Human music.

Accurate reporting on genuinely significant matters in real time violates AV Club house style.

There was never a human Space Pope.

The picture above is off-putting, but those are just the soldier Cylons.

I had a hard time when I turned 30, too.

It surely fans the embers of not-sensible-ness.

The urge to play scales on the harmonica? To rip out a flute solo, using overblow technique in the manner of Rahsaan Roland Kirk? To play oboe for Gentle Giant?

To paraphrase Mitch Hedberg, the belt holds up the pants, but the loops in the pants hold up the belt. So who's the hero here?

Honorable mentions to Cherub and Edgar.

It's that lilting accent.

When I lived in Chicago in the early 00s, I worked in a concrete fabrication shop. One of my co-workers was from Mexico City.

How. dare. you.

"Move over, Hendrix. It's my turn to knock up Sweden."

"Contemporary popular culture has finally imploded. Time to catch up on my reading."

Especially Strangers Die Every Day, and Perry.

In addition to being a full-blown psychedelic band, they were also, in the true spirit of the term, practically THE quintessential punk band, despite the refusal of critics and other odiously tasteful persons to admit it.

And it took me awhile to realize who she was, because Slacker had a pretty large cast.

If I had to pick two representative songs, "Graveyard" and "John E. Smoke" would probably reveal the essence of the band.

I see what you did there.

And you were like, "Would it really matter if we skipped that song just this once? Would you guys even care?"