Tag: Lush

What FIZZ does is bombastic, is unexpected, and is just a lot of fun.

I believe this is the first time we’ve hit four exclamation marks for a playlist’s name, courtesy of Australia’s Psychedelic Porn Crumpets and their very doge-titled track. Elsewhere tonight, a special themed segment that attests to the powers of random selection!

Sometimes it takes a while for an album to be recognized as a classic, sometimes the shock of recognition is instant and universal. This is the case for Spoon and their latest release, Lucifer on the Sofa, which showcases much of what has made the band a constant source of solid material, but in a concentrated way that will make you start all over as soon as you hit the end.

Tonight started out with an hour of the sickest music around, which is to say songs about illness, medication, and other health-related issues. The following two hours were the usual incomprehensible mixture of genres and bad attitudes.

A solid debut album, with a wide range of energies and emotions, filled with swirling guitars, moments of unabashed vulnerability, and sheer screeching unhinged psychopathy.

Sweetness and sunshine without overstepping into cloying and saccharine, with chiming guitars and subtle keyboard hooks providing a bed for clear female croonings.

Shrugging through the rose thorns, protected by a heavy leather apron, the blacksmith adjusted the thick gloves, proof against stray hammers and cinders but well-worn enough to allow the gentlest of movements. A stem was carefully pincered and brought in view of the entomologist’s face, who scanned it for aphids. Across Sarmiento Park, a teen herd’s boombox gave voice to an excited Córdoban DJ, announcing the latest from the latin bhangra scene. A traffic cop was nosing around their parked Alfa Romeo, assuming it was just another family sedan that forgot to feed the meter.

The catamarine knifed silently upstream, its passage discernible only as a faint twin wake on the surface of the river. Up ahead, the sonar array was already picking up the turbulence from the Mbocaruzú falls, the staccato warning pings slicing neatly between the Mozambique big-band swing being piped into the earpieces. In their individual pods, the cartographer and the miner reviewed their maps, surveys, and orders. Up ahead, behind the rushing down-flow of the water and completely out of sight, a set of steel doors silently opened and awaited the pair’s arrival.

The Cadillac engine roared with naked abandon behind the driver. It was the familiar rumble of the seven-liter-plus workhorse, but its power was unleashed on a propellor instead of a bulky automatic transmission. At the airboat’s prow, the tracker kept an eye on the reeds that protruded in clumps from the murky water. Barely audible on the comm link were the strains of some forgotten psychedelic blues. A promising glint along the mangroves gave hope they had found the downed satellite. It turned out to be the stare of a brooding twelve-foot alligator, unwilling to leave the scene. The search continued.

Eminently danceable and frequently dark, this is what robots put on to seduce each other