Speaking onstage at the Hollywood Theatre, Mississippi Records co-founder Eric Isaacson recalled hearing the sound of Yo La Tengo’s Ira Kaplan digging through boxes, searching for a recording made 20 years ago. Isaacson had called him to gauge interest in releasing the band’s score for Kelly Reichardt’s Oregon-made 2006 micro-budget masterpiece Old Joy on vinyl. “If I’ve got the master tape, we can do it,” he remembered Kaplan saying. 

Until February, Yo La Tengo’s spare, drifting soundtrack—featuring session guitarist Smokey Hormel—had resided inconspicuously within They Shoot, We Score, a 2008 compilation of music the band wrote for films. But as of February 28, an expanded version now stands on its own, re-emerging in its most vivid form thanks to a remaster and vinyl pressing by Mississippi Recs.

Described by Isaacson as “the fastest record deal ever achieved,” no more than 12 minutes passed from the moment the label’s project coordinator Sam Wenc pitched the idea to when Isaacson had secured the blessings of Reichardt, Kaplan, and Georgia Hubley and agreed to put out the score. In another sense, though, this release has been 20 years in the making, which fittingly embodies the film’s central act of looking backward and gently taking stock.

Reichardt’s Old Joy was based on a short story by Portland author Jon Raymond, that followed two thirtysomethings whose lifestyles had diverged since the youthful height of their friendship. Kurt (Will Oldham aka Bonnie 'Prince' Billy) is an affable drifter, lonely but pretending not to be. Mark (Daniel London) has found a stable, if slightly stifled, rhythm as a dutiful husband and soon-to-be father. Reichardt’s film is a delicate portrait of their attempts to tap back into their old rapport on a weekend trip to Bagby Hot Springs. But they have as much trouble relocating their chemistry as they do finding their way to Kurt’s favorite soaking spot.

Grasping for landmarks as daylight dwindles, the loose spacious guitar score gives way to wistful piano; Kurt points to an utterly indistinct dead tree along the forested highway and says hopefully, “I remember that.” A beat later, in a distant wide shot, their car appears in reverse, silently turning back the way it came. The symbolically resonant—and funny—moment is representative of Reichardt’s approach, relying as much on sound and scenery to tell the story as she does on her actors. 

The first time Yo La Tengo’s score appears in the film, the pair is on their way out of town, and Kurt mentions needing to pawn off some of his music collection. Mark informs him that their go-to record store has been replaced by a smoothie shop and now only exists on eBay. 

“No more Sid’s,” Kurt sighs, “End of an era.” At that moment, the score enters with a warm, sonorous guitar line—tentative at first, searching, before finding its way into an unhurried groove, just as the car glides beneath the St. Johns Bridge, moving away from the city and towards the wilderness.

During the film's title sequence, talk radio fills the space music might typically occupy. It’s only once the duo (along with Mark’s dog, Lucy) leave the city behind that Yo La Tengo’s score takes the place of the rambling political commentary. The passage from a firmly time-stamped snapshot to something more elemental—two men and a dog in the woods—is one of the things that gives the film and its score their hypnotic quality. 

Featuring mostly alternate versions of the film’s songs—longer takes, varied rhythms, and subtly embellished arrangements—this new release presents recordings distinct not only from the film but also from the versions previously included on Yo La Tengo’s soundtrack compilation. The result is an apt blend of the well-worn and the unfamiliar, like an old friend who’s changed with time, and who’s also just as you remember.

After six films in Oregon, Reichardt wrapped production last fall on a period piece shot in Cincinnati, The Mastermind, which will premiere this month at Cannes Film Festival. Meanwhile, Mississippi Records has moved its headquarters to Chicago and, after years of resistance, launched a website. But plenty of the casual, personal, sincere, and independent ethos that defined the city’s arts scene in the early 2000s remains. Speaking to the Mercury, Isaacson noted, “Kelly and Yo La Tengo were extraordinarily hands off on this project. I'd like to think they trusted the label, as they're fond of its past work. They told me to ‘do whatever.’”

At a Hollywood Theatre screening of Old Joy, Isaacson introduced the film before he also announced he had forgotten to bring copies of the new pressing—“a testament to what a good businessman I am,” he said. To make up for it, he promised attendees that they could stop by the shop and pick it up for $11, a gesture in keeping with the label’s longtime motto: Always—love over gold.

The record is a reflection of Old Joy’s quiet legacy, a beautiful piece of music, and an invitation to take a good, honest listen when the past comes calling.