Tag: Cable Ties

The lasting appeal of PJ Harvey’s staredown is undeniable.

Bo Diddley may have written tonight’s opening cover, and Spoon may be the one actually performing it, but the spirit of Billy Childish, whose version earworms its way through my head every year or so, is quite strong on the shambling, end-of-the-rehearsal vibe heard here. To the listeners voicing strong opinions about the adorably shrill kids’ story that runs at the top of The Final Hour — your notes have been passed on to Management.

Matt Sharp and The Rentals have always attracted a stellar cast of musicians to help them assemble their popsong symphonies.

They had wandered through the town, having left the aquabus in one of the drainage ponds at the I-70 interchange. It had been a dusty drive, and the vehicle certainly could use the soaking. As they wandered through the town’s enormous collection of objects, they felt lilliputian. The dentist rattled the bag of tiles suggestively as they walked past the sign for the World’s Largest Rocking Chair. The typesetter did not hesitate to point out that at 678 inches, it was the tallest chair of any kind in the United States. It was a habit that was both tiresome and instructive. And it never got in the way of a quick game of mahjong.

There is no shortage of consuming urgency to the sound of this UK trio called simply Shopping.

The pediatrician scrambled on hands and knees after the rubber ball. It deflected off the base of the Monument to Fuel Tanker, his imperturbable brass cheer completely unaffected by the collision. The interlocutor looked around surreptitiously. Their aim was to provide some normalcy to the fact that two people were hanging out near one of the lowest-ranked attractions in Grodno while the sophisticated electronics built into their footwear communicated with the satellite and sorted out the problem with the statue. But maybe this game of jacks had not been the best idea for cover.

Well into their third decade, G. Love and Special Sauce still sound like they are in no particular hurry to get there.

They had been shot at. They had avoided countless booby traps. They had been served tiny delicate cups of the most aromatic and poisonous espresso. All of these events were framed as interrupted cribbage games. Maybe they played too much. The phlebotomist ruminated on this as they locked up their two-wheel drive all-terrain motorbikes across the street from Kirov Park. The Transnistrian passports had been excruciatingly expensive, but the ergonomist insisted it was justified, for complicated political reasons. The pieces rattled against the cribbage board and the very dangerous little notebook in the messenger bag as they strolled through the trail, looking for a man holding two empty water bottles.