NPR Music’s 25 Favorite Albums Of 2015 (So Far)

June 30, 2015 - fall Denim

Source: NPR

Credit: Adam Cole

We’ll call it in a air: 2015 is going to finish adult being a good year for music. The albums that have tender us a many over a year’s initial 6 months are a sundry lot. There’s huge aspiration on arrangement here, epic works crafted to bust bounds or reshape during will (check out that three-hour entrance album), yet also appetite in tiny gestures: a span of harmful albums about loss, dual some-more anchored in a sounds of sisterly harmonies. As we strech a year’s mid-point, take a impulse to listen with us, ears far-reaching open to a good 6 months of music. Let’s wish a second half of 2015 lives adult to it.

Advisory: Some of a songs on this page enclose profanity.

Sound  Color by Alabama Shakes

ALABAMA SHAKES
Sound Color

On a second album, this Athens, Ala. rope — now chart-toppers, late-nite TV veterans, large-font festival draws — sounds reduction like a historically-accurate pedestal for propping adult Brittany Howard’s towering rock-soul-blues voice than a dispersion organisation with a work sequence to hit down some pedestals. Where a Shakes’ debut, Boys Girls, bopped along on a appetite generated by a musicians locking into ideal step, Sound Color sees any rope member stretching out. Bassist Zac Cockrell and drummer Steve Johnson competence be a album’s secret weapons, switching tempos and clearing space for a emotive guitar personification of Heath Fogg. Howard coos and sighs as mostly as she howls, unresolved in a credentials for prolonged stretches, nonetheless still comes opposite as someone who doesn’t have to tell we twice to step aside. Like a predecessor, we can dance to all a songs on Sound Color, yet it’s an angrier, druggier, cooler, freakier kind of dancing. —Jacob Ganz

Vulnicura by Bjork

BJÖRK
Vulnicura

There’s zero easy or joyous about Vulnicura. Björk‘s break-up manuscript is full of pain and betrayal. Its electronic beats won’t let we dance, a strings are heavy, there’s not a singable carol and a difference are wounds documenting an roughly anthropomorphic timeline of adore lost. And with all that, Vulnicura is value a weight. It’s a judgment manuscript for all of us who have tangled in love. There’s never been a record utterly like this; alongside all a hurt, there’s still recovering to be had and to be heard. —Bob Boilen

Amanecer by Bomba Estereo

BOMBA ESTEREO
Amanecer

Bomba Estereo has cemented itself as a rope that is means to furnish fun, danceable strain that is also deeply secure in tradition. The Colombian band’s sound is as many an scrutiny of Latin America’s inland and African roots as it is a wander by a noisiest neighborhoods of Bogota. With a latest album, a rope goes over usually being impossibly fun and enterprising — it dives serve into a spiritual, contemplative feel. Amanecer is insinuate in a proceed a prior Bomba Estereo albums are not, like unresolved out during an after-party with someone we always suspected we could tumble in adore with. The crowning gem is a strain “Mar (Lo Que Siento),” a reflective, ethereal square that feels like flapping divided on a beach after a night of dancing. —Jasmine Garsd

Andrew Norman's Play, achieved by a Boston Modern Orchestra Project

BOSTON MODERN ORCHESTRA PROJECT
Play (Andrew Norman)

Just how good is Andrew Norman’s Play? It competence usually be a best square of large-scale orchestral strain so distant in a 21st century. Scored for full rope and piano and additional percussion, Play is a rigorously constructed, extravagantly noisy savage in a suggestion of comparison works like Olivier Messiaen‘s Turangalila Symphony and new ones like Thomas Adès’ Tevot. From a opening seconds, Norman, a Californian in his mid-30s, sets adult a sonorous disturb ride. Through a 3 levels (not distinct a video game), Play unleashes spasms of tune and whiplash transitions, yet also unveils landscapes of relaxed beauty. Late in a piece, he delicately builds an unusual crescendo, surfaced with a honeyed oboe line mountainous over an rope that twitches and roils. Play is a towering achievement, built with wit and wonder. Yet for all a flamboyance — done all a some-more shining in a brave, harsh opening from Gil Rose’s Boston Modern Orchestra Project — a piece, like many good art, is a fascinating journey, one you’ll wish to take again and again. —Tom Huizenga

