Tag: The Mountain Goats

It’s time for another Fun Drive, and what better way to represent tonight’s manic energy than Daisy Chainsaw and their epic “Love Your Money”? Also tonight, we have received a matching grant of one hundred dollars of America, via Telex: THIS IS THE HRVST TROGGOLD TO TELEX THE PLEDGE COMMITMENT THE ONE HUNDRED COMMA DOLLARS STOP OF MATCHING AMPLITUDE OTHER PLEDGES OF DONATION COMMA MATCH EXCLAMATION STOP HAVING REPORTING OF ARTICLE COMMA THE TURKISH ALMOND FARMING COMMA COMMA COMMA BEST THE LUCK STOP COMMA

You might think Juanes is some sort of reference to a collective of people named Juan, but it is actually a single Juan, more accurately a Colombian named Juan Esteban Aristizábal Vásquez. Here he is singing along to Elvis Costello and the Attractions as part of the fascinating Spanish Model project.

I will let you in on a secret weakness: a band like The Rare Occasions can seize control of my playlist just by showing up with a surplus of pop hooks and grade AAA harmonies.

Tonight, we have Fruit Salsa! A fresh variety of fruits, from the ordinary to the exotic, is selected and cut up into an hour's worth of delectable desert. Somewhere in there, The Soft Boys give us a live version of a Tin Pan Alley classic.

You can say that bedrock funk bassist Bootsy Collins is The One, and you would be right on so many levels.

Sometimes rock and roll seems to get stuck in a rut, but The New Madness bring fresh life to a sound that was old before they were born.

Twenty years ago, Grandaddy’s banged-up future was wrapped up in heavy production… now that has been stripped out, leaving only Jason Lytle, his songs, his piano, and his characteristic keening on inevitable observations.

“Batu means ‘rock’ in Malay” said the photographer, for the third time in a week. The sous-chef ignored the comment, also for the third time, and tried squinting in the darkness at the cribbage board. They had been wise enough to purchase a glow-in-the-dark deck after all these midnight assignments, but had yet to extend their ingenuity to the board. Tapping a foot in irritation, they knocked over the thermos full of hot cocoa set on the steps, and it would have rolled down several long flights of guano-covered stairs had it not been stopped by the tandem bike’s wheel leaning against the statue’s pedestal. Above them, Lord Murugan stared stonily into the dark.

The journey to the island had been placid, cutting through the postcard-blue waters on the kite hydrofoil like an experienced tailor shearing fine cloth for a new suit. Things were a bit more complicated now that they were at the Heraklion Archaeological Museum. The horologist consulted the mission notes, which simply stated “remove all anachronistic displays.” The historian, fearing seasickness, had taken a pill and was now having a comically adverse reaction that rendered them useless for these judgements. A security guard eyed them warily, but perhaps they could turn the situation to their advantage by playing up the effects as excessive inebriation.

The first wave of UK punk crested and shrank back, but the Mekons are still thrashing and foaming.