Tag: Cass McCombs

From the benthic depths, Ozric Tentacles rules their empire of resinous drone.

I believe this is the first time we’ve hit four exclamation marks for a playlist’s name, courtesy of Australia’s Psychedelic Porn Crumpets and their very doge-titled track. Elsewhere tonight, a special themed segment that attests to the powers of random selection!

Dating back to a time before the whole phrase was unceremoniously truncated to “chillax”, Serge Gainsbourg’s imploration to enhance your mood is given a frantic workout by Stereo Total and in this case, their toy electronic noisemakers are a welcome homage. Elsewhere this show, we have Carl King’s prog-rock-and-glockenspiel interpretation of Rebecca Black’s infamous “Friday” … and it’s quite the improvement.

Mimi Parker, vocalist and drummer and half of the Minnesota band Low, passed away a couple of weeks ago while I was traveling. It’s a shocking loss and an abrupt end to a musical career that was still unfolding; the band’s last two albums, coming at the tail end of a discography that spans decades, showed a blossoming new direction for an act that was famed for their quiet and glacial approach. We open the show with Low’s rendition of a Bee Gees classic in tribute.

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

It’s like a solo bedroom funk-pop project, with all its trappings (spur-of-the-moment compositions, absurdist themes, flashes of intense brilliance), except it comes from two people. These songs will quickly settle into your head and raid the fridge.

Supremely independent for going on three decades, Superchunk’s incisive nervous energy is still one of the purest indie highs you can find.

The haberdasher heard a light thump and roll, then felt something tap against a shoe. It was a peach pit. Looking up from the stack of brochures, they saw the orthodontist grinning and wiping their mouth with a sleeve, glancing at the gap on the blanket where the fruit was drying in the sun, clearly suggesting that perhaps another one was in order. The tandem moped leaned against the back of the Gate of Hercules, shielded by its bulk from the bright Croatian summer sun. The peaches had hours to go, and they had forgotten to bring a game., having only whatever reading material they had managed to scrape up in the Hotel Pula lobby.

The Just Joans keep it in the family, and they keep it fairly civil, covering their lethally caustic Scottish wit in a layer of pleasant pop.

The mechanical harvestman towered over the fig grove, its spindly arms tucked underneath as it towered over the fruit trees. The cryptobotanist aimed the infrared reader at the edge of the cultivated land, where the real Bhutan took over, hoping for even a quick glimpse. The landscape gave nothing in return. The operator’s headphones leaked the sound of some Turkish reggae, bounced from a satellite to overcome the foreboding mountains that ringed the valley. They both had patience to spare. The beast they were seeking had only one food source, located right here, and everyone’s gotta eat.