For the life of me, I cannot remember lyrics to songs, even those I've heard hundreds of times. Ask my high school musical theater teacher, old choir directors or anyone who's been in my car — the words do not come correct. Verses are jumbled and lines take on unintended alternate realities, but mostly I just mumble something made-up. One time the vocalist for a hardcore band shoved a mic in my face and I just screamed nonsense back — it's not my job to know the lyrics to your song! 

Except when it is my job: in Halloween cover bands. For almost a decade — broken up by four years to have a kid, then the pandemic — I've gotten together with the same group of folks to learn songs by Jimmy Eat World, the Smashing Pumpkins, Gin Blossoms and Carly Rae Jepsen. Then we play the annual Halloween show organized by the Washington, D.C., indie/punk scene, with proceeds going to charity. Some of the best nights of my life have been at these cover shows, like when Rena from Bacchae essentially fronted Give for the most raucous Rage Against the Machine set I've ever seen. 

I play records around the 3 year old and she has questions/opinions. From my notes app, A-L on Vashti Bunyan's dreamy and delicate 1970 debut Just Another Diamond Day. 

It's a little like science. 

Does her have animals?

Tracy Chapman's self-titled debut was in the tape deck, Sadie Dupuis' new poetry collection (Cry Perfume) was read in starts and stops and glasses of a Norwegian singer-songwriter's sparkling white wine were fizzing. There was a clear view of the mountain from the back porch, still green, but verging on fall colors. I've shared my love for this West Virginia getaway before: a simple, one-room cabin owned by family friends, just a short walk down to the river, with no cell service or internet. We cook, we hike, we restore. (But mostly we cook.) 

But about that wine. Sondre Lerche, a shapeshifting crooner whom I've liked (even loved) over the last 20+ years, paired a new album with two varietals of natural wine. I brought along a bottle of his Cuvée PATOS to sip. It’s light and floral on the nose, so the experience was all in the flavor and carbonization. Crisp, yellow apple smacks the front, but there’s a grassy gin aftertaste — like an upscale Fresca cut with Sprite. The bubbles were the most fun, though: teeny, persistent little guys with just a little bite (a light ginger beer comes to mind), but not gassy, which is why I tend to avoid sparkling whites. As wine does, the flavor deepened over the hours, bringing out those ginger notes with a delicate, syrupy sweetness. 

I swear this not a Pivot to Influencer, but I do genuinely like to curate experiences around food, music and drink; it's my love language! —Lars Gotrich

Roadside Monument never made the same record twice, but it was I am the Day of Current Taste, released in 1998 just a few months after they first broke up, that captured a nervous and nervy chaos. This was craggy and mathy noise in tune with bands like Don Caballero and Rodan, but also invoked the rock and roll bombast of AC/DC and Van Halen. I'd never heard anything like it then or since; the album ripped open new portals of thinking for Teenage Lars.

I’ve written about Roadside several times over the last 20+ years — on my own turn-of-the-millennium fansite, via webzines, for NPR Music and now… as liner notes for a vinyl reissue of I am the Day of Current Taste (presale starts today at 1 p.m. ET via Burnt Toast Vinyl and Tooth & Nail). I interviewed the guys — Doug, John and Matt — and got some great stories not only about the album's creation but their struggle to be understood by an underground scene that stuck up its nose about Roadside’s associations (Tooth & Nail Records and “Christian music” more broadly) and inscrutable sound. 

This project (completed in late 2020) started a wave of liner notes commissions — Sixpence None the Richer’s This Beautiful Mess (now in a second pressing), Morella’s Forest’s Super Deluxe (due sometime this fall), Psychic Temple's Plays Planet Caravan (out Oct. 21 via BIG EGO) and another I can’t mention, yet. I grew up loving and learning from liner notes, so to document these crucial albums has been incredibly rewarding. I’d like to mention that my bestie Marissa Lorusso edited all of these — she's got a sharp, yet tender eye that's proven necessary to the process. 

Typing by thumbs from vacation just outside Asheville, so forgive any typos. I’m visiting the folks and hoping to visit the Moogseum, the Asheville Pinball Museum, a couple breweries, maybe take in Man…Or Astro-Man? live at the Grey Eagle. But mostly I’m off email and hanging out with the kiddo. 

Various this and thats: 

• I’ve written the liner notes for Psychic Temple’s Plays Planet Caravan! Out Oct. 21 via BIG EGO, it’s the spiritual follow up to Plays Music for Airports wherein Chris Schlarb and pals filter a cult tune — then Brian Eno, now Black Sabbath — through a cosmic jazz prism. I ended up talking to to Chris a loooong time over the phone, some of which made it into the text, but I’d love to publish an edited Q&A. We have some different tastes — though we have gone long on Sonny Sharrock, Don Cherry, Joni Mitchell and King Crimson — but we’re always on the same wavelength when it comes to what draws us to music. 

