Tag: Medeski, Martin + Wood

Trademarking the most elemental of particles is a bold move, but a fitting one for Atom™.

I was not properly prepared to discuss Cat Power’s tribute to Bob Dylan’s 1966 Royal Albert Hall concert, and specifically where it was recorded, but now I can reveal the facts: the Cat Power recording was made at RAH. However, Dylan’s original recording was NOT made at RAH, despite the famous bootleg’s common name, instead having taken place in Manchester, a good ways away.

The story of Nell Smith & The Flaming Lips is as improbable and unexpected as their album full of Nick Cave covers. Existing in a triangular universe of mutual admiration, Where the Viaduct Looms gave us the opening track tonight, the menacing “Red Right Hand”.

Like pre-teens throwing every liquid into the kitchen blender and daring each other to drink the results, Woody and Jeremy fuse all manner of sounds legitimate and profane into some murky concoction that tastes surprisingly good.

Tonight, we have Fruit Salsa! A fresh variety of fruits, from the ordinary to the exotic, is selected and cut up into an hour's worth of delectable desert. Somewhere in there, The Soft Boys give us a live version of a Tin Pan Alley classic.

If you got The Nude Party to perform at your next get-together, it would be the kind of shindig that produces two marriages, three break-ups, and gossip for years to come.

That loose groove on the drums, the casually menacing bass, and Mike Doughty’s stream-and-consciousness narration… there’s also no shortage of political commentary on these three songs, putting a bold face on topics most others approach obliquely.

The Just Joans keep it in the family, and they keep it fairly civil, covering their lethally caustic Scottish wit in a layer of pleasant pop.

The screen door banged against the frame of the small building that was once Cisco, Utah’s non-bustling post office. It’s like a ghost town abandoned by the ghosts, mused the cinematographer. Whatever once haunted this place left out of boredom. Meanwhile, the blacksmith methodically tapped the foundation along the perimeter of the building. They had brought the infractometer over from the side-by-side they had arrived in, but sometimes the old ways worked best. The rhythm etched out a Namibian bossanova that had been popular in the ‘70s. The entrance to the silo complex had to be near.

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.