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This is only if the wind worries at all. We were once that idea. To hold the hot disc of it and place it in the grass. Claws in tar. You turned the car around. Your turtle. Amid the chaos, reports of survivors. Hang your head out the window y dale un grito tan lleno de duende that it cracks the pavement, summons our dead to dinner. Turn the tonal kaleidoscope. There, de-cypher that! The nerve!

All power in heaven and in earth is. Be opened, daughter. No questions. All your mind. You are mine. Be opened. Use a chair if needed. I asked. If we win the lottery. Bagwell's ring? No earth, no heavens. Or you. As we are, D. Onion pulp? Cypress rings? Why are you wearing my clothes? The floors are stained with his keep. Once I took him in he grew. Both feet dig into the burning sand. Especially not you, the daughter. Even a cult could move in. Were you born? I tremble every time you light that wood stove.

Can houses tremble? The by-the-book. Us just under. No wonder. Distilled to systole-diastole. Ab ovo. Ad absurdum. Ad fin. Fill your pockets. Break open the gate with your fist. Ditch it. Empty your pockets. Sharp shooters check the wind.

Screech it. Collect the drool in tin. Pull out the nails. Run low to ground. Cannon, yes, but without their kick. One is fascinated with lichens and other symbionts. Some just want the big life. One snores and never locks her doors. Rare relief springs from poetry and lying flat, cloud-searching on the grass. Pray for me. Get yours.

Like ants; maybe she crawl in the dark. Of course the silence grew. The ocean floor. Brick dust cradle. Thumb place. The penny multiplies in swarms. I am too young to drive. I did not know what I was doing. Earth is below! The Muckrakers! Another sip of old fashioned! The great steel safe doorcrashes shut. Who is this! The violins are ascending inevery direction! And who else to be stuck in? Creeleystumbling over his pecker? Spoon of the empty belly. Spoon for everyone.

Trying, it appeared, to bang himself free. And, like any good god, I disappeared. But with things to do. Call it Horns, whistles, and soon sirens. And all the trees full of birds. Stay with me now. My mother wore sunglasses. And long sleeves. And I watched. I listened. And watched. A lamentation of them?

A lamentation. And the copulating swans. Its every flailing, its every animal song. Light only helps or ruins sight. I was cruel slash gentle. That was important. And drifted off. Did she want to go there, too. That was our selfishness. She insisted upon it. We all were. History poised also. Now we pray to the real. The batter growing lighter by increments. My mother taught me to fold. The cake imperfect, but finished. Not a breath! Sometimes, we skated. Men are running away. It was springtime.

River stones are listening. The Acoma Pueblo still stands. He wrote for the New York magazines. The judge said: Twenty days in the county jail. After it was over, he rode with Pancho Villa. Hannah got twenty days in jail for hissing. Skull remembered wood. I would. No, you didn't. And so, of course, I love joy. What was that smell? His body had changed, too. No temple, only moss. I have not disappeared.

This much I know. But is that not our essential fault? Think Goya. All seeing is an act of war. He's collecting a thousand faces. Give us a ride? I have spooned honey into it. I am excitable. I am grateful. Every day. Your body begins in four directions. One day is an eyelash. And mosquitoes. It was one night.

Forgot our handkerchief. But nobody bought it. They went door to door but could never ID. Had our problem palms read by a seer. Got a problem degree. Got on the problem tenure track. Got a problem retirement plan. We joined the Neighborhood Problem Development Corp. Woke up to an empty bed. We transformed. Turned over a new leaf.

Be good in school. These bats say speak English only. Tell the birds! A weed tree? Leaves overwhelm. Enemy or friend? The robbed graves cradle. Nothing hurts yet. All of them. Why didn't he flee? A bit of stillness there.

Not all the sails. Rub them together. Asks Heart? Yes, I say. It's summer. She's tired. Lovers, I tell you true. But today in L. You are imperfect and critterly. Or was I? The worst part? What does this mean? Who am I? Happy accident, accidentally on purpose. Empty a drawer. Your brain whirrs: What the hell will these futuristic club elegies sound like? It is perilously close to being kitsch, which is half the magic. Collaging their spare recordings over practice-session voice memos, Still House Plants inhabit an ecstatic in-between all their own.

And they seem to acknowledge, in their constantly unraveling yet self-possessed sound, the inherent uncertainty of being a person. This year, I kept slipping away from myself. A melange of English and local dialects, Pidgin unites folks across ethnic groups and walks of life.

When I hear it in music, I feel in community with my favorite Afropop stars and their fans. Being so far away from family this year, that sense of community meant more than ever. The song retains the same bouncing instrumental as the original, contradicting his sharp tongue. Noah Yoo, Staff Writer : One of my favorite songs to come out in was released at least 16 years after its recording.

