The Lacking Permanence

Spiky little numbers filled with quicksilver guitar lines, the occasional horn section, punky drums and bass, and sing-song female vocals that sound like someone making fun of their bullies.

This is heavy pounding music that is pounding and heavy, also distorted, and pounding and heavy. Somewhat repetitive, but some of us like it like that, and pounding, and heavy.

Incredibly smart power pop overflowing with fat analog synth lines and enough earworms and hooks to launch a sonic fishing expedition.

A soft Texas breeze ruffled the grass along the banks of Belton Lake. Why not Lake Belton? wondered the hydrologist. Behind the trees, the aviator finished securing the paragliders. They had arrived with two, but would be leaving with three, which added a true twist to the logistics. Across the water, the sounds of Jamaican country music could clearly be heard coming from a raucous campsite. They were about 300 feet away, and had not been part of the plan. But if there were to be witnesses, then let them be the inebriated type.

The chauffeur peered at the rear-view mirror. The scattered reflection from the rain-slicked A7 revealed only headlights, no politely alarming Luxembourg police flashers. The Corniche bulleted down the roadway, the flutter of its diplomatic flags the only sign that it wasn’t standing dead still. Some miles away, in Ettelbruck, the authorities were coming to the conclusion that the altercation at Chez Fred had been a distraction. In the back seat, the jeweler closed the briefcase, satisfied with its contents.

Crafty pop punk, brimming over with chunky guitars, layered female vocals, and lots of sneering.

At one time, electronic soul felt like the future of music, but here is Hot Chip doing just the same thing in 2019 and it feels nostalgic.

The luthier adjusted the direction control of the four-legged arachnoform lumbering above the forest of Oro Bay. The spherical contraption had been difficult at first, but proved to be intuitive in guiding the transport’s spindly hissing legs across the varied terrain. Behind the padded seat, the cartographer consulted screens and printouts. The purple spruce should be visible soon. A single trunk would yield over a hundred cello bows, worth millions in the underground market. They were there to make sure it remained just another tree.

Insistent angular weirdfunk, songs that sound like tape loops that have fallen out of order and yet maintain a diligent desire to be songs.

Nice indie guitar sounds, with whispery vocals and a meandering melodic spirit.