Tag: My Morning Jacket

With a name that’s quite topical, Ilegales are here to make fresh trouble.

Enjoy a small slice of tragic beauty in the form of Nell Smith, whose musical instincts reach well beyond her perpetually young voice. Tonight I had to park down the block, as The Sauce Boss was visiting the Radio Room all the way from my old Florida stomping grounds.

Every ten years or so, this late-Tuesday gig lands on Christmas Eve, and it’s about the right frequency to dust off and update the Organization’s Twisted Xmas playlist, two hours of familiar yet unexpected holiday-season music. The Final Hour, for all intents and purposes, remained its usual cheer-free self, you’ll be glad to hear.

Sure, they claim to be joking, but the chops you hear from Lizard Music are as serious as a car accident, their indie guitar pop leaving no hook unsharpened or ear unwormed.

When you are bored with every sound you hear, the Universe will send you an entire collection of songs to make you break out in an involuntary smile, like Goodbye Honolulu's latest.

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”.

If The Wedding Present were the traditional sort, