Tag: Mother Mother

Call it what you will, Matt Pond PA makes music outside the natural lines.

For whatever reason, listening to The Go! Team makes me think of the kindergarten rave scene, something which doesn’t actually exist but that would heavily feature this music if it did. Elsewhere tonight, we trial a new more organized format for conveying the Lacking Information, such as this website and the Mixtapes produced by the org, into the radio play-by-play.

Only a few bands sound large enough to warrant their use of all-caps, and BIG SPECIAL is one of them.

We’re starting out with new music from Beatsteaks, who are taking on the Fun Boy Three’s “The Lunatics (Have Taken Over The Asylum)” for our opener. Tonight’s show featured both Molecular Steve and Delicate Steve, both of whom have new albums out, so I expect another couple of Steve-heavy shows in the future.

Packs’ uniquely unbalanced delivery gives me the woozies.

It’s the evening before Valentine’s Day, which means absolutely nothing here at lacking org. Instead, we’re opening up with the Sex Clark Five taking on the Byrds, and something from Norwegian up-and-comers Mall Girl, who manage to hold up a broken mirror to American indie rock without cutting themselves to shreds. Also, their bassist name-checks Laddio Bollocko. Also tonight, more splendiferous instrumental musings from the incomparable Matt Berry to kick off the Final Hour.

Some bands are obscure, others are sporadic, but The Mabuses are downright enigmatic. Their music is hard to describe, and while the word "psychedelic" has become a commonplace and devalued label to put on something these days, in this case it would apply as a feeling of existing in a disjointed but entirely fascinating musical reality rather than a genre.

When your arrangements are razor-sharp, your moods mercurial and psychedelic, and your melodies constantly off-kilter, you’re probably a Dutch band like Certain Animals.

Hissing steam and spitting fire, the Old 97s chew up the rails and cross-ties by playing country music with a punk attitude.

The engineer looked through the diminishing dawn murk and spotted the specialist’s orange scarf. The sound of the balloon-tired swamp bikes spread through the Estonian bog like hot molasses, obscuring their location but not their presence. Unnoticed in the bike’s twin V mud-wakes, a nearly-vertical black snorkel tube trailed the pair.