Something for the summers yet to come…

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Katherine St Asaph: The 2020s are here, and with them an unending string of 10-year anniversaries that are going to destroy me (I have seriously considered just pre-requesting a few dates off from work). But some anniversaries might not be so bad. “Dejarnos Ir,” by a Colombian Latin Grammy-winning producer and justly rising Mexican indie-singer-songwriter, is shimmering, sun-flecked, and lightly, genially funky in that very specifically 2013 way. It sounds exactly the way it felt to hear Random Access Memoriesduring a long car ride to the beach (not sure where “people only remember the hype” became the going take) the way scorched pizza tastes leaning against a building warmed by dry sun, the way summer felt not like an unending expanse of nothing to come but like an expanse of nothing where anything could.
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Thomas Inskeep: If Marcos Valle were still making contemporary music, I suspect it might sound like this sun-soaked 4 minutes of beachfront daiquiris. Vega and Zamora sound like dreamy bliss together, and the zippy little guitar riff that you think is a bridge but then turns into a coda — yes. 
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Alfred Soto: I wanted to resist the moment the polyurethane funk bottom made itself felt: forgotten things like the Gaga-R. Kelly duet and Karmin’s “I Want It All.” Turns out I couldn’t, thanks to the charm Juan Pablo Vega and Vanessa Zamora have no problem sharing. And for once the lyrics aren’t placeholders.
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Juana Giaimo: I guess I’m getting kind of tired that so many Latin indie artists are going for this shy pop sound of quiet funky ’80s music and smooth vocals. This is an enjoyable song and the voices complement each other well, but I feel it’s rather forgettable.
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Samson Savill de Jong: Sometimes something is pretty much objectively good and doesn’t need much further explanation. This reminds me a bit of Khruangbin, except with more instruments, sounds and lyrics. If you’re not vibing with it within 30 seconds, you’re a stronger person than I.
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David Moore: This song is well-suited to whichever “pandemic wall” I’m hitting right about now — smoothness bordering on perfectionism, steel drums yoked to melody lines so closely you can almost imagine them as overtones, like your mind is playing a tropical trick on you. It reminds me of the disquiet humming underneath the Tahiti sections of L’intrus by Claire Denis: looks good, sounds good, feels good, but there’s something off, you can’t quite give yourself over fully to it. Not yet, anyway.
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Austin Nguyen: As much as I loathe each and every person who saw remote instruction as an opportunity to study abroad, this is probably how they feel right now: a collection of ocean-glimmer synths, brash horns and steel drums, leapfrogging guitars, and “Ain’t Nobody” wah-wahs; all cruising together to the mentality of “It’s time to flow” along the coastline of Hawaii or Cancun or wherever privileged trust-fund babies go on year-long vacations like a day-drinking dani song on roller skates. The view from here is good enough.
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