It arrived just as New York City was coming out of its three-month lockdown, right before protests in the face of rampant police murder began to erupt here and around the world. Song for Our Daughter , her seventh studio album, quickly became a companion on my frosty and isolated morning walks around Brooklyn at the start of lockdown. On a personal level, it felt like a comforting embrace with an old friend—especially when living in a country that is not my own.

The album is quintessentially Laura Marling: wonderfully assembled and mixed, with her voice and lyrics taking center stage. Written as a conceptual album to an imaginary child in her quest to understand what it is to be a woman, the songs are bejeweled with intricate tales, literary references, and poignant moments for pause.

I found new meaning every time I plugged in and took it for a stroll, making it the perfect soundtrack to solitude. Sam Sodomsky : This is the year I finally got into the game of making hyper-specific playlists for every moment of my life. For whatever reason, it became a constant fixture. It also ended up being a nice way to reconnect with my teen self who compulsively burned mix CDs from iTunes.

I even tried to replicate the sound of that era with a playlist I titled Nostalgia Pins and filled with mid-to-lates indie-rock heavy hitters. Like Kenny Chesney says , when I hear those songs, I go back. Ryan Kincaid : Around month two of lockdown, I started a project in which I chose a few artists every day and listened to their entire discographies from beginning to end.

I listened to about different albums over the course of a month, and it gave me something different to look forward to every day. I shattered my habit of building and relying on playlists to create my own worlds out of music and began spending time in the ones already built and arranged for me.

Isabelia Herrera : As a writer and fan, music has always been at the center of my personal, professional, and intellectual life. I had to stop thinking about music in simple terms—as utility, as community, or as art. It forced me to try and open up my writing practice a bit. I set out trying to be very purposeful—I started making my best-of list in January! The anxiety of life in diminished my mental capacity and made it much harder to multitask, even something as simple as editing a review of an album while also listening to it.

But I found another kind of communion in having deeper, more solitary listening experiences. This approach has illuminated more of the connections shared among people, sounds, and ideas that are meaningful to me, which has provided a unique comfort and intensified my emotional connection to music.

Quinn Moreland: I had to do some self-reflection before I could attempt to answer this question. Did my relationship to music change? Have I changed? Are those the same things? The answer to all of the above is yes. More often than not those comforts have been sewing, crying over episodes of Neon Genesis Evangelion , or a long book about anything other than music.

My struggle to listen to music for pleasure is definitely a direct result of the confusing collapse between my work and personal lives, something I will definitely unpack if and when I find a therapist. I look forward to rekindling my relationship with music, if she will have me. He changes his name to Jackie Daytona and brags about his brilliant American disguise, which is literally just what he always wears plus jeans and a toothpick.

He charmed everyone in town, and now his de facto theme song consists of a slick Brit singing about a beautiful grifter. The song is just that cathartic. Philip Sherburne : I got lucky. The Berlin-based Toronto native Aquarian dealt a punishing hand of industrial-strength techno and bass music. And Loraine James blended broken club rhythms into her own completely original style of experimental electronic music.

James went on to have an active year, putting out multiple self-released EPs, alternate takes, and collections of edits on Bandcamp before finally coming through with a strong EP for Hyperdub, and I followed her progress eagerly: Every new record reminded me of the energy of that night at the beginning of March; each one felt like a stepping stone toward a day when I might experience one like it again.

The set was rough, raw, and bursting with energy, a rare look at a baby band in the process of coalescing. Hank Wood, a scene stalwart that has no trouble commanding an entire room—and tearing it down in the process—was predictably excellent. On a classical guitar, Richman endeared the crowd with Italian poetry and stories of summer nights filled with red wine and water gun fights, inviting us into his unexpectedly vast world of language, history, and the human experience.

Then Oldham and frequent collaborator Emmett Kelly arrived delightfully scruffy, their nimble acoustic guitars and fine-tuned harmonies pouring into the hall with the comfort and ease of a living room. It was the odd night on the town for the couch-listening set. It felt like home. From my actual home, I think of it often. I remember looking up at Dan Bejar and thinking he was the coolest guy in the world, totally uninterested in any performative engagement with the crowd and simply living within his songs as he brought them to life.

The Atlanta garage-rock veterans once played a festival here in Des Moines, and it was one of those shows where half the people you know and vaguely know seem to be there. This was March 8. The bass player was still spitting onstage and diving into the crowd.

Each performance was accompanied by videos projection-mapped onto the stained glass. We moved to the floor before Ana Roxanne took the stage, where she stood at the altar like she was about to deliver a sermon. Forever changing form, but not essence. I was still considering water; how drops can barely travel before being absorbed into puddles. Within the church, we were beads of water pooled together. Afterward, we would disperse to find new puddles. Adam Krefman : The last shows I went to were our festival kick-off parties in Chicago.

It was a killer lineup and a really beautiful room that our team made look like a weirdo high school dance. A lot of people who work on Pitchfork Music Festival were there just to hang out and celebrate. Without the dark filter of hindsight, it was just a beautiful couple of evenings with great music and friends.

