Tonight’s show kicks off with a long overdue hour of Version Control 10 — our special blend of songs that you might call “covers”. About a year ago, I filled three hours with covers, which leads me to believe something is messing with the covers ecosystem, and I have my theories. The middle hour was a regular Mixtape (if such a thing can be allowed), and the Final Hour was its usual rocketride mindtrip, a big thank you to all that came aboard.
“New music from Sparklehorse” sounds like something from a fever dream, and it sounds like something from a fever dream.
Always a special treat to be back on the air after missing a show. This is the third show in a year that I’ve started with a Fugazi cover, in this case Failure taking on “Waiting Room” with their trademark grinding, implacable approach. The power of these songs, its distinctive musicality and lyrical content, is undiminished in the hands of any band bold enough to take on the material. Tonight also featured the confluence of several loyal listeners, including James in California, Underdog in Georgia, and Charley who is on South Korea time and got to take benefit from the time zone.
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.
For quite some time, Mommyheads have delivered the sort of complex pop and lyrical insight that fills in the cracks and gaps in your musical thinking with new ideas and sounds.
“Charmingly abrasive” sounds like an oxymoron, but it is certainly something that describes music like this, angular sounds and a distraught female voice rambling on about blue tits, and I don’t think she means birds.
Tonight started out with an hour of the sickest music around, which is to say songs about illness, medication, and other health-related issues. The following two hours were the usual incomprehensible mixture of genres and bad attitudes.
Trebled-out bass lines, disaffected vocals that could very well be reading from a dream journal, and a penchant for occasional dissonance are taking the forefront in this outing, refining their savage punk structures with a more stylized approach.
The world of Khruangbin is made up of velvet sunsets, shimmering dunes, and cool river rocks. There’s also a guitar, some drums, and a bass. And lately, vocals.
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.
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