In the antediluvian era—before “indie” meant tasteful AOR played on vintage synths—there was Lush, a band every record-store clerk adored. They had angelic vocals (back when that word hadn’t been wrung dry), guitars that could crash like glass or shimmer like morning light, and two women front and center writing the whole enchilada. Lush threaded the gap between England’s pedal-hazed dreamers and America’s crooked-pop eccentrics. They were the platonic ideal of accessible weirdos.