The Lacking Permanence

Simpson made a name for himself with introspective Americana, but this injects a confusing high-energy EDM element, with mixed results. I imagine die-hard ZZ Top fans felt the same way about “Eliminator”.

The Sasha river was running dry, and the aerialist maneuvered his craft to take advantage of the fact. As they moved swiftly along the crumbling banks, exoskeletal legs easily scrabbling over the terrain in an unearthly three-limbed gait, they encountered sun-baked sections where a trickle fed a series of pools on the cracking river bottom, animals congregated around them in a temporary truce. They hadn’t seen a human since Saturday, a fact that concerned the actuary more than the dry river, and the attempted distraction of some Guatemalan gamelan techno was not working. In its steel box, the package of Peanut Butter Crunch patiently rustled and awaited its delivery.

A rowdy, loving tribute to The Cramps, even rawer and more intransigent than the original, from two women furiously channeling Lux Interior and Poison Ivy.

Layers of samples, voices, music, found audio, sound effects, and other bizarre elements make up these haunting compositions from the masters of audio collage.

Delightfully twee songs, filled with shimmering melodies, sparkling production, and heavenly choruses.

Very agreeable folk pop, with clever harmonies and sharp hooks making it the sort of music to bring on a road trip.

An exuberant mix of weird rock, Latin influences, and mysterious elements, resulting in some sort of white hot fusion.

The girl group aesthetic survives, drenched in spring reverb and distant crooning, and it’s not just unscathed, it’s very agitated and ready to rip throats.

Very low-key instrumentals, dependent more on subtle dynamics than on any sort of recognizable or repeatable melodic content. Quite intellectual and meditative.

The accordionist’s boot was tangled in a mangrove root. The deepening dusk of Meads Bay Pond brought with it a soft breeze and an ugly threat of bug swarms. Their chances of getting to the beach and capturing enough glowing sugar crabs were dwindling. The roots, more like underwater dreadlocks, heaved as the booted foot attempted to twist out, the accordion case held high as counterbalance. The technician glared at the spectacle briefly before shining a light on the clipboard. In the distance, a barbershop quartet with a Tuvan throat-singing baritone made it incongruous presence known. The keys to the long-range waterbikes had a floaty thing on them, but they were permanently attached to the metal clipboard, which would sink like a stone. The Governor’s Office back in The Valley would certainly hear about this.