The Lacking Permanence

Some people will slice and dice their way to a hostile disjointed soundscape filled with vague unease, but Wagon Christ’s approach yields something sunnier and wholesome, like fruit salad.

This is the third release in a series of benefit cassette (and digital) releases, all featuring covers of music that is sometimes brazenly obscure, and this one is my favorite of the lot.

Raw, stinging, and pungent like a freshly-cut onion, The Bobby Lees quickly peel away their layers to share their tender, pearl-white hearts.

The word “party” is right there in the name, as is the word “nude”, and it might be a coincidence, but this is rowdy, horny, let-it-all-hang-out rock and roll music.

Among the lockdown detritus of 2020 is this gem showing the introspective jazzy musings of one of the most important dub and post-punk bassists of the last 40 years.

The Gaslamp Killer earned his nickname by ruining the vibe of clubs in San Diego’s Gaslamp district with his incongruous DJ sets, so we must conclude those clubs were lame.

Tricky’s approach to music, with subdued tempos and striking contrasts (like pitting his industrial grit voice against Marta’s honeyed vocals) has not dulled over the years, glinting in the streetlight like an out of place scalpel.

The best place to hide seemed to be, ironically, right behind the ballot box. The numerologist and the baker had been underway on a wholly distinct mission, having already secured the deflated knifeboats inside a conveniently placed culvert. They now seemed to be caught in the crossfire of two opposing factions, each intent on some inscrutable and erratically violent purpose that seemed to be nothing but foiling the other side’s efforts. The roving skirmishes had drawn away participants and created a fairly event-free circle of balance where the pair could hunker down and plan their next move. It was going to be a long night.

The name would lead you to expect old-school riff-heavy fuzzed-out psychedelia with a strong southeast Asian accent, and it would lead you true.

Callahan’s deep gruff voice meanders through acoustic non-linear arrangements like a limo driver telling a story, completely oblivious to their own cowboy poetry.