Brothers of a Sonic Cloth

BROTHERS OF THE SONIC CLOTH
Brothers of a Sonic Cloth

Seattle’s Tad Doyle has been during this difficult diversion entrance on 3 decades now. With bands like TAD and Hog Molly, he could take a bummer riff and make it boil and sound in ways others usually couldn’t. Years in a making, Brothers of a Sonic Cloth’s entrance is a entirely gratifying doom steel LP that is entirely watchful and plentiful with power. —Lars Gotrich

Traveller by Chris Stapleton

CHRIS STAPLETON
Traveller

Here’s a truth: Music critics are so buried in new releases that some — including those that arrange in a given year’s Top 10 — competence usually get a few ardent spins before being late to make room for a new deluge. But a name few spin a soothing denim jackets in a strain lover’s listening closet, pulled out time after time, lending comfort, suiting any occasion, with value pressed in any pocket. This artistic entrance manuscript by one of Nashville’s good all-around talents is that kind of satisfying. It rocks hard; it doles out heartache; it’s humorous and profound; it showcases a overwhelming voice and celebrates a intercourse of a excellent band. It’s a screw in a deepest sense. —Ann Powers

Sometimes we Sit and Think, and Sometimes we Just Sit by Courtney Barnett

COURTNEY BARNETT
Sometimes we Sit And Think, And Sometimes we Just Sit

I’ve been wanting this record given we saw Courtney Barnett 3 times in 2013 and listened her dual EPs (repackaged together final year). Unlike those EPs, Barnett accessible her entrance manuscript with her furloughed band, and what’s many distinguished is this Australian trio’s ability to make stone and hurl feel critical and not played out. Chalk some of that adult to a fact that this rope of bass, drums and Courtney on guitar are truly good players, yet they also accelerate some of a best difference stone has ever had. Take this instance from “Dead Fox,” a strain about a repercussions of industrial agriculture:

Heading down a Highway Hume
Somewhere during a finish of June
Taxidermied kangaroos are dirty on a shoulders
A possum Jackson Pollock is embellished in a tar.
Sometimes we consider a singular sneeze could be a finish of us
My hay-fever is branch up, usually swerved into a flitting truck
Big business overtaking
Without indicating.
He passes on a right, been pushing by a night
To move us a best price.

Barring some shaft of low-pitched lightning before year’s end, this entrance manuscript from Courtney Barnett will be my series one record of a year. —Bob Boilen

Black Messiah by D'Angelo And The Vanguard

D’ANGELO AND THE VANGUARD
Black Messiah

Technically it’s a 2014 manuscript (it forsaken yet many allege warning midst December) yet cut us some slack: Black Messiah‘s singles unequivocally started creation waves in 2015 and D’Angelo has been murdering it on debate this spring. You shouldn’t reason Mr. Michael Archer to a bound calendar anyways: After a 14-year hibernation, he pulled a rabbit pretence by gifting us a tricky, sexy, difficult classical that clearly synthesizes a entirety of analog-era fashionable essence — Hendrix, Sly, Clinton, Prince, Shuggie and more. He also brings a peaceful bossa-like feel of “Really Love” and those Monk-ish changes on “Sugah Daddy.” Remember a aged proverb that if you’re late adequate you’ll be on time again: The initial sonics of Black Messiah — with a hardly lucid lyrics and considerable analog brew by Russ Elevado — somehow conduct to constraint a muffled annoy and simmering restlessness that increasingly defines black life in a age of Ferguson, Baltimore and Charleston. The creeping, roughly quiescent fatigue of tunes like “Charade” suggests both a bland unhappy and surpassing resilience of people darker than blue confronting a violent, supremacist culture. As did Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep or Bill Gunn’s Ganja Hess for film in their sold moments, Black Messiah sublimates some of a feeling of 21st century black life in accessible low-pitched form. It’s impulse information, indeed. —Jason King

Drippin' For A Tripp by DJ Sotofett

DJ SOTOFETT
Drippin’ For A Tripp

A sprawling, sundry LP From a Sex Tags Mania trainer DJ Sotofett, Drippin’ For A Tripp blends stimulating new age with ambient residence and West African melodies. The Norwegian DJ’s left-field dance tag has a repute for oddity charm, so it creates clarity that his entrance LP strikes a chord between comfortable and weird. Made with 6 opposite artists over a dual year period, a record’s reggae, batucada and dub influences hang orderly between tough synths and flashes of psychedelia. Watch out for “Nondo,” where Maimouna Haugen’s intro outspoken lulls a senses before housey drums and trippy pings perk them behind up. —Sami Yenigun

Drippin’ For A Tripp is usually accessible in worldly formats. Buy it from Forced Exposure or Honest Jon’s.

