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Rob Frye spent much of the 2010s playing in Chicagoâs Bitchin Bajas, whose goofy name belies an affinity for immersive, outward-bound music more in keeping with acid trips in cathedrals than the bratty surf punk that their handle implies. If you believe that one of musicâs primary goals is to transport the listener from earthly concerns, you will find no more fuel-efficient vehicle to achieve this than Bitchin Bajas. As with the work of Terry Riley, Bitchin Bajasâ music scans as both lysergic and liturgical. At their best, they make your head feel as if itâs a sky-sized sponge for transcendent tones.