The Lacking Permanence

The Black Lips are like looking outside the bar window and seeing country and punk having an argument then a fistfight.

Getting into Darra Adam Khel had not been easy. Getting into Pakistan was relatively straightforward, with the right-colored passports and decoy suitcases full of Western tourist necessities. The ride towards the Khyber Pass had been less so, and the necessary disguises and bribes to get past the checkpoints that turned away foreigners were more of an ordeal than ordinary. The dusty vehicle, neither truck nor passenger car nor jeep but somehow all three, had been recalcitrant for most of the trip, providing constant frequent minor breakdowns, keeping the mechanic perpetually busy. Now they were on a shooting range on the roof of a well-stocked arms shop, surrounded by dozens of identical shops and shooting ranges. As the linguist lifted the replica Berthier carbine to their shoulder, they darkly thought it would be just their luck, after all of this, to be caught in some rooftop crossfire from other purchasers testing their new toys.

The Just Joans are the sonic equivalent of tartan… between the girl group influences, the pitch-perfect pastoral pop, and a sense of humor as black and bitter as truck stop coffee, they could not be more Scottish.

Excellent garage psychedelia from Quebec that transcends any language barrier with its insistent guitars, lush textures, and thundering drums.

The cryptographer tried to once again estimate the circumference of the lighthouse, asking the question aloud and then naming best guesses. The compulsion to know these geometric factors was strong. The agronomist successfully prevented their eyes from rolling. The history of this place was more interesting, having provided a high point from which to shine a light for centuries, currently for Estonia but briefly for the Kingdom of Torgu. That last bit of trivia was relevant because they were here to meet with the self-appointed Official Court Jester, who had requested they journey to this location on a rented tandem bicycle. They had also requested ice cream, “any color except white.” It waited in a cooler strapped to the bicycle’s ample frame.

The source material is brilliant, but the interpretations are so uneven that it’s more like “Juliana Hatfield’s Wax Museum of Songs by The Police”.

Another solo pop genius wunderkind, blasting it out of the water with a summery mix of rock and psychedelia.

A strange confluence of influences, with a lot of dynamic arrangements and plenty of weird hooks that shouldn’t work but are lethally effective.

Hot and bothered garage psychedelia, squeezing every last erg out of frantic guitars, galloping bass, pounding drums, and desperate vocals… not exactly ground-breaking, but certainly ass-shaking.

Psychedelic surf music from Portland, impossibly catchy and off-the-cuff, built on riffs that bludgeon you like a deliciously dense spongecake.