• What I’ve been reading: Night Moves by Jessica Hopper; Mary Wept Over the Feet of Jesus by Chester Brown; Paper Girls by Brian K. Vaughan; Do a Powerbomb by Daniel Warren Johnson; Thor by Jason Aaron; Sex by Joe Casey; Kicking & Dreaming: A Story of Heart, Soul and Rock and Roll by Ann Wilson and Nancy Wilson (audiobook). 

• What I’ve been watching: From the Source (Whole Hog episode), Beavis and Butt-Head (the new series), Matty Matheson videos on YouTube, Tiny Desks from the early days in preparation for our 1000th (!) concert. 

Raymond Byron's Bond Wire Cur was already on my list of albums to recommend this week. ESP-Disk' had sent a copy that I finally placed on the turntable and there was his unmistakable voice, just under a different name. It'd been almost a decade since I'd thought about Ray's music — or since he released any — and was happy to hear it again. 

I knew Raymond Byron as Castanets and Raymond Raposa, as a member of the free-jazz group Create (!) and an early part of the Asthmatic Kitty roster. I saw him play an intense, but powerful solo show at the Caledonia Lounge in Athens, Ga. I debated which Castanets album was better — Cathedral or First Light's Freeze — with college radio friends. He made music that lived in cloudy regions, but rooted in old traditions. 

Y'all ever get tired of music nerds telling y'all how getting into music was different back in the day? Yeah, me neither. Liner notes, zines, cable access shows, blind buys, VFW halls and later message boards, chat rooms and P2P networks. It's all word of mouth, in one form or another — the most obnoxious orators spitting out snobbish takes on what's worth your hard-earned cash. 

If memory serves, which gets fuzzier every year now, Damien Jurado was recommended to me on one of the message boards I used to infrequently post via 56k modem, likely Slacker 66. I may have even bought a CD copy of Waters Ave S. through Slacker 66's mailorder, but do remember a handwritten note that accompanied the package: This one's special. Great pick!

Beavis and Butt-Head Do the Universe made me giggle for 87 straight minutes. (Heh heh he said "straight.") Subplots are sorta rushed to the finish line (heh heh he said "finish"), but minor quibbles aside, it's the funniest movie I've seen in a long, long time. It does a lot with very little, generally over-delivering ("deliver") on a profoundly stupid premise.  

Do the Universe confirms, though, that Beavis and Butt-Head movies have always had a sharper eye towards satire than the TV show. Case in point: the boys walk into a gender studies class on a college campus — the conceit alone was so rich and absurd that I started to snort-laugh as soon as I realized what was about to happen. But then Mike Judge does the thing he does best: as the class confronts and educates the boys on white privilege (with Tig Nitaro voicing the professor!) and a white dude in dreads interrupts a Black woman, the boys' takeaway is to abuse their white privilege. "Step aside, please! We have white privilege." The boys snatch fries and cake out of the school cafeteria, loot the campus store and attempt to steal a cop car before crashing. "We're subverting an existing paradigm!" Beavis exclaims in a self-awareness too smart for his character. 

One reviewer called this scene "anti-woke," which is such a deep misunderstanding of, well, pretty much everything Mike Judge has produced. (Heh heh he said "deep.") Judge doesn't really pick sides (or "both sides" issues), but pokes (heh heh) at the absolute absurdity of social constructs while showing empathy for the persons at the very butt of the joke. (Heh heh he said "butt.") —Lars Gotrich  

Sometimes you listlessly tweet about wanting to hear a Pedro the Lion song done in the style of Jawbreaker, and then someone makes it on his lunch break. —Lars Gotrich

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Born in the North, raised in the South by the grace of God. My family moved to Georgia when I was 7 years old and, within days, I knew I was home. Drawn to the slower pace of life, accents (of which I sadly never had), humidity and the double-edged sword of Southern charm, I knew I was in the right place. But it was soul food that sealed the deal, particularly the fried chicken, coleslaw, mushy string beans and ambrosia salad of church picnics. 

Didn't take long for me to get into the more peculiar culinary delicacies of the South: grits, tomato and mayo on white bread, chitlins, pimiento cheese, collards, fried whiting, okra, oxtail. Every one of those dishes warms my soul. I took a silly quiz online that seemed to suggest all this food was weird, but this stuff is like sweet tea to me. 

But boiled peanuts? Well, I thought they tasted like hard snot. 

