Listening to Chuquimamani-Condori bombard Faith Hill’s “Breathe” with kullawada drums and meteoric explosions, drowning that pleasant Y2K-era country-pop song in an apocalypse of supernova bursts and charred alien remnants falling to earth, a flood of memories came rushing back: standing in Target with my parents, watching dozens of identical Faith Hills mouth the words from the rack of TV displays. …