The Lacking Permanence

You might expect rowdy blues, or thrash-worthy hardcore from the name, but this is some very creative indie rock, using your standard ingredients yet somehow wringing out a distinctive texture and taste.

The screen door banged against the frame of the small building that was once Cisco, Utah’s non-bustling post office. It’s like a ghost town abandoned by the ghosts, mused the cinematographer. Whatever once haunted this place left out of boredom. Meanwhile, the blacksmith methodically tapped the foundation along the perimeter of the building. They had brought the infractometer over from the side-by-side they had arrived in, but sometimes the old ways worked best. The rhythm etched out a Namibian bossanova that had been popular in the ‘70s. The entrance to the silo complex had to be near.

A simmering stew of cross-cultural influences, as the African and Creole sounds of Haiti blend with New Orleans’ own unique funk. The results are as energetic and danceable as you’d expect

A disparate assemblage of New Zealand musicians yielding a disparate assemblage of styles, from dusty ballads to reggae whimsy to downright funk.

Analog synthesizers still sound like the shiny plastic future, even if they’re likely older than the young man fiddling with them in the California sunshine.

Would the tour of palaces never end? Having visited several monarchical residences, the cobbler had become habitually underwhelmed with the perpetual ostentation. Taking a seat at a padded bench to admire the mosaics of Dar al-Makhzen, the topologist hummed a Balkan square-dancing melody. The ancient Land Cruiser that had brought them here, well-cared for and highly-modified, sat in a modern parking lot that clashed with the surrounding Moroccan geometry. They pretended to take some selfies while monitoring the 360° camera feed coming from the vehicle.

Sounding a lot like the heyday of 1990s indie dream pop, Walrus keeps it a little spicy if not very distinctive.

Francophonic guitar attaque, brimming with chiming arpeggios, complicated stringular interplay, and words beyond comprehension but not understanding.

A mix of country, western swing, rockabilly, and various other semi-compatible genres, paired with seductive vocals and plenty of musical swagger.

Out of all the ways there were to get into Zugdidi — they could have taken the ekranoplan, for example — the agency had chosen the bus. This exasperated the developer to no end. Their gear sat somewhere in the guts of the green behemoth, guarded by six different hardware and software protocols, but it still felt queasy to be so far removed from it. The meteorologist peered across the botanical garden to the Dadiani palaces. Somewhere in there, a nondescript yogurt stand would have a small radio playing Konnakkol techno. They were to purchase two cones and overpay. Instructions would follow.