Summer pro-tip: Lemon pepper is underrated. Applied liberally to unbuttered chicken, the seasoning has persisted in American cuisine as an oven-baked, dried-out crunch of bitter acid. A tragedy. Lemon pepper was made to swim in fat, then seared in fire and smoke. Wings, yes, are the primary vehicle — especially if you are lucky to live in an area that serves them "wet" — but on salmon and broccoli, the sour acid of the lemon cuts across butter with the subtle sting of peppercorn and smoked char. Add a lil sugar to the lemon pepper mix to caramelize, and the grill is lemon pepper's true calling! Vegan friends, slather with Earth Balance on tofu and chopped Vidalia onion, sear on a flat skillet or grill basket. Pairs well with a (very) lightly sweet white wine. —Lars Gotrich

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In Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould, the world-famous concert pianist visits a truck stop. Behind sunglasses and under a large trench coat, the waitress asks if he wants "the usual." Then he listens. Chatter overlaps with the usual restaurant clatter before he tunes into a middle-aged trucker nearby telling a story about a young hitchhiker, a Québécois either dictating his order or his memoirs, a shady pair of pool players. Gould's ears pick up rising intonation and slowing tempos in speech, and gently conducts the seemingly disparate conversations with the tip of his index finger. As Gould's breakfast of scrambled eggs, salad and orange juice hits the table, Petula Clark's "Downtown" playing from the counter radio returns. The composition ends. 

On Sunday, after a long bike ride with my family, I spread out on a blanket by a lake, covered my eyes with a bandana. Several gaits of runner passed by — heavy, light, fast, squishy. Muffled Spanish from a park bench 50 feet away. "... gratuitous sex scene…" The whoosh of bike tire tread. Birds sing. Crickets drone. Celebraaaate good times, come on! A toddler cries in the distance. A preacher on the radio: "I desire to be humble…" Huff. Puff. Rustle of leaves. "Papa!"

How rare to sit still, listen and conduct the air. —Lars Gotrich

At the end of 2017, I was feeling pretty raw about the state of things in the U.S.: rising fascism, threats against women's autonomy and immigrants' safety, white supremacy run rampant — we barely had a glimpse of what was to come. 

Not much felt good that year, including music, but I found some safe retreat in the quiet that could be found. I wrote a comic about that desperation — connecting the calm and the caustic — intended for NPR Music's year-end coverage. My brilliant friend Robin Ha, then between graphic novel projects, agreed to illustrate. 

For a number of reasons, the comic never published. But I never stopped thinking about its essential idea: Quiet can be as restorative as it is destructive, especially for someone who struggles to articulate their feelings. So here is the script for the comic, sans illustrations that never came to be, plus a playlist of tracks featured. Revisiting now, the panel directions could use some work and I'd likely change the structure a bit, but otherwise I've kept the original text here. (The watercolor painting above is a collaboration by Robin Ha, my daughter and me, unrelated to this project.) Only a few friends have read the comic before now; I'm thankful for their encouragement. —Lars Gotrich

We'd been craving paletas — and Mexican snacks generally — ever since we vacationed in CDMX years ago. Sweet, spicy and sour chamoy creations, corn chips drenched in pickles and sauces, mango everything. It's become my ideal comfort outside soul food, which, thankfully, Mid-Atlantic Seafood satisfies my Southern hunger now that I've lived away from the South for 16 years. 

Just recently I came across a Mexican ice cream and paleta shop just over the D.C. border in Bladensburg, Maryland. We've only been there thrice, but the women who run La Neveria Michoacana already know my daughter and me by sight. A-L always wants strawberries and cream, which honestly is some of the best I've had, but so far I've tried pistachio, black cherry & cream cheese (incredible!), mango with chili, Oreo, tres leches, rice and milk (basically horchata), pine nut, tamarind… I MUST TRY THEM ALL. — Lars Gotrich

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Flowers bloomed, raced and spun across the floors and walls with a digital gust of wind. The room spun, but didn't. Children ran, skipped and hopped to keep pace with the pixels. Adults — in altered states or just naturally dazed — sat still to keep from toppling over. There's a bar to watch the spectacle above, though alcohol seemed unwise. 

Artechouse specializes in immersive installations built on multiple video projections and spatial audio. PIXELBLOOM is the latest exhibit, taking advantage of D.C.'s cherry blossom festival with a floral-forward program. It's Instagram-friendly, which I have nothing against, and visually stunning — a good space to zone out for one-hour timed entry. 

But if I'm going to submerge my senses for an hour, I want the audio experience to match the overwhelming visual. The music was so inconspicuous and inconsequential that it didn't need to exist — literally an aural wallflower, which might as well have been generated by an algorithm (and likely was). I kept thinking about how harpist Mary Lattimore, synthesist Suzanne Ciani or (to support a local) cellist Janel Leppin could bridge the gap between ambient sound and visual narrative, however abstract. Or, you know, go full-on arena drone a la Boredoms, if ecstatic immersion is the goal. Felt like a missed opportunity, but hey, if Artechouse wants me to DJ a night of euphoric flora jams, hit me up! —Lars Gotrich

Some loosely organized notes on a recent Pedro the Lion gig at the Black Cat in Washington, D.C.:

• Burly, but bruised — never have I met a guitar tone that reflected both its player and its person. David Bazan's a big guy with a big heart and, in recent years, has come across a murky-colored fuzz (that's not too fuzzy) befitting his sad-coyote howl, especially applied to chunky chords. 

