Mixtape 139 • Moving On
The Gaslamp Killer earned his nickname by ruining the vibe of clubs in San Diego’s Gaslamp district with his incongruous DJ sets, so we must conclude those clubs were lame.
The Gaslamp Killer earned his nickname by ruining the vibe of clubs in San Diego’s Gaslamp district with his incongruous DJ sets, so we must conclude those clubs were lame.
The economist wondered where they’d be if the herpetologist had been available. Probably not prone under a cover of leaves, covered in protective armor, tapping two small bamboo sticks as a ruse to attract a golden lancehead. The rhythm was from the single Nordic folk d’n’b that had played on repeat 142 times on their trip out of the Port of Santos. It had been difficult to find a captain willing to land them on Ilha de Quemaida, so it was not wise to criticize their choice of music for the journey. The epidemiologist was nearby, peering into the carefully held vial and running the numbers on when it would be filled at the current rate of collection, and how quickly they could get off the island once that moment arrived.
The engineer looked through the diminishing dawn murk and spotted the specialist’s orange scarf. The sound of the balloon-tired swamp bikes spread through the Estonian bog like hot molasses, obscuring their location but not their presence. Unnoticed in the bike’s twin V mud-wakes, a nearly-vertical black snorkel tube trailed the pair.
Danish female-fronted trio with punishing riffage and dramatic vocals