In Pittsburgh, some might argue that experimental music is king. From heavy noise bands to kitchen sink recordings, if you’re into the weird, you’re not too far away from a decent house show (provided you know the right people). Experimental music seems to be gaining popularity across the board, and with that popularity comes new people finding new ways to create it. What used to be a couple of dudes with microphones down their throats, running their guitars through frequency analyzers, and showing a rainbow display of effects pedals slowly seems to be getting replaced with full-on machine-made music.

So, try to picture it: a whole band of robots playing robot instruments, which are far more complex than anything a human could do. Is the robot band cooler? Are they more talented? Which would you rather listen to? My question is: What makes this kind of music cool? I recently read an article about a band that uses an EEG (electroencephalograph) to convert brainwaves into effective noise pedals that control the tone, pitch, etc. of the noise that the band is creating.

If I were to hear this band without knowing what it was and it didn’t sound too good, I’d probably turn it off. But after knowing the concept and the process, I would want to give it a shot and listen to it the whole way through. I have no problem admitting that it’ll probably sound extremely bad, but I would still appreciate it.

Now, I’m not saying that I would appreciate it nearly as much as the sound of, say, Chick Corea pouring his heart and soul into a piano, but I would still respect it. In a sense, the brainwaves are a portrayal of the creator’s emotions so I could even claim that I could relate to it, if I wanted to. But I don’t think that I would.

Back to the robots, though. Let’s say the whole band is a bunch of instruments that are programmed to make noise based on some computer algorithm that is randomly generated. That would catch my attention for sure. I would be quite amazed by whoever created these robots, but as for the music, I don’t think I would really listen to it. I mean, I would hear it, that’s for sure, but the whole time I would just be thinking about the process by which it was created, not the actual composition. The robot band is definitely cool, there’s no doubt about that, but I would prefer to listen to Chick Corea for the rest of my life rather than a whole digital playlist of every genre created by robots.

The windows in my apartment have been shut, an act that is irreversible and signals what I knew was bound to happen. Fall decided to come after all, and winter is beginning to rear its head, and I am waiting out what will probably be a few years until the landlord turns on our heat. So while we’re clinging onto Kleenex and cleaning the cough drops off the shelves, we have to keep company with songs for fall. These songs, some new and some old, have kept me warm over certain chilly months in ways that not even wood paneling and a glass of bourbon could.

The National — “Fake Empire.” I was never too big a fan of this album, but there is a certain fit between this song and carving pumpkins. Granted, I have never carved a pumpkin, or even looked at a pumpkin while listening to this song, but I can imagine the exact texture of pumpkin pulp in my hands when I listen to this song.

Leadbelly — “In the Pines.” There are a lot of old blues songs that are right at home in the foggy months of fall and winter, but the story conveyed in this traditional folk song will make you feel a little bit more grateful for where you’re shiverin’ the whole night through.

Menomena — “Wet and Rusting.” Ah, yes, the intrinsic longing of fall. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want someone to come over and use a heavy down comforter. The song has enough energy to move around a bit, but it furls its eyebrows all the time and is commendable in its acknowledgment of futility.

Karen Dalton — “A Little Bit of Rain.” Last week I was playing Karen Dalton’s album at work on a rainy day. At least 12 customers asked what was playing, and two of them even bought her album. “A Little Bit of Rain” is the song I put on all my high school mix CDs, but I’m still not tired of it. The perfect music for a gray day, Dalton’s voice hangs thick in the air and her lack of apology and regret is refreshing to hear.

Elvis Perkins — “While You Were Sleeping.” You could make a blanket of the description in this song, which rolls constantly off Perkins’ tongue without becoming flowery or overbearing. In this post-9/11 song, Perkins works with a melancholy sensibility without brooding or isolating himself from the audience.

Bonnie “Prince” Billy — “What’s Missing Is.” It’s hard to choose just one Will Oldham song for a fall playlist. This song, from his latest album, Lie Down in the Light, has a calm and steady rhythm with quiet harmonies that make the song perfect for keeping still. Whether you’re lying down to take a nap or taking a minute during the day to steady yourself, this song is beautiful in the autumn foliage.

Perfection for a song is, in my opinion, the capacity for endless replay. Imagine a cassette with heads as big as planets, tape unspooling endlessly into the void, notes vibrating through atmospheres, endlessly. The song shuddering off of that tape, appropriate for all times, all seasons, all strata, has got to empty space as it fills it. It’s got to be a tall drink of water that leaves you thirsty when the last drop touches your tongue. It’s got to be “Is There Any Love” by Trevor Dandy.

The song is a cut off of Good God! A Gospel Funk Hymnal, one of the indispensable compilations on the Numero Group label. The crate diggers at Numero have spent years unearthing forgotten funk, sometimes bringing entire labels back from the grave. Funk traveled far and wide, and Numero has followed, exhuming brilliant music from the genre in places as disparate as Cleveland and Israel. Good God!, as its title indicates, is a collection of funk songs with religious themes.

Gospel music brings to mind crimson choir robes swinging, vigorous hand claps, sweaty brows, brawny piano chords charging up to unabashed celestial refrains. It also evokes quiet, soulful pieces thick with contrition, despair, or gratitude. The genius of “Is There Any Love” is that it weds the two. It’s a song with a righteous funk motor propelling a heart so broken it can only repeat a desperate question again and again, until the absence of an answer is its own reply.

It floats gently into an album saturated with pew-quaking fervor, like a buoyant little gem. On first listen, it seems entirely unremarkable, almost unfinished, as if it were waiting for the horn players to finish their smokes and lay down a sweaty overdub. Upon the 10th spin, its flat surfaces begin to disclose hidden corridors of sound and feeling. The heartbeat of a kick drum births fluttering pulses of bongo. The flanged hand claps echo like the cracking of a prophet’s bones. And those hard-panned voices intone, over and over, “Is there any love” — a question sans question mark, a recognition of mortal entrapment, a challenge to heavens that, all too often, seem empty. The song, in its spacious self-denial, mirrors and mourns that emptiness.

Trevor Dandy sees a world devoid of love. Perhaps he would be cheered to know that, for possessing this song, the world is one resonant heartbeat closer to perfection.