• Never mind that Bazan wasn't actually the one playing guitar onstage at Black Cat — that would be Erik Walters, his most consistent live band member of late — but Pedro the Lion is David Bazan; other musicians are sympathetic extensions of his wrought songwriting and sound world. Still, though, Erik conjured some serious ghosts from that guitar. 

• Pedro the Lion's had quite the revolving door of supporting characters who, by David's own admission, have left due to his need to control the situation. David did mention, however, late into the set, that Erik and Terence (the drummer whose last name I do not know) are the best working relationship he's had in a long time. That was nice to hear. 

• After years of isolation, when audiences are itching to be entertained — a lazy, passive engagement with live music — Pedro the Lion's subdued set felt quietly subversive. Except for "Indian Summer" (the oldest song on the setlist) and "Quietest Friend," Pedro the Lion kept to brooding songs that ruminate on the human condition, which… is David's whole thing, yes, but I've seen some pretty vicious Pedro the Lion performances over the years. This was not that. David wanted us to sit in sadness with him, even if, over the show, he brightened up by the sheer act of playing in front of people. 

• Over the last 20+ years, I've seen Pedro the Lion — and various iterations — at least a dozen times: In Atlanta, in D.C., at the Tiny Desk (where I happen to work), in the cornfields of Central Illinois (yes, at the Cornerstone Festival); as Pedro the Lion, as Headphones, as David Bazan, as the short-lived Paperback (touring with Starflyer 59); with full bands, solo, accompanied by an "iPod bass." I'd really like to see Lo Tom — his no-frills rock band with members of Starflyer 59 and Velour 100 — someday. 

• For an audience choosing this particular brand of bummer — in a venue surrounded outside by skimpily-dressed 20-somethings in various states of inebriation — on a Saturday night, something felt particularly nervy as David asked folks to mask up. To the audience's credit, I did see a lot of masks go on afterward, but still, others stood stone-faced as David essentially begged for his livelihood. When David performed "Hard to Be" solo, an unmasked man standing next to us, who'd just witnessed something real and vulnerable from a musician he presumably admired, sang along: And why it's hard to be / Hard to be, hard to be / A decent human being. The disconnect was loud, and has been ringing in my soul since.  

• David played a Tom Petty cover ["Walls (Circus)"] solo; I never know where to start with Tom Petty, but I should listen to more Tom Petty. 

• My bestie Lyndsey and I missed the opener — Oceanator, whose new album I like very much — because we hadn't seen each other since she became pregnant. We needed to hug it out and revel at in-person conversation in the midst of 14th St. bustle. (But y'all should listen to Oceanator.) For that same reason, we also missed Pedro the Lion's encore so Lyndsey could catch a ride back home; I figured David, also a dad, would understand. ("Bands With Managers" apparently ended the night.) 

• When I got home, I made myself a sandwich out of leftover BBQ brisket. Not quite a late-night slice, but felt like one. 

—Lars Gotrich

This is my burger, give or take a topping: Bun, mayo, pickles, cheese, patty (maybe two), tomato, lettuce, bun. In that order. Add-ons can be nice — who am I to refuse banana peppers and special sauce a la In-n-Out — but ultimately detract. If you've ever watched George Motz's Burger Scholar Sessions, then you understand my commitment to Burger Essence. (I'm still working on my smashburger game, but I'm pretty good on the grill, if I do say so myself.) 

Stunt burgers are trash. Lately, IG's algorithm has punished me with slovenly odes to excess. Patties stacked five and six high. Cheese and god-knows-what sauce oozing from every pocket like puss. A goddam piece of fried chicken. A full order of onion rings (OK, I actually really like an onion ring or two as condiment on occasion). Point being, stunt burgers serve nothing beyond the 'gram, and two bites in, it's a soggy mess. 

Generally, I don't yuck someone else's yum, but y'all… stop with this foolishness! Let the burger shine. —Lars Gotrich

Gern Blandsten is closing up shop after 30 years. I can't speak to the label's imprint on the New Jersey indie rock and punk scenes, but GB proved crucial in introducing east coast bands like Chisel, The Van Pelt and Liars to the world — the cock-rocky Rye Coalition even got caught up in major-label shenanigans, ended up back on GB for its fourth and last album, produced by Dave Grohl.

Right now, the label's shop is selling 5-10-25 CD mystery boxes for cheap; it's physically painful for me to deny such a fun deal and potential for new-to-me discoveries. I'm still making my way through the 25-CD grab bag, but have fallen hard for 2006's All Your Things Are Gone by Boston's Victory at Sea. I'd completely missed out on this band in my formative indie-rock years, but everything about Victory at Sea would've hit all of my college-age buttons: emotional, but gutsy songwriting; bursts of proggy bombast; ship-swaying rhythms; left hand-heavy piano pounding in place of bass guitar; a guitarist/singer who maybe smokes or drinks too much whiskey and just has the most devastating quips (see: "It's not your birthday, it's your funeral / What a shame / 'Cause the gang's all here and we're toasting your name"). Just take a listen to "The Letter" and tell me Mona Elliott didn't sing Patti Smith songs at karaoke bars until the wee hours of the morning. —Lars Gotrich

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Foo Fighters' "Everlong" is a song measured in chills per minute...

from the hushed opening and distorted guitar strums;
to the moment Dave Grohl first whispers, "Hello, I've waited here for you," trailing the word "everlong" with a knowing whimper;
to the first appearance of the guitar's exclamation-point doot-doot-doot counterpoint;
to wonder, and the drum's quickening rat-a-tat response;
to the windmill-chord chorus, hanging onto "forever" with suspended animation; 
to the doot-doot-doot's sung by Veruca Salt's Louise Post at 2 a.m., lore shared by this TikTokker.

