The Lacking Permanence

The mechanic reached deep into the tool bag, knowing the required spanner would be at the very bottom. The clanking briefly drowned out the strains from the radio, its signal relayed every 500 meters by the commpods they had dropped on the way. Carefully fitting the business end of the tool between the rear set of treads on the boring machine, they found themselves exclaiming out loud “actually, I think it’s pretty interesting.” The surveyor, measuring the long tunnel behind them with an x-ray transit, looked back briefly, by now used to such outbursts. The cavern should be another two miles down.

Sparkling gems, with great ‘70s AM radio hooks and harmonies and incredibly detailed production.

There’s a handful of acts that can stand out in the vast prairie that makes up modern rural American music, transcending strummy acoustic guitars and introspective lyrics to make something deeper.

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.