Roberts doesn’t offer much empathy for the poor, diseased critter other than a pause when Ben momentarily ponders his reflection in a pool as Adrian Johnston’s eerie synth-piano score tinkles.
—
Amy Nicholson,
Los Angeles Times,
9 Jan. 2026
Sometimes, in the deep winter quiet, a piano tinkles in Kelley’s Saloon, and the spirits dance to ghostly music.
The energy and excitement of a diverse crowd buzzes as silverware and glasses clink.
—
USA TODAY NETWORK,
USA Today,
11 Feb. 2026
At Stitch Club Atlanta's monthly gatherings, and weekly stitch nights at local needlepoint stores, needles click, glasses clink and conversations flow as dozens of women — and even a few pets — settle in for an evening of stitching, snacks and connection.
Not the Seattle Seahawks’ offensive coordination (or the New England Patriots’ lack thereof), mind you, but all those annoyingly catchy commercial jingles.
An answer to that hunger lies in these hearty beef flautas, which get tang and earthiness from adobo and lime, and a tenderness from many hours of slow cooking.
—
John Metcalfe,
Mercury News,
11 Mar. 2026
Prized for its blue-green veins, creamy yet crumbly texture, and compelling sweet yet pungent tang, this cheese begins from the raw milk of Lacaune sheep that graze in the Roquefort region of France.
Wandering the icy streets of Cortina in a furry hat, houndstooth coat and enough swagger to make the snowflake medal hanging from his neck jangle in agreement, Coach Snoop (as one of his beanies reads) appears in his element.
—
Sheena McKenzie,
CNN Money,
11 Feb. 2026
But the collision of townhouses and tower, balconies and bays — all those protrusions veering in different directions — recapitulate the whole trajectory of New York living and resemble a cartoonist’s rendering of the city’s chaotic jangle.
Jagged sheets of tension and dissonance from Reichard and Masri get swept up in the mellow simplicity of her bending chords, and every twinge and twang brings a rush of feeling.
—
H.D. Angel,
Pitchfork,
4 Mar. 2026
As the song unfolds, their voices begin to braid together like twin strands of ivy—a Scottish lilt and a Montana twang—creeping across a hard stone wall of fuzzy grunge guitars.
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