If you dig a big fat sawtooth wave riff standing in the front and nearly hitting you in the face with the mic stand, then Brighton's AK/DK has your number. Turn it up and ready yourself to spasm uncontrollably.
Packs’ uniquely unbalanced delivery gives me the woozies.
It’s the evening before Valentine’s Day, which means absolutely nothing here at lacking org. Instead, we’re opening up with the Sex Clark Five taking on the Byrds, and something from Norwegian up-and-comers Mall Girl, who manage to hold up a broken mirror to American indie rock without cutting themselves to shreds. Also, their bassist name-checks Laddio Bollocko. Also tonight, more splendiferous instrumental musings from the incomparable Matt Berry to kick off the Final Hour.
Paleface didn’t say it first, but he probably said it best: it’s a World Full of Cops. Musicians and the authorities have been at each other’s throats for a while now, and there is no shortage of songs showing cops in a bad light, so what I like about “World Full of Cops” is its simple observational mantra: they are everywhere, we put them there, and they are us. Enjoy a full evening of police-themed music — it’s the law!
The first time you hear Courtney Barnett taking on the Velvet Underground's "I'll Be Your Mirror," what you get is an electrifying shock of recognition: you know that distinctive voice, you know that timeless melody, but what you're hearing is completely new. I must add that there's a VU tribute album every few years, and even the worst of them can be decent, supported by the strength of the songs, but this one (also titled I'll Be Your Mirror) is exceptionally good.
The Fogerty Brothers are putting their upbringing to good use in the genuinely psychedelic outfit Hearty Har, parsing the electric sitars and paisleys of long ago into a legitimate translation.
The Ghoulies from Perth, Australia look like regular blokes caught out grocery shopping, but the sound they make is an urgent, insistent punk rock howl with a frenetic keyboard bubbling through.
It’s the triumphant return of Pom Poko and their shattered-and-reassembled attacks of aggression and affection, like the sonic equivalent of staying inside the sauna for as long as you can, then running out to roll around in the snow.
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.
lacking.org