Tag: Galactic

I don’t know how Dynamite Shakers manage to cram so much sound into my little tiny earbuds.

It’s Spring Fund Drive time at KAFM, and to celebrate and motivate, we are presenting Version Control, an assemblage of facsimiles and verisimilitudes which promise to delight and entertain. In other words — covers! Thanks to everyone who donated!

Hot and honky, the latest from this nine-piece shows off immaculate arrangements and complex interplay as they range in tempo and intensity from police car chase to sunny afternoon by the pool. Especially recommended if you like a flute wandering in.

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.

The rich wood floorboards were squeaking under the strain of the game. They had removed their shoes, sketched out the board using a special beeswax that would not damage the finish, and were hopping as lightly as they could, for they respected the solemnity of their location. Nonetheless, the portraits lining the Hall of Admirals in the Museo Maritimo Nacional felt they finally had something to frown about, their serious Chilean brows furrowed in naval concern as they observed the farrier and the anthropologist enjoying their tournament.

Double Date With Death are loud and Canadian, and they don’t care if you don’t understand their French howling. They have a double date to get to.

Sunny, loose-limbed, and grinning from ear to ear, this collection of infectious and sometimes intricate funk sounds like the songs that play in your head as your foot touches the sidewalk on the first day of spring.

“Fearless” is a good word to use for this fully-formed funk outfit, as are “fierce,” “fiery,” “finessed,” “futuristic,” and so many effing others. A blend of precision and groove that does well on repeat.

The driver felt the leads tremble under their hands. The navigator clung resolutely to the sled, keeping an eye on the white horizon of the Wexford hills as they put some miles between themselves and the Monongahela. The only sound besides the rushing skids on the snow and the panting of the dogs was a faint crackle of song leaking from the driver’s earpiece. The heist had been a success; behind them, a net filled with silver Mylar balloons trailed and bobbed in the generated midnight wind.

The thin Nebraska ice crackled ominously as one of the occupants of the well-appointed tent leaned back on their recliner. They peered at their line, descending into the near-freezing water and vibrating sympathetically to the sounds of the radio. The other ice-fisher threw a log on the fire, pausing in recognition at the song before smiling and turning it up.