and at least three hours of it is very good. Those sound like bad batting odds, but the variety of genre work here is so huge that it would be impossible to satisfy with any other track.

That wide variety could be a turn off for some Grateful Dead fans, though. After all, the band was always a guitar group. Hearing other takes on these tracks can sometimes feel like sacrilege. Other times, the self-seriousness of the record drags it down like a weight.

But yet the album feels more powerful than not. How many rock artists could stand up to this level of scrutiny and re-interpretation? The only other artist I think you could pull this off with is Bob Dylan. Day of the Dead is this rare treat that’s a reminder of the past, like a thank-you letter for it. It’s also a look towards the future.

All that being said, I think Day of the Dead’s power lies entirely in the Dead’s work. Hearing these artists re-interpret these tracks and re-contextualize them for their own purposes is fascinating, and often rewarding, but its emotional power lies entirely in the reminder that music can bring us together so clearly. It’s a celebration of The Grateful Dead, but it feels like a celebration of the power of rock music. And it’s a complete and utter joy.

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