Tag: Leyla McCalla

Leyla McCalla’s music opens up a portal into a universe of previously impossible musical geometries.

I’ve been noticing a dry spell on covers making it onto the show, but that was busted tonight with an inordinate (and quite varied) set of songs, starting with Robyn Hitchcock’s take on the Small Faces’ “Itchycoo Park.” He’s got an album of mostly covers, specifically from the year 1967, on the way, and this single is blazing the way. Also covered tonight: David Bowie, Dire Straits, Duke Ellington, Daniel Johnston, and the Bar-Kays.

The sound of Chicano Batman is a half-dozen ice-cubes liquidly clinking in a tall glass.

Mustard Service is a variety of spicy and stinging that will bring a tear to your eye.

It was a globe-spanning show, with listeners checking in from the Grand Valley, the Florida swamps, and as far as Japan, where it was already Wednesday lunchtime. Meanwhile, The Libertines are up to their old antics again, at least the ones where they sound like a recently unfrozen cadre of British Invasion troglodytes. Also fun: playing a track called “We Will Not Apologize” and following that up with “Stop Apologizing”. Sounds about right.

When you set out to record a song that’s been famous, or popular, or claimed in some other way by some other artist, you are taking a shortcut with great risks and great rewards. Rarely can you pull it off the way Chicks On Speed do with their rendition of Cracker’s “Euro Trash Girl,” with a radical approach to deconstructing and reassembling the indie country hit. You’ll just have to hear for yourself.

The Jesus and Mary Chain continue to produce their signature hydrochloric treacle.

Royel Otis would like to work you over with chocolate-covered brass knuckles.

“Is this the music, is this the music you like?” yell The Bug Club above a robotic repetitive riff. Yes, this is the music I like. Tonight’s special seems to be bands with names too sensitive to read over the air in Rural Colorado, like Pissed Jeans, Mannequin Pussy, and STRFKR. No matter, we’ll turn it into a game for the listeners.

A flamboyant tip of the hat to Charley, who shared Being Dead with me only recently. I am smitten and kicking myself for missing their debut album’s release last summer, but I am fiercely making up for lost time. This evening’s Velvet Potty Mouth award goes to STRFKR, whose distinctive FUCK sat like a rock in a river of glitter and was carefully edited out for the Grand Valley’s sensitive ears.