
Juliana Hatfield • Sings The Police
The source material is brilliant, but the interpretations are so uneven that it’s more like “Juliana Hatfield’s Wax Museum of Songs by The Police”.
The source material is brilliant, but the interpretations are so uneven that it’s more like “Juliana Hatfield’s Wax Museum of Songs by The Police”.
Another solo pop genius wunderkind, blasting it out of the water with a summery mix of rock and psychedelia.
A strange confluence of influences, with a lot of dynamic arrangements and plenty of weird hooks that shouldn’t work but are lethally effective.
Hot and bothered garage psychedelia, squeezing every last erg out of frantic guitars, galloping bass, pounding drums, and desperate vocals… not exactly ground-breaking, but certainly ass-shaking.
Psychedelic surf music from Portland, impossibly catchy and off-the-cuff, built on riffs that bludgeon you like a deliciously dense spongecake.
You might expect rowdy blues, or thrash-worthy hardcore from the name, but this is some very creative indie rock, using your standard ingredients yet somehow wringing out a distinctive texture and taste.
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.
A simmering stew of cross-cultural influences, as the African and Creole sounds of Haiti blend with New Orleans’ own unique funk. The results are as energetic and danceable as you’d expect
A disparate assemblage of New Zealand musicians yielding a disparate assemblage of styles, from dusty ballads to reggae whimsy to downright funk.
Analog synthesizers still sound like the shiny plastic future, even if they’re likely older than the young man fiddling with them in the California sunshine.