Tag: Los Amigos Invisibles

The extremely productive Messer Chups hails from St. Petersburg, Russia, and is currently going through some very heavy surf.

The world of Khruangbin is made up of velvet sunsets, shimmering dunes, and cool river rocks. There’s also a guitar, some drums, and a bass. And lately, vocals.

They call it Hotlanta for a good reason, but I’m sure The Black Lips have enough bad attitude to have way more colorful names for their hometown.

As you may suspect, Peter Bjorn and John hail from Sweden, and as you may expect, they do Anglophonic indie pop better than the Anglophones.

The mason laid a bare hand on the stone block. It was nearly three hours since the sun had set, yet the western-facing brick, part of the multitudinous grid that made up Port Blair’s Cellular Jail, still retained a significant amount of heat. The cryptographer glanced back at the yelp of surprise, but continued scraping a sample into a container with a microchip at its bottom using a dental tool, humming along with Caribbean tango audible in the distance. They were supposed to meet the man with the elephant down at the beach in only forty-seven minutes. It was still unclear why the plan called for such a journey as part of their extraction to Viper Island.

The chauffeur peered at the rear-view mirror. The scattered reflection from the rain-slicked A7 revealed only headlights, no politely alarming Luxembourg police flashers. The Corniche bulleted down the roadway, the flutter of its diplomatic flags the only sign that it wasn’t standing dead still. Some miles away, in Ettelbruck, the authorities were coming to the conclusion that the altercation at Chez Fred had been a distraction. In the back seat, the jeweler closed the briefcase, satisfied with its contents.

The archivist’s breath misted in the freezing vault as gloved hands lifted the metal canister off the shelf. Getting to Greenland had not been trivial, driving the snowcats to Nuuk undetected had been a challenge, and breaking into the Katuaq Cultural Centre’s secret collection room, dug out of the permafrost, could be described as difficult. Now, locating the footage was close to impossible, given the hundreds of linear meters of shelving that were visible. The producer unspooled the first few feet off the reel, peering up through the film to the overhead light. The muffled sound of Persian hip-hop could be heard from the theater above. Maybe it was not so impossible.

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.

In times fraught with misinformation, Ty Richards implores you to seek the truth.