Surf by Donnie Trumpet  The Social Experiment

DONNIE TRUMPET THE SOCIAL EXPERIMENT
Surf

For a final time: This is NOT a Chance The Rapper album. Not to contend that a Chance manuscript wouldn’t be nice, yet Surf is a acquire digression in a much-hyped Chicago MC’s career. And nonetheless Chance is a vocalist, a organisation is fronted by, as a name suggests, Donnie Trumpet, a.k.a. Nico Segal. On Surf, the rope takes pleasure in sidestepping categorizations, not with a daring snarl yet rather a contented smile. It’s a feel good manuscript in a “turn up!” era: an amalgam of jazz, poetry, neo-soul and hip-hop with an gaseous cocktail interest that usually happens to underline good live orchestration and astonishing guest shots from artists as manifold as Erykah Badu and Quavo. Who knew happy didn’t have to be hokey? —Timmhotep Aku

Before The World Was Big by Girlpool

GIRLPOOL
Before The World Was Big

As Girlpool, Harmony Trividad and Cleo Tucker have strong a apparatus required for a proceed couple between ear waterway and heartstrings down to dual members, dual instruments, one cassette, one EP and one full-length album. That album, Before The World Was Big, is a lo-fi collection of punk songs that have a witty suggestion yet aren’t personification around. Trividad and Tucker specialize in no-frills singing and elementary orchestration that cut by bone and aim for marrow. The pretension track, in particular, facilities outspoken harmonies that are roughly unusual in their piquancy and impact, bringing life to lyrics about memory and a detriment of things remembered. Girlpool’s miss of gloss does zero to lessen a shine, and a free-spirited proceed to punk usually adds to a appetite behind their punch. —Katie Presley

Ibeyi by Ibeyi

IBEYI
Ibeyi

There are a lot of things to admire about a self-titled entrance from Ibeyi — an fulfilment deliberation that there simply aren’t a lot of things in it. It’s done by a rope of twin sisters: One sings and plays piano; a other sings backup and creates beats. The textures are mostly minimal, a public spare. Of course, there’s some-more behind that, namely dual low-pitched relatives who lifted them in France and Cuba and around Afro-Cuban eremite culture. So their incursion into a production-and-voice twin indication is sung in both English and Yoruba (and a tiny French), with wiring that occupy normal cajón and batá drums toward hip-hop ideas. It’s unequivocally many a summons to a ghosts of their history, either in proceed incantations to Santería deities or in a loyalty to their father and elder sister, who both died prematurely. And there’s a proceed their voices hang, overlap, intone in unison, dawdle as a chorus; Ibeyi competence be usually dual people, yet there are some-more presences in a room. — Patrick Jarenwattananon

2014 Forest Hills Drive by J. Cole

J. COLE
2014 Forest Hills Drive

Can everybody usually give Jermaine Cole his props already? With this album, Cole, ever a underdog, has proven that he’s not usually come into his possess artistically yet also that he deserves to be mentioned in a same exhale as hip-hop’s stream elite. A warn recover in Dec of final year, 2014 Forest Hills Drive creates a 2015 list because: A) it was expelled after we published a 2014 albums list and B) nonetheless it forsaken during a holiday deteriorate it stayed in revolution good into a new year. Chalk it adult to Cole’s now-perfected regulation of violation adult his gloat with moments of introspection and heartless honesty. Musically we listened him try tune as he never had before, singing from his essence as many as he rapped his tiny heart out. Largely self-produced and featuring no one yet credentials vocalists, it proves he can lift an manuscript on his own, yet a help of his Roc Nation champion Jay Z or a large name writer — a attainment in itself. So again, can J. Cole finally get his usually due? —Timmhotep Aku