Released in August 1997 as underground punk and emo overtook my alt-rock interests, this song — which followed the perfectly-fine-yet-still-grunge-hanger-on single "Monkey Wrench" — felt like none and all of those things. Instead, "Everlong" was a middle path garlanded with emo's soft-loud dynamism — of course, Sunny Day Real Estate bassist Nate Mendel had become a full-time Foo by this point — and a stadium-ready bombast that wasn't afraid to bleed. It was the first time I really took notice of Dave Grohl's "new band." 

On a recent trip to rural Virginia, we brought along a cheap kite that'd been buried deep in the recesses of a closet. Having not flown since childhood, I was immediately struck by the kite's similarities to improvisation — that you respond to the changes in dynamic, pace and power the same way a musician acts and reacts within a group setting. You don't need to know all the mechanics to find the feeling in the push and pull (though that knowledge would certainly help), but the feeling finds you in the gusting shifts of wind and sudden dead air. I now find kiting immensely satisfying, though my skills (to continue the improv theme here)  are basically noise kid who discovers Anthony Braxton for the first time. Here's to more windy days to make visual music. —Lars Gotrich

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Some professional news: After two years producing it, I'm now the host of the Best Music of the Month podcast from NPR's All Songs Considered! Basically, I gab with NPR Music staff and contributors at the end of every month about the "best" — no, I don't like that word either, I'm working on different framing devices — albums and songs released within the past 28-31 days. It's not quite the long-dreamed-of Viking's Choice podcast, but I've been wanting to stretch myself for quite some time, so this is a significant foot in the door. You can listen to my debut as host on NPR-dot-org or wherever you do podcasts — some of y'all may have even heard the episode carried on your public radio station!  

Some personal news: It's my birthday, and I planned to take the day off to catch a matinee in a theater and laze about, but my kid got me sick, so now I'm gonna watch a movie on my iPad and sleep. I'm also off social media (Twitter, in particular) for at least a week — need to regather my mental wellbeing after a rough few weeks from the world being as it is. Take care of yourself and others, y'all. —Lars Gotrich

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The situation in Ukraine changes day to day. Like so many, I watch with worry and heartbreak. I don't pretend to write about things I don't know or understand, such as international politics, when I have NPR colleagues literally reporting from bomb shelters and train stations crammed with families trying to cross the border. But I have seen the resilience of Ukrainians, the support of neighboring countries, and protests from so many Russians — from all walks of life, but especially from Eastern European musicians I follow on Instagram. This I understand: Music communities uplift each other in crisis. Or at least they should. 

It's easy to feel helpless in situations like these, so here's a start: an open-sourced spreadsheet of Ukraine-based artists and labels, with tabs for charity and community support. (For what it's worth, I don't own or maintain the spreadsheet... hence, open source.) Buy an album on Bandcamp, share the spreadsheet, stay informed. 

A side note: Not to make one thing about another — and, hey, it's me writing about things I only sorta know (but feel strongly) about — but I do wish I'd seen this level of engagement around Syrian refugees by American media, community groups and churches. I was aghast, though not surprised, at the racism then and at the double standard now. To be good stewards of humanity, let's learn from this time and apply going forward. —Lars Gotrich

Greatest Blashyrkh wait for me your deepest realms I'll find / With songs that sound eternally for you my call is ever so strong

Winter does not agree with my summer chooglin disposition; I require sun and sweat to function. So, in an effort to combat my seasonal glumness with grimness, I have spent many mornings with Immortal. This is Norwegian black metal that ravishes in frostbitten fantasy with a cartoonish energy. Immortal's photo shoots? Bare- and barrel-chested. Immortal's music videos? Silly poses, pointy hats, fire breathers. Immortal's riffs? A blaze of fire and ice, especially in the early years, but given to epic tales as the years wore on. 

Diabolical Fullmoon Mysticism, Battles in the North and At the Heart of Winter, in particular, were my constant comrades during long stretches of 20-degree weather and gray skies that blot out the sun. I figured if Immortal can face the winterdemons of the Blashyrkh realm to wrestle the brutal isolation of Bergen, then I could blastbeat my way through the wet, bitter cold of Washington, D.C. And thanks be to Abbath, Demonaz and Horgh — or whatever the lineup when the band isn't bickering — I survived and thrived another winter.