Jenn Pelly : There is no substitute, but I did see two small, socially-distanced outdoor shows this fall, and the first one stirred up waves of feeling in me that I hope to remember forever. I would like to say that I had not forgotten the way music electrifies the air and creates connections with everyone around you at a show; or how powerful it can feel to witness the resourcefulness and adaptability of underground music play out, soundtracking its own survival; or how live music just makes you long to inch your way ever closer to it, especially during a seated show.

But the rhythms of this show reminded me. The final set was by the noise artist Charmaine Lee. She assembled her small array of pedals in the glow of a clamp light; the Manhattan skyline was in the distance, and it grew dark, and the buildings and the river harmonized incandescently, as they do. Lee is a practitioner of extended vocal technique and she made noise with her whole body: Her mouth, her chest, amplifying her pulsating breath, pushing her life source into the red. I felt more attuned than usual to how physical and vulnerable live music can be—like all the time away had sharpened my perception—and how at a show someone is always putting herself on the line.

I felt grateful to see improvised music in an improvised setting because all year, life had been daily improv. Another feeling came back: on a Thursday night in New York City, to share an experience with a stranger. Each person or couple had their own mic available cheaply online , which was plugged into a practice amp. Jazz Monroe : Concerts are great for twisting the lens on songs new and old, but what I really miss is the mix of catharsis and frivolous socializing.

The nearest approximation took place in my own living room, where my partner and I would play musical ping-pong: each choosing a song inspired, as tangentially as we pleased, by the previous selection. Ultimately, the drear of lockdown made even the misadventures welcome. There is no substitute for a concert, but a jukebox in a bar is the next best thing—and what better simulation than having all your favorite songs derailed by a barrage of nu-metal?

The music, and its presentation, are simple and relaxed, though both performers are capable of dazzling virtuosity. It reminds me that similarly spare, intimate, and occasionally transcendent performances are happening everywhere, every day of the pandemic, without a camera rolling. Audiences may be deprived, but music is not dead; it lives on among musicians, playing for themselves in their homes.

Few of the countless Instagram live shows or Verzuz battles were able to keep my attention. Inevitably, I would end up scrolling to some other app on my phone. Mankaprr Conteh : I feel lucky to have fallen in love in the throes of the pandemic. While my now-boyfriend and I were long-distance-dating this spring, we held our own Verzuz-style battles over FaceTime. I played Chingy on my phone, propping it near my laptop for somewhat decent acoustics.

He responded with Dem Franchize Boyz. We danced and drank; we were the DJs and the hype-men. We both come from families of West African immigrants, so one night, we celebrated the Afropop we love, trading tracks by artists like Rema and Maleek Berry. I unequivocally won the battles, and so much more. Vrinda Jagota : Nothing fuels my main character complex more than being two drinks in on a dancefloor.

Alas, the closest I got to communally dancing this year was half-shuffling to Zedd songs in the grocery store while trying to determine the difference between scallions and green onions. I spent most of my weekend nights cooking and dancing in my kitchen next to a window that turned reflective as it got dark outside. Isabelia Herrera : One of the great tragedies of was that we were denied the gift of hearing Bad Bunny at the club. I deeply miss my club community: the DJs who offer us sweaty release, the strangers we befriend in the bathroom, run-ins with friends of friends—even the low-level drama that makes a night out deliciously messy.

I need to see them again, and so do you. I just need to be around people who will appreciate their out-of-pocket punchlines as much as I do. At times this year, Irreversible Entanglements was the only music that made sense to me. Quinn Moreland : While I deeply miss the buzz of DIY shows at tiny spots with horrifying bathrooms, my body craves the energy of a massive pop concert.

I have a hard time believing that concerts of that magnitude will be safely possible in at least in the U. Big, gorgeous walls of sound that rattle every atom. Then bring it back down to earth with the Necks , who I had hoped to see in New York at the end of March, which got pushed to the beginning of August, which got pushed to [incoherent wailing]. Every musician will be co-headlining with the excitement of being around new people again. As far as I can tell, the Maytals played their last concert on February 22, about a month before U.

This is how things were for Toots, an unstoppable music machine well into his 70s. He took time off from playing live after a fan threw a liquor bottle that struck him in the face and gave him a concussion in —at the ripe age of 70—but resumed touring more or less constantly three years later. I consider myself extremely lucky that I got to see Toots perform with the Maytals a few times in these later years.

Improbably, his voice had lost none of its expressive power and sometimes seemed even richer and more complex than that of the young man documented on classic albums like Funky Kingston and Reggae Got Soul. Watching him perform—both in terms of his historical stature and the quality of his music—was like living in a world where Otis Redding had not died at age 26 and was still playing regularly at your local 1,capacity nightclub.

Ironically, it was precisely because Toots never gained quite the level of global superstardom he deserved that he was so available to his fans, out road-dogging in much smaller rooms than he should have been playing.

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