The Lacking Permanence

No topic is too esoteric for John Darnielle to base an entire Mountain Goats album on, not even the persecution of pagans as a wave of Christianity moved through Europe in the middle ages.

Nailing the indie guitar sound is one thing, but Born Ruffians have become so adept at it that it’s more like lathering it in epoxy, then bolting it down, and adding some rivets for good measure.

Sultry, measured vocals are set off against an array of spiky arrangements and instrumental bursts, song parts constantly evolving and mutating, so that little finishes the way it started.

Jealousy is an intense driving artistic force, and nowhere is this more evident than with the recent tradition of releasing a covers album. These selections from Nilsson Schmilsson show a good variety of styles and approaches.

Glaspy’s voice is a broad crooked smile, unique in its shape and well-suited for this particular set of laconic jangle.

The Musée National stood like a squat block, facing the highway at an angle and mirrored to the left by the library. The hu hu sat inside, waiting in the wing housing the musical instrument collection. The surgeon nervously handled the endoscope case, dusty from the helicopter ride that had brought them to N’Djamena. The calligrapher was clearly nervous but their services would only be required for brief minutes while they inspected the inscription on the inside of the ancient calabash.

Not exactly dance music, but very danceable music, filled with intricate pop arrangements, sly lyrics, and impeccable production.

Finely crafted pop songs dressed up in rock outfits, shifting moods and approaches with every track.

Tjinder Singh’s easygoing voice and melodies, and penchant for carefree sunny grooves sits well at the center of this multicultural stew, where flute accents weave in and out of the loops.

It was a peaceful suburban street, and they had taken great care to select a vehicle that would not stand out when parked along its sidewalks, a gold Taurus wagon. The very familiar nature of the setting — the shading trees, the mottled but well-kept asphalt, the toys scattered on lawns — made it feel like one of the most exotic places they’d been to in a while. The cartographer checked the coordinates on the fancy device strapped to their wrist, but any web search could have found them Brewster, New York. The ethnomusicologist leaned against the mailbox, labeled “Marie”, and scanned the canopy of the tremendous spreading oak planted square in the middle of the lawn, eyes peeled for that squirrel.