I am, by no means, a comics expert — I barely know the major story arcs of Marvel and DC from the last decade, and, in fact, find most of them tedious! But after I put the kiddo to bed, my wind-down includes about 30-60 minutes of digital comics on the iPad. In lieu of Bandcamp finds this week, consider this the Viking's Choice 6-Pack: Comic Book Edition!

DIE by Kieron Gillen and Stephanie Hans (Image): When it comes to gaming, I've always been more the observer than the player — I am far too nervous to react on the spot, and would rather experience the story through more capable hands/minds. I did one year-long D&D campaign with friends over dinner and drinks, but it did not prepare me for this beautiful, bleak and ultimately human world transported to an all-too-real fantasy land. The Wicked + The Divine's writer and illustrator re-team up to wrench out the essential means and meaning of RPGs — I'll be thinking about DIE's final question for some time. 

The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl: Squirrels Just Wanna Have Fun by Will Murray, Ryan North, Zac Gorman and Erica Henderson (Marvel): Ever since the 2015 reboot, Squirrel Girl has been such a refreshing change of pace — not just as a wholesome counterpoint to the doom and gloom of most Marvel titles, but especially as a fully-rounded superhero who wrestles with goodness not as a flaw but as a character trait in flux. 

Y'all ever lost a dog? It is exhausting. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Our 12-year-old pup Cocoa Bean slipped out a gate on Saturday, confirmed by a neighbor's backyard cam. We hung signs. I called animal shelters. We knocked on doors. My wife heard a dog barking that sounded exactly like Cocoa Bean, assumed the worst and made awkward conversation with the owner. I kept it together until we crossed our home's threshold at the end of Saturday night. We slept in the living room just in case Cocoa Bean came back and scratched on the door. We felt lost. 

Cocoa Bean can be sweet, and can be an asshole, but – as the saying goes – she's our asshole. Her grumpy-old-lady disposition has gotten to the point where friends and family request that she stay home when we visit 🙃 But our neighbors showed up, laminating signs, texting and posting on nearby neighborhood groups, dropping off sympathy cookies. Feel extremely blessed by how quickly our little community rallied around us. 

Thankfully, this story has a happy ending: We got a phone call on Sunday morning from a family in Maryland (we live right on the D.C./Maryland border) who found Cocoa Bean! She'd wandered off, almost got hit by a car just down our street, and jumped into a different car of a sweet family who just wanted to help. Tears of joy were shed, treats were had. You can see a blurry photo of our reunion at the bottom. So happy to have our Cocoa Bean home. –Lars Gotrich

Never thought I'd become a tea cocktail guy, but I have recently taken to putting cereal milk in black tea and, y'all, it's glorious. Cheerios milk in my own Earl Grey/hazelnut blend. Fruity Pebbles milk in The Black Lodge, the smoky banana black tea from August. It's a little treat in my afternoon cup. – Lars Gotrich

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It's been a minute, but I wanted to say thanks for subscribing to the Viking's Choice newsletter! It's a constant work in progress! And it's going to look a little different in 2022! Slimmed-down introductions! The Bandcamp 6-Pack is now the Viking's Choice 6-Pack! There's still a weekly playlist, but it won't feature descriptions of every song because that takes too long! More essays and Q&As! Commissioned graphics for regular features! Other exclamation points!

Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope to make this newsletter somewhat weekly – or at least semimonthly – again. Life and work demand most of my hours, but I never stop digging for music. – Lars Gotrich

Viking's Choice 6-Pack

I have measured my life with bootleg tees purchased online.

Didn't read many books, but predictably cried to Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner. Didn't watch much TV or movies besides toddler-friendly fare (Bluey and Yo Gabba Gabba!), but got sucked into the MCU vortex despite my best intentions (WandaVison, Loki) and giggled as Fast & Furious went to space (F9). Digital comics are my most accessible form of media right now, so here's some favorites old and new that I read: Witchblood by Matthew Eman & Lisa Sterle; The Incal by Alejandro Jodorowsky and Moebius; Hawkeye by Matt Fraction, David Aja, Javier Pulido; Luisa: Now and Then by Carole Maurel; Invincible by Robert Kirkman; Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Last Ronin by Kevin Eastman, et al; Revival by Tim Seeley; The Carter Family: Don't Forget This Song by David Lasky and Frank Young; Undiscovered Country by Scott Snyder and Charles Soule; Ultramega by James Harren and Dave Stewart; Beta Ray Bill by Daniel Warren Johnson; Resident Alien by Peter Hogan. I'd like to read more comics written and/or drawn by women and non-binary folks if y'all have good suggestions.

