Tag: Calexico

The carefully curated collection of artists performing tracks made famous by other artists continues, in the third annual Version Control. Some of these could be so obscure as to ask “is it a cover if I never heard the original” but we can leave the answering of that to the armchair philosophers. I’ll go on the record saying a good song is a good song no matter who performs it. Also, to the listener and fellow cassette afficionado that complained about Maxell and Memorex being mentioned in the same breath: my point is that neither one of them is TDK.

Nothing to do with Peggy Lee’s sultry standard, this particular “Fever” comes from Aldous Harding, whose unique marshmallows-and-razor-blades sensibility makes for songs that leave you bleeding but which you crave again and again. Also tonight and also from New Zealand, a track from Garageland, one of my favorite underrated Kiwi bands of the ‘90s, which isn’t saying much because they were all underrated and they are all my favorites.

I always thought Kurt Vile was a play on the name of the German composer that gave us “Mack The Knife,” but that seems to be his given name (bonus: middle name is Samuel). Sonically, he’s more in line with Lou Reed than Weill, topping his awkward nouveau folk with a voice that may not be the most musical but is actually the perfect medium to express this particular malarkey.

It takes a certain mindset to take on a King Crimson song, and clearly black midi is of that mindset. Is it a bugle call for all prog rockers everywhere to take up their Moogs and sparkly jumpsuits and join the New Prog Revolution? I can support that.

Subtle expressions of singing strings from a guitar and pedal steel, mixed with ambient sounds and other sources to make the soundtrack for the most intense relaxation you’ve had in a while.

Straight outta Staten Island, the Budos Band has enough energy to power a nuclear submarine for seven months, allowing it to circumnavigate the globe three and a half times.

The earth rumbled into an appropriate angle of repose as the bucket wheel ground to a halt. On the ground, the sapper raised an arm to signal to the operator, sitting high above in an air-conditioned cab as disproportionately tiny as a brontosaurus brain. The sounds of Taiwanese ragtime could be heard on the earpiece now that the excavator had stopped digging into the hard Upper Peninsula soil. This machine was capable of extracting tons of copper ore in a single hour, but now it was digging for something far more valuable.

The Bronco Busters were an all-girl outfit whose brief career had me wishing I was a bronco. One listen to their track and you’ll be feeling your oats as well.