The Lacking Permanence

Orchestral and very intelligent singer-songwriter music that yields some very intricate arrangements without being overwhelming and overwrought.

Indie rock is evergreen, especially when mixed with elements of psychedelia and southern boogie.

Pop jigsaw symphonies, incongruous bits and pieces of songs interlocking together into a hypnotic cascade of rhythms, melodies, and harmonies.

Intensely layered psychedelic outing from Brazil, with a collection of instrumentals and softly-sibilant Portuguese designed to transport you on a multicolored rainbow of spices.

There was no official name for this giant hole, this cavern that truly made you realize the proper utilization of the word “cavernous”. Those who knew of its existence referred to it as the “Sarlacc Pit”, while the geologists debated what to call this previously unseen feature in the farthest reaches of British Columbia. The ophthalmologist could not help but recount these facts as they descended into its depths; they were the chatty sort and had barely endured a few hours of self-reflection in the noisy Chinook that had brought the expedition here. The conductor whistled a short melody and listened for the glorious reverberation. The nearest person who could recognize its Peruvian punk origins was 2,524 miles away.

Still burning bright, this is an interesting collection of material that has Pop veering from spoken word jazz to menacing indie rock. It’s not fast and loud, but it sure is sneering and in your face.

The cowboy bandwagon is in full effect as Bobby Tenderloin takes us into a rough-and-tumble universe filled with tragic and entertaining Western tropes.

Sweetness and sunshine without overstepping into cloying and saccharine, with chiming guitars and subtle keyboard hooks providing a bed for clear female croonings.

Awkward jams that nonetheless stick in your head on repeat, with highly-detailed production and a decidedly noir feel.

The economist wondered where they’d be if the herpetologist had been available. Probably not prone under a cover of leaves, covered in protective armor, tapping two small bamboo sticks as a ruse to attract a golden lancehead. The rhythm was from the single Nordic folk d’n’b that had played on repeat 142 times on their trip out of the Port of Santos. It had been difficult to find a captain willing to land them on Ilha de Quemaida, so it was not wise to criticize their choice of music for the journey. The epidemiologist was nearby, peering into the carefully held vial and running the numbers on when it would be filled at the current rate of collection, and how quickly they could get off the island once that moment arrived.