Tag: King Kong

Be grateful for Attic Ted, lurking above your bedroom and keeping the miscellaneous critters in line.

It’s fitting to receive instruction from Art Brut on how the whole band thing works. Rumor has it there’s new music on the way, and I could not be more excited. Notice to the faithful listeners: the show will be off on the expected December 17, but will return for a special off-schedule holiday showcase on the 24th.

Tonight’s opening theme is clearly tribute to the Imaginary City — the opening cover is from the town’s The Streetwalkin’ Cheetahs, who are named after an Iggy and the Stooges lyric and have been pumping out a corresponding racket for about 30 years now. The song itself, originally by X, is about a friend of the band that left for England to hook up with the Damned’s Captain Sensible. The lore is unclear on whether the Captain was expecting that or not.

Billy Martin’s drumming makes me think of oxymorons like “precisely sloppy” and “intensely casual” and “red hot chill out”.

Well into their third decade, G. Love and Special Sauce still sound like they are in no particular hurry to get there.

It’s edgy and manic and insistent, and it’ll surely drive your lunatic friends to ask you who is making that racket. Make sure you tell them Clifffs is spelled with three Fs.

The Musée National stood like a squat block, facing the highway at an angle and mirrored to the left by the library. The hu hu sat inside, waiting in the wing housing the musical instrument collection. The surgeon nervously handled the endoscope case, dusty from the helicopter ride that had brought them to N’Djamena. The calligrapher was clearly nervous but their services would only be required for brief minutes while they inspected the inscription on the inside of the ancient calabash.

Out of all the ways there were to get into Zugdidi — they could have taken the ekranoplan, for example — the agency had chosen the bus. This exasperated the developer to no end. Their gear sat somewhere in the guts of the green behemoth, guarded by six different hardware and software protocols, but it still felt queasy to be so far removed from it. The meteorologist peered across the botanical garden to the Dadiani palaces. Somewhere in there, a nondescript yogurt stand would have a small radio playing Konnakkol techno. They were to purchase two cones and overpay. Instructions would follow.

It was a relatively quiet night, with a heavy dose of Brazilian music to keep things moving. For some reason, honesty and lies was another theme that surfaced through the night.

I really love Khruangbin, despite the pronounciation quandary they plunge me into whenever I play one of their songs.