Reality Show by Jazmine Sullivan

JAZMINE SULLIVAN
Reality Show

In 2011, as one of RB’s strongest voices, Jazmine Sullivan announced around Twitter that she was holding a self-imposed interregnum from singing: “i betrothed myself when it wasn’t fun anymore i wouldn’t do it. and here i am [sic],” she wrote. Fast-forward 4 years, and she’s finally behind — with a ruin of a judgment in front of her. On Reality Show, Sullivan interprets a hypothetical life of your present-day existence TV star by flirting with usually about any proceed possible. She never lets us get a slightest bit comfortable: she facilely transitions from flawless a capella runs (“Forever Don’t Last”) to bone-fide visions of erotic clarity (“Veins”). The rather unsettling “Mascara” juxtaposes fleshed-out, suggestive prolongation and Sullivan’s entirely alive voice with lyrics that abrade opposite all we trust in: “Most people consider I’m shoal ’cause I’m always dressed like I’m going out to a bar / But we gotta keep adult means it’s new chicks poppin’ adult bland and they wish a same thing.” Whichever instruction she flows, Sullivan kindly reminds us with any spin that she’s means of holding anything on — with no problem. —Kiana Fitzgerald

Pageant Material by Kacey Musgraves

KACEY MUSGRAVES
Pageant Material

Kacey Musgraves‘ 2013 debut, Same Trailer Different Park, churned go-your-own-way anthems with distressing songs about lives set adrift by circumstance, tradition and aged habits. For a many part, Pageant Material doubles down on a anthems during a responsibility of a heartbreak: It’s mostly a collection of goal statements about minding your possess business, being yourself notwithstanding outward pressures, guileless your family warts and all, and creation a many of what we’re given while we’re around to suffer it. But those goal statements — again created by Musgraves, again with ace assists from a tiny organisation that includes Brandy Clark and Shane McAnally — are quotably, mostly poignantly irresistible. “Dime Store Cowgirl,” for example, competence step informed thematic belligerent in a proceed it paints Musgraves as a nation star who’s remained unvaried by a accoutrements of fame. But a song, like so many of what surrounds it on Pageant Material, is a gorgeously shimmering, roughly impossibly spreading charmer. —Stephen Thompson

The Epic by Kamasi Washington

KAMASI WASHINGTON
The Epic

It’s not that this record sounds, in any specific informal temperament arrange of way, like Los Angeles. If anything, it sounds like dislocation and amalgam: like ’70s modal swing, like Donald Byrd’s A New Perspective meets Charlie Parker With Strings, like a final half century of black renouned music. But L.A. is constituent to a existence. It’s where saxophonist and composer Kamasi Washington, now 34, met his bandmates in high propagandize or before. It’s where they found several gigs with cocktail stars, set adult residencies in clubs that would have them, lived in tangible houses where they can jam and pooled their income to book a recording studio for a month. The initial fruit from that common endeavour is overkill: 17 songs, scarcely 3 hours, horns, a double stroke section, strings, outspoken chorus. It’s gloriously so, an commanding collection that initial overwhelms with volume and appetite and overjoyed solos and reveals a abyss of tone and hummable melodies as we start to routine it. It’s explanation that we can both go large and go home. —Patrick Jarenwattananon

To Pimp A Butterfly by Kendrick Lamar

KENDRICK LAMAR
To Pimp A Butterfly

Last year he got labeled a sell-out due to his support for Australian hip-popper Iggy Azalea and for creation a clearly regressive acknowledgement about Mike Brown’s sharpened in a Billboard story. This year he done a surprising, presumably jarring, cameo in fan Taylor Swift‘s “Bad Blood” mega-video. So this we know: Kendrick Lamar isn’t chasing normal travel cred and he competence not always be down for a moral cause. Loving him is complicated. But not distinct amicable media lax cannon Kanye West, Lamar knows how to filter his manic ideas and channel his operation of feeling into a cohesive manuscript as artistic statement. To Pimp a Butterfly‘s sweltering brew of neo-soul, jazz, electronica, sampled soul, sound effects and oral word interludes — to contend zero of Lamar’s different constellation of outspoken personas and his disagreeable ability to diverge his possess upsurge on direct — creates this manuscript distant some-more outré, and self-consciously bizarre, than his 2012 reversion cinematic Good Kid M.A.A.D City. It’s a sprawling, pell-mell structure of feeling in a form of 16 manuscript tracks. The list of collaborators here, from George Clinton to Robert Glasper to Thundercat, and even a mistake staged talk with Tupac, helps broach a goods; yet it is Lamar’s surpassing insistence on self-empowerment in a context of his possess scars and mishap that unequivocally wows. Top marks embody “i,” coasting on a instantly-recognizable Isley Brothers‘ sample, and a robbery black masculinity screed “King Kunta.” There are no easy, elementary answers in To Pimp a Butterfly; in operative by a unapologetic mania, maybe you’ll learn your possess truths. —Jason King

