The Lacking Permanence

A meticulously crafted release, with extreme attention to detail and a great sense of cohesion despite a wide variety of sounds… destined to be a classic.

The engineer looked through the diminishing dawn murk and spotted the specialist’s orange scarf. The sound of the balloon-tired swamp bikes spread through the Estonian bog like hot molasses, obscuring their location but not their presence. Unnoticed in the bike’s twin V mud-wakes, a nearly-vertical black snorkel tube trailed the pair.

Old fashioned haunted country music… Orville Peck howls, croons, and yodels in a way that is extremely dramatic, yet never quite goes over the top.

I have never been so uncomfortable, thought the hacker as they strained to match the wires in the fusebox, their head inches from one of the combine’s many potentially lethal harvesting blades. The lookout’s shadow was barely visible against the hangar door. Straining to clip the blue wire into the scanner, they heard a soft call and nearly lost an ear before remembering their uncomfortable position.

The Cadillac engine roared with naked abandon behind the driver. It was the familiar rumble of the seven-liter-plus workhorse, but its power was unleashed on a propellor instead of a bulky automatic transmission. At the airboat’s prow, the tracker kept an eye on the reeds that protruded in clumps from the murky water. Barely audible on the comm link were the strains of some forgotten psychedelic blues. A promising glint along the mangroves gave hope they had found the downed satellite. It turned out to be the stare of a brooding twelve-foot alligator, unwilling to leave the scene. The search continued.

They are everywhere, and some of them are downright weird. My downstairs neighbor once told me only prime numbers could be trusted, but he held a reserve of disdain for 2, which he claimed was too prime for its own good. A big appreciative shout out to Bam Bam, Lily and Generoso, and Redlands Ron for their on-air contributions, and anyone who may have pledged online before or after the show.

Quite the military parade, a non-stop set of marching songs for liquid guitar and drum machine.

The keypad beeped softly as the astronomer keyed in the coordinates. It was deepest darkest night on the altiplano, the stars above an unfamiliar configuration for those born to northern skies. The physicist tapped their pencil against their favorite clipboard (the metal one), the coffee-stained papers clipped to it showing the revised calculations for the Hole In The Sky. Over the tinny intercom, hacked because both had forgotten to bring a speaker, a particularly ironic song choice began to play, making them instinctively share a knowing glance.

Original psychedelic riff rock is an oxymoron … what matters is the ability to get you off your seat, which this band has aplenty

An unusually sharp pop sensibility keeps this outfit from blending into the background, with rough-and-tumble rocking.