Above anything else, what has always stuck out to me the most about Pearl Charles' music is her honeycrisp voice. That it hovers atop a vintage Americana sound that touches on a pop clarity, but can border on the psychedelic or nearly eerie is the recipe for repeated plays as the dusk turns to night. Such was the case as I drove across rural Florida, that strange belt of the not-quite-South, where the music of her Sleepless Dreamer album and the tropical and Spanish moss-kissed two-lane highways combined to create a feeling of the surreal. It was with these echoes of her storytelling crooning through car speakers on backroads that lit up aft ...