Los Hijos de la Montaa by Los Hijos de la Montaa

LOS HIJOS DE LA MONTAÑA
Los Hijos de la Montaña

I’ve been job it “The Meeting of a Mendozas,” this first-ever partnership between songwriter Sergio Mendoza and vocalist Luz Elena Mendoza. The dual (unrelated) musicians paint dual unequivocally singular takes on Mexican influences in their music: Luz Elena is a husky-voiced lead thespian of Y la Bamba, a organisation from a Pacific Northwest that we once described as a organisation of “rugged choir boys”; Sergio has divided his time between Calexico and his possess Orkesta Mendoza, a 1950s-inspired mambo stone band. Together these Mendozas sound zero like their detached bands: Los Hijos de la Montaña is a enthralling sonic soundscape of a fabulous Southwest, a land where a limit doesn’t exist and a low-pitched upsurge is bilingual and bi-cultural. It hasn’t caused many of a stir in a swarming universe of online music, yet this manuscript is value a second and even third listen 6 months into this year. There is a well-crafted and expertly-performed universe in this strain that is unequivocally genuine to many of us who grew adult in a Southwest. This partnership nails a sound in a heads perfectly. —Felix Contreras

From Kinshasa by Mbongwana Star

MBONGWANA STAR
From Kinshasa

The strange pretension for this manuscript was “From Kinshasa to a Moon,” and that sounds usually about right — this commingling of Congolese travel strain and electronic sounds is during once worldly and totally futuristic. Anchored by dual veterans of a DRC’s Staff Benda Bilili (Yakala “Coco” Ngambali and Nsituvuidi “Theo” Nzonzawho) who teamed adult with Paris-based Irish writer Liam Farrell, Mbongwana Star lives loyal to a name: “mbongwana” means “transformation” in a Lingala language. From a album’s initial single, a hyper-metallic “Malukayi” (featuring Konono Nº1), to a sweat-drenched Congolese rumba of “Shégué” and a dance building bearing of “Nganshé,” we hear a band’s metamorphic appetite throttling true into a fringes of a good beyond. —Anastasia Tsioulcas

Tomorrow Is My Turn by Rhiannon Giddens

RHIANNON GIDDENS
Tomorrow Is My Turn

The initial suspicion that takes over during a listen to Rhiannon Giddens‘ solo entrance is: This lady can sing anything. Country, art song, RB, old-timey sounds in a character of her aged rope Carolina Chocolate Drops, a songbooks of Dolly Parton and Nina Simone: check. Stop marveling for a impulse and this impeccably constructed, hotly executed collection reveals a mind and essence that feed a unusual voice. Giddens and writer T-Bone Burnett recast a American songbook with women during a center. Giddens’ deeply personal interpretations of songs done famous by Patsy Cline, a mezzo- soprano Florence Quivar, Elizabeth Cotten, Odetta and others frame divided a sleepy truisms smothering a bargain of low-pitched history. In a hands of this immature master, stories that seemed over lovely shine, renewed. —Ann Powers

Dvok, Symphony No. 9; Varse, Amriques by Seattle Symphony

SEATTLE SYMPHONY
Dvořák, Symphony No. 9; Varèse, Amériques

This manuscript is an overwhelming low-pitched pairing of dual sketches of a United States. The initial is Dvorak‘s famous and sensuous paean to a “new” Native and African-American sounds he listened in America, that has spin one of a many renouned symphonies ever. The other is Edgard Varèse’s crackling, clangorous Ameriques — distant reduction well-known, yet riveting and necessary. Perhaps even some-more critical than a repertoire are a performances. This recording bursts with superb personification — listen to that extensive brass! Those urgent, razor-sharp strings! And it serves as explanation of a Seattle Symphony’s jubilant claim, underneath a care of Ludovic Morlot, as one of a truly good American orchestras. Beautifully engineered, too. —Anastasia Tsioulcas

