Tag: Mosquitos

The Jesus and Mary Chain continue to produce their signature hydrochloric treacle.

“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.

Cheekface takes nothing seriously, not even my undying love for their questionable attitude.

Firing things up near the top of tonight’s Mixtape are The Hives and the precision attack of “Rigor Mortis Radio,” from their recent return to affairs of sound. Also, what do you know… another fine Fugazi cover to open tonight’s mixtape, this one the chromatic riffing of “Merchandise” as interpreted by Sounds Of Swami. Elsewhere tonight, a shout-out to Chuck Dinkins for introducing me to Tupelo Chain Sex.

Paleface didn’t say it first, but he probably said it best: it’s a World Full of Cops. Musicians and the authorities have been at each other’s throats for a while now, and there is no shortage of songs showing cops in a bad light, so what I like about “World Full of Cops” is its simple observational mantra: they are everywhere, we put them there, and they are us. Enjoy a full evening of police-themed music — it’s the law!

Taking a vibrantly psychedelic sound and drenching it in cavernous production has made sure Lilys have always floated through time with a sound that is clearly from the past but also obviously from the future.

It’s the triumphant return of Pom Poko and their shattered-and-reassembled attacks of aggression and affection, like the sonic equivalent of staying inside the sauna for as long as you can, then running out to roll around in the snow.

Taking their name from Australian slang for something not good, The Chats are here to strike fear in the hearts of parents and guidance counselors across the globe.

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 accordionist’s boot was tangled in a mangrove root. The deepening dusk of Meads Bay Pond brought with it a soft breeze and an ugly threat of bug swarms. Their chances of getting to the beach and capturing enough glowing sugar crabs were dwindling. The roots, more like underwater dreadlocks, heaved as the booted foot attempted to twist out, the accordion case held high as counterbalance. The technician glared at the spectacle briefly before shining a light on the clipboard. In the distance, a barbershop quartet with a Tuvan throat-singing baritone made it incongruous presence known. The keys to the long-range waterbikes had a floaty thing on them, but they were permanently attached to the metal clipboard, which would sink like a stone. The Governor’s Office back in The Valley would certainly hear about this.