I wrote the liner notes to a vinyl reissue of Sixpence None the Richer's This Beautiful Mess, and word has slowly trickled back from the band members how much they loved my words, which means a lot. Produced 18 live events for the Listening Party series on NPR Music, including conversations with Julien Baker, Dawn Richard, Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, Brandi Carlile on Joni Mitchell's Blue and roundtable discussion (featuring Bonnie Raitt!) for the 50th anniversary of John Prine's debut album. Left Substack out of protest, bought my own URL for the newsletter. Got vaxxed/boosted. Met with folks a bit more freely. Some dear friends left D.C., but we make time to see each other anyway. My daughter's turning into a loving, chatty, goofy kid who loves tea like her papa. Saw a total of 4 concerts: Irreversible Entanglements outdoors at Rhizome, go-go band Proper Utensils in a local park for my D.C. neighborhood's annual reunion, Art Sorority outdoors at Comet Ping Ping, Sweeping Promises indoors at Comet Ping Pong. 

If I could, I would write a 300-album year-end list. Music consumes my every day: from checking my Bandcamp feed in the morning to emails from artists/publicists to tips from friends IRL/online to living room turntable spins and (more frequently) CDs jammed in the car on errands/road trips. It can be all-consuming, too – even though it's my day job, when music becomes an obligation, I become a shell of myself, lost like a little kid not knowing where to go or what to do. (Usually, I just regress to my teenage years as a '90s Christian punk.)

But know that if I bought a physical (or digital) copy of your album, it's in the year-end list of my heart. That's corny as hell, but true. Out of retail therapy or enthusiasm or stupidity, I think I bought more music than I have in years; for many of the same reasons, I couldn't keep up with it all (see also: toddler). So how do I put together a reflection of a blurred year gone by? Mostly just the music that stuck, or a single experience that continues to ripple outward. 

Because I like to write a little something about each album, let's do this in two parts, and divide everything into categories. Not by genre or theme, but how the albums resonate with my favorite lyrics of 2021. There are links out to Bandcamp where available, and a BNDCMPR playlist of songs from the list, where available. 

Metal is life's blood...

... drunk from horns and tallboys, screamed from pits and home office chairs – well, more of the latter than the former these days. Like everyone else, I miss shows, but especially the raucous throng of live metal, punk and hardcore. Feels like I missed out on that short window where shows could happen again, especially at Atlas Brew Works here in D.C., and now I'm back to headbangin' all by my lonesome to slam metal CDs in the Subaru! But I had copies of Decibel, Noxious Ruin and the Headsplit newsletter to keep me company, not to mention a stack of heavy metal cassettes. 

About a decade ago, I regularly wrote up year-end metal lists for NPR Music both to the celebration and consternation of the scene. I had a predilection for transcendence in doom, black and extreme metal – you could call it trendy, but I'll be damned if Agalloch's Marrow of the Spirit, Panopticon's Kentucky and Cloud Rat's Moksha don't retain their power more than most. Still, though, the gatekeepers of all things tr00 called it "NPR metal" – never quite figured out what was meant by that, only that it wasn't a compliment. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

In the spring of 2021, I had a revelation.

Fingerstyle guitar dared itself to transform. To grow beyond its presumed roots and sprout beautiful, perhaps even unsightly – yet truth-telling – limbs. I found this thrilling and, for me personally, transformative in how I approached the solo guitar as a listener, fan, critic. This is the music I'd put on to unwind and open up, but increasingly, musicians gave challenge to that notion – not to sit idly as background, to merely be a vessel for a "cosmic" experience. 

At the same time my wheels started turning – with emails written back and forth between editors and musicians to poke at a possible piece for NPR Music – Grayson Haver Currin went ahead and, just, published the story for the New York Times. This is the collective unconscious of music journalists, especially those with niche interests that intersect folk traditions and the avant-garde: We see movement and piece the puzzle together. I admire Grayson's writing and have had the joy of editing his work from time to time, but dang, I was crushed to see that story (executed with such care and craft) live somewhere else. (Still, though, I highly recommend… Grayson's got a knack for pulling humanity out of presumably rigid music scenes.) 

“We Three Kings” played on sitar? King Diamond? Amy Grant? Yup, I’m hosting a holiday music marathon dubbed the Viking’s Choice Holiday Special from 12-8 p.m. ET today, Dec. 23. All live, no archive. Hope y’all come by! Know it’s been a while since the last newsletter; I’ll have some year-end writing soon.

Welcome the last (?) Viking’s Choice Guide to Bandcamp Friday!

I absolutely reserve the right to bring back this monthly-ish list of new albums dropping on Bandcamp Friday at any given moment, but it’s time to refocus Viking’s Choice. As you may have noticed, the newsletter has become more infrequent — October, in particular, was pretty rough for my family. We’ll be OK, but like and , the stress and time consumption has made me reconsider how I want to spend my hours. 

Welcome the last (?) Viking's Choice Guide to Bandcamp Friday!

I absolutely reserve the right to bring back this monthly-ish list of new albums dropping on Bandcamp Friday at any given moment, but it's time to refocus Viking's Choice. As you may have noticed, the newsletter has become more infrequent — October, in particular, was pretty rough for my family. We'll be OK, but like and , the stress and time consumption has made me reconsider how I want to spend my hours. 

