Tag: Levitation Room

If you don’t like what Being Dead is playing at the moment, just wait five seconds.

I’ve been noticing a dry spell on covers making it onto the show, but that was busted tonight with an inordinate (and quite varied) set of songs, starting with Robyn Hitchcock’s take on the Small Faces’ “Itchycoo Park.” He’s got an album of mostly covers, specifically from the year 1967, on the way, and this single is blazing the way. Also covered tonight: David Bowie, Dire Straits, Duke Ellington, Daniel Johnston, and the Bar-Kays.

Disappearer sit right on the edge of scratching that itch too little and too much.

Back to the tried and true formula of new, old, obscure, and occasionally weird with tonight’s set, which features the return of Les Savy Fav and their always welcome abrasive electropunk. It’s now that time of year when I enter the studio in daylight and exit in pitch black darkness, which I always appreciate. In between, there were lots of exciting discoveries. Expect more heavily-censored Guppy in coming weeks!

Sometimes, you’re in the mood for something unrelenting and obsessive, and Meatbodies has what you need.

“Is this the music, is this the music you like?” yell The Bug Club above a robotic repetitive riff. Yes, this is the music I like. Tonight’s special seems to be bands with names too sensitive to read over the air in Rural Colorado, like Pissed Jeans, Mannequin Pussy, and STRFKR. No matter, we’ll turn it into a game for the listeners.

Getting into Darra Adam Khel had not been easy. Getting into Pakistan was relatively straightforward, with the right-colored passports and decoy suitcases full of Western tourist necessities. The ride towards the Khyber Pass had been less so, and the necessary disguises and bribes to get past the checkpoints that turned away foreigners were more of an ordeal than ordinary. The dusty vehicle, neither truck nor passenger car nor jeep but somehow all three, had been recalcitrant for most of the trip, providing constant frequent minor breakdowns, keeping the mechanic perpetually busy. Now they were on a shooting range on the roof of a well-stocked arms shop, surrounded by dozens of identical shops and shooting ranges. As the linguist lifted the replica Berthier carbine to their shoulder, they darkly thought it would be just their luck, after all of this, to be caught in some rooftop crossfire from other purchasers testing their new toys.

The screen door banged against the frame of the small building that was once Cisco, Utah’s non-bustling post office. It’s like a ghost town abandoned by the ghosts, mused the cinematographer. Whatever once haunted this place left out of boredom. Meanwhile, the blacksmith methodically tapped the foundation along the perimeter of the building. They had brought the infractometer over from the side-by-side they had arrived in, but sometimes the old ways worked best. The rhythm etched out a Namibian bossanova that had been popular in the ‘70s. The entrance to the silo complex had to be near.

Verring wildly from soft-funk to outright garage fuzz, this wouldn’t be out of place coming out the AM radio and windows of a 1974 Maverick.