Tag: Dead Meadow

With a name that’s quite topical, Ilegales are here to make fresh trouble.

Enjoy a small slice of tragic beauty in the form of Nell Smith, whose musical instincts reach well beyond her perpetually young voice. Tonight I had to park down the block, as The Sauce Boss was visiting the Radio Room all the way from my old Florida stomping grounds.

The keypad beeped softly as the astronomer keyed in the coordinates. It was deepest darkest night on the altiplano, the stars above an unfamiliar configuration for those born to northern skies. The physicist tapped their pencil against their favorite clipboard (the metal one), the coffee-stained papers clipped to it showing the revised calculations for the Hole In The Sky. Over the tinny intercom, hacked because both had forgotten to bring a speaker, a particularly ironic song choice began to play, making them instinctively share a knowing glance.

The specialist carefully manipulated the waldoes linked to the robotic arms in the front of the submersible. The pilot peered out of the top dome, the glare of the spotlights illuminating the complex structure of the oil rig but the visibility of this part of the Gulf of Mexico not allowing much to be seen past the first couple tangles of girders. A single wire tethered the craft to the surface, its sole purpose safely delivering the radio signal carrying its obscure music and coded instructions past fathoms of seawater. The robot arms clasped the watertight bale of Oaxacan tamales tightly. The mission was only half over.

It was a jam-packed evening, and we even got to fit in a request for Mission of Burma for Generoso and Lily, listening over the satcom from their armored zeppelin thrumming over the Iowa cornfields. Also: the world needs more Franklin Bruno.