Every day is Bandcamp Friday if you toss in a couple extra bucks.

I've said this before, but it bears repeating. Anyway, if you're new here, hi! Bandcamp Friday is when that platform waives its revenue fees so that artists/labels can pocket the change. I churn out 20+ short recommendations of albums/EPs released on or around Oct. 1, categorize them by silly/obscure ideas instead of genres, and then y'all spend a stupid amount of money on new music.

I don't believe in guilty pleasures…

… but there are some songs that I only share with close friends. Songs that demonstrate certain qualities intrinsic to understanding my taste — how it's changed, how it hasn't, and what early influences remain part of what I look for in music.

This is not the artwork for Sixpence None the Richer’s This Beautiful Mess.

An oolong brews differently than a white peony than a pu-erh than a jasmine. And even within those varietals, soil and air give them distinct personalities from their region (and, thus, another way to approach preparation). Like collecting records, tea is a ritual that comes with a certain amount of research and love… know where your leaves come from and how best to experience them, and the tea leaves will reward your palette and sense of being

But this is not how to make a cup of aged Liu Bao.

Buying trash snacks with your partner is romantic as heck.

We scanned the chip aisle of our corner store, recently under new management (they now sell shisha behind the counter!); it looks like they’re about due for a restock: missing were Takis, plain Utz potato chips. But in quarantine, with a toddler, you take 20-minute dates when you can, debating the finer points of Pop Tart flavors (them: brown sugar, untoasted; me: cookies & cream, frozen) and why Lays just doesn’t cut it anymore.

The first time I told a girl that I (platonically) loved her, she kicked me out.

This was my mid-20s, which I have come to call the second coming of my teenage years. Everything sucked, nothing made sense, relationships held on by a thread, drinking was fun (but also wasn’t) and I had no freaking idea what was to come. The future (and present) was terrifying, but sort of exciting because it’s one drama after another (hey, I watched a lot of Bravo reality shows in those days).

Summer’s usually got me in three modes:

“Children love the meat tank.”

“It’s been a wild ride, motherfuckers!”

Camae Ayewa (aka Moor Mother) opened Irreversible Entanglements’ set with an exclamation. Over a sprawling improvisation that pushed at the edges of the free-jazz band’s ’60s-inspired fire, Ayewa spit without her book of poetry in-hand, shouting and growling about time, isolation, the Sisyphian task of “building wreckage,” survival. Could’ve been about the past five days, five months or 500 years.

It’s 6:39 a.m.

And I still haven’t written a pithy or emotional or silly intro to this thing, yet, so here’s an assortment of links:

Nature is healing; I went inside a record store.

Among the many things I have missed during the pandemic — shows, hugs, friends, family, browsing nerdy beers at a liquor store — is the time spent flipping through vinyl at a local haunt. So after more than a year (and a second dose of Moderna), I hit up Red Onion Records in Hyattsville, Md., to meet up with and Kenny visiting from Richmond.

“It doesn’t even make sense!”

In the dorm rooms and on the streets of downtown Athens, Ga., that was the common refrain about Patrick Dean’s comic. , some silly freshman deep-thinker would muse (read: me). “That’s dumb. Why would anyone read a comic you don’t understand?”

I’m still messed up about DOOM.

Few musician deaths have hit me as hard and as long. Scott Walker comes to mind, as does Geneviève Castrée. Each one speaks to a culture, aesthetic and ethos passed down — their creations as totems of taste and outré expression. MF DOOM is not only my favorite rapper, but might as well be my favorite producer, too — his cartoon-y bouncing-ball flow enmeshed in drifts of spider-webbed soul samples and synths. That’s not a knock on other producers who’ve put their mitts to his voice (shouts to Madlib and Jneiro Jarel), just that the Villain knew his dirty deeds best

What started as a way to help out musicians and labels beset by the pandemic (by Bandcamp waiving its revenue fees for 24 hours) has become a monthly tradition of surprise album drops, gratuitous spending and just a whole lotta music nerds sharing their wares online. There hasn’t been an announcement about the future of Bandcamp Friday — maybe like everyone else, they’re just waiting to see how the world opens back up.

So maybe there’s another Viking’s Choice Guide to Bandcamp Friday in June, maybe not — in any case, here’s the 8th iteration! This month, I’m grouping the recommendations by what I think characters from would jam! I’ve been reading , a truly engrossing re-telling of the TMNT origins with original co-creator Kevin Eastman at the helm for the first 12 issues (he contributes as the story develops in further collections, too). As someone who grew up on the animated series and the movies from the ’90s, these comics not only weave a complex, ancient mythology but also present multi-dimensional characters I’d never seen before.

I love dumb action movies.

So after my first Moderna shot, I started rewatching the series for the first time in years. In a haze, I took notes on my phone. Names of characters and the actors who portray them are mixed together with no rhyme or reason. I make no apologies for spoilers. Here’s a fast five of the first five, so far: