Coming straight outta Dublin, Fontaines DC have an insistent and incisive sound that carves anthems out of marble using only guitar strings and a chiseling voice. No particular theme seems to emerge tonight, although we will be closing with Angel Olsen’s “Go Home.” Go home, it’s midnight.
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.
Hailing from the southwest of France, The Llamps build on a sound that's equal parts New York City grit, San Francisco psychedelia, and spaghetti Western twang, which makes for a pan-global main dish.
There are voices so distinctive that their timbre is an instrument onto itself. This is the case with Josh Caterer, who was first heard singing for a band called The Smoking Popes. He has a wildly diverse solo career now, but tonight we play his reworked version of a Popes song.
Go ahead and call your band Great Grandpa. You better have something pretty weird up your sleeve.
The composer stood over the gunwale, pressed the small button, and blew into the instrument, discharging the contents into the dark green waters below. If they had known it was going to be this type of floating market, they would have picked a different watercraft. This explained the unprecedented difficulties when trying to secure their transportation with the Colombo office. The ichthyologist indicated one of the floating structures, and began maneuvering their craft towards it. The composer took a breath and the signal, a brief segment of “Message To You Rudy”, went out from the melodica.
The carpenter took a leisurely walk around the perimeter. In the weird light cone projected by the light they had installed at the top of the can, the ropes they had used to rappel down looked like the undulating tentacles of a mysterious jellyfish. Outside the cylindrical building that very deliberately resembled an oversized Coca Cola can, the security guard’s radio played Chicago sambas into the crisp Manitoba evening as he idly played his flashlight over the bushes outside. The choreographer stifled a giggle. On one of the ornithopters parked atop the domed top, next to an opening that looked like someone forgot to bring a canopener, a single LED began to blink. The mission was running out of time.
Washes of fuzzed-out bliss at your choice of tempos
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