Jake Marsh’s “5 minutes” Turns Small Moments Into a Whole Universe on 'edge of the bed'

Jake Marsh didn’t make edge of the bed to sound big. He made it to sound close. And ironically, that closeness is exactly what gives the album its scale.

Written and produced entirely in his bedroom, the debut record feels like you’re sitting on the floor while he plays rough drafts that somehow already hit like finished anthems. The guitars are clean but emotional, the hooks are immediate, and the lyrics read like thoughts you weren’t supposed to hear out loud. It’s diaristic without being self-pitying, polished without sanding off the human parts. Across the album’s 11 tracks, Marsh builds a world where vulnerability isn’t a gimmick. It’s the whole architecture.

On paper, the song is simple. A looped promise to do nothing, to just vibe, to exist inside a shared pocket of time. But the way Marsh frames those five minutes turns them into something sacred. When he sings “any time is enough to hear the violinists play their song when we touch,” the production subtly lifts, like the room itself just inhaled. The track floats on warm guitars and soft rhythmic pulses that never rush the moment. It lingers. It wants you to linger too.

Lyrically, “5 minutes” is obsessed with scale. Tiny slices of time feel eternal. A face becomes a landscape you can get lost in. Love is compared to pralines, to HD clarity, to a daydream you don’t want to wake from. There’s a sweetness here that could’ve tipped into corny in the wrong hands. Marsh sells it because he doesn’t overperform the emotion. He sings like he’s discovering it while it’s happening.

That restraint is what makes the chorus land. The repeated “ooh ooh ooh” lines aren’t filler. They’re the sound of language failing in the best way. Sometimes the feeling is bigger than the sentence, and the song leans into that. It’s intimacy translated into melody.

Within the full arc of edge of the bed, “5 minutes” acts like a thesis statement. The album is about proximity. To another person. To your younger self. To the version of you that still believes moments can stretch forever if you hold them right. Marsh’s NYC alt-pop instincts keep the songs hook-forward, but the emotional engine is old-school romantic. He’s chasing permanence in a world built on scroll speed.

For a debut, the album is shockingly self-assured. Marsh isn’t posturing as a savior of the genre or drowning in aesthetic tricks. He’s documenting what it feels like to care deeply and hoping the recording captures the pulse. On “5 minutes,” it does. The track doesn’t just describe a perfect moment. It becomes one. And for three minutes and change, that’s enough to believe in.