These two have always made for a dynamic pairing, a yin and yang of raw backwoods holler and big-city sophistication that together make for some of the most genuine American folk music to come out of your newfangled contraption.
Years from now, the early 2020s will timestamp short albums recorded and released during isolation the way protest songs on the pop charts mark the late ‘60s. This one would be near the top of the heap, intimate yet meticulous.
I am generally skeptical and disrespectful of band names with special capitalization, but IDLES look and sound like they mean business.
Would the tour of palaces never end? Having visited several monarchical residences, the cobbler had become habitually underwhelmed with the perpetual ostentation. Taking a seat at a padded bench to admire the mosaics of Dar al-Makhzen, the topologist hummed a Balkan square-dancing melody. The ancient Land Cruiser that had brought them here, well-cared for and highly-modified, sat in a modern parking lot that clashed with the surrounding Moroccan geometry. They pretended to take some selfies while monitoring the 360° camera feed coming from the vehicle.
The vessel floated silently across the Mississippi, as silently as a hovercraft possibly could, which was not very silently at all. The two occupants of the walnut-paneled bridge listened intently to the sounds of the radio above the drone of the fans, one of them spinning the wheel with wild abandon, the other plotting an imaginary course over river and land using a nubby pencil and printed map. The sextant lay unused, for it was, after all, night.
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