Carrie  Lowell by Sufjan Stevens

SUFJAN STEVENS
Carrie Lowell

A decade after his coming-out party as indie’s gentlest superhero, it was starting to feel reasonable to consternation either Sufjan Stevens‘ feet competence ever hold a belligerent again. From Illinois to The Age of Adz via The BQE, Stevens built an ornate, unenlightened collection of epic songs that was grand yet not always welcoming. On Carrie Lowell, Stevens dials things behind to a wheeze to reckon with a 2012 genocide of his mother. If it sounds like a “classic” Sufjan manuscript on a surface, it conceals a poise of pointed changes usually lightly, all a aspiration of his prior albums on a conduct of a pin. A low pool of patrimonial bewail and pain in “Should Have Known Better” ripples with wish and acceptance. The peaceful thrust of “Drawn To The Blood” gives proceed to ambient shimmer. The many immediately “Sufjan-like” strain on a album, “Eugene,” starts with lines about lemon yogurt and a “hysterical” light in a Oregon city of a title. It sounds like it could be a set-up for a new entrance in his long-abandoned 50 States project, yet turns despondent: “What’s a indicate of singing songs if they’ll never even hear you?” Stevens sings before a strain abruptly ends. “We’re all gonna die,” he repeats later. And then, “F*** me, I’m descending apart.” By a album’s end, he’s mislaid and alone, yet take a exhale and put a manuscript on again and you’ll hear him pardon his mom in a opening song. Healing doesn’t follow a true line; conjunction does art. —Jacob Ganz

Sprinter by Torres

TORRES
Sprinter

Sprinter is a sound of an artist during a impulse her prophesy snaps into unusual focus. Mackenzie Scott had showed guarantee before; her early work as Torres exuded capricious cold and unsettling atmosphere. Sprinter, though, is something else, and it’s apparent within a opening minute. “Strange Hellos” opens with a stretched wheeze by clenched teeth, and by a time 60 seconds have passed, a strain has accelerated into something coming a full bark — it’s assured and frightful and puzzling and crowd-pleasing all during once. From there, a ideas keep pouring out, as Scott explores crises of faith and temperament with equal tools charge and grace. PJ Harvey is as excellent a anxiety indicate as any, yet Sprinter also plays around with quieter atmospheres in songs that storm, seethe and surprise. —Stephen Thompson

Hood by Vijay Iyer Trio

VIJAY IYER TRIO
Break Stuff

To contend Vijay Iyer has stretched a bounds of jazz has spin aged hat. For my income he has achieved a same kind of creation and brazen meditative that Miles Davis used to gloat about. There are some of a common trappings: a jazz trio; incomparable large bands full of saxophones and brass; quirky, bony compositions that relate a best of a many severe jazz. But what Iyer brings to any organisation context and opening is a kind of erratic suggestion that us jazz fans delight yet frequency encounter. Plenty of musicians examination and even drop into a cackle and scream of a fashionable yet so changed few ever master a jazz tradition adequate to be means desert it and carve out a place for their own. Break Stuff is yet another carol in a stability strain that is a life and strain of Vijay Iyer. we have no doubt a subsequent manuscript as will be as good as his last. So for now, we spend time with his stream manuscript and marvel during how he does it. —Felix Contreras

Cascade by William Basinski

WILLIAM BASINSKI
Cascade

A master of fasten loop manipulation, composer William Basinski is famous best for his mournful, mysterious, five-hour-long recording The Disintegration Loops. Fifteen years ago, while digitizing frail reels of tape, he detected a short-lived beauty as they literally crumbled in a fasten deck, yet found new life as digital files. Now again, Basinski has discovered aged tapes to emanate Cascade, another hypnotizing ambient landscape. “I agonized over these and roughly threw them in a trash,” he wrote in a promotional email. Cascade appears to be built from a singular frail piano riff, soaked in reverb, somewhat overmodulated and looped for scarcely 40 minutes. But as common with this many pointed composer, there’s many next Cascade’s shimmering surface. Instead of stasis, a slight yank of stream floats we down a rippling streamlet. The strain emerges from nowhere, shifts roughly imperceptibly, afterwards sensitively recedes. Why it packs as many romantic punch as it does is a poser best left unanswered. Cascade, aside from a dim beauty and still power, is a clearance for all packrats — explanation that carrying second thoughts about what to rabble and what to save can be a stately thing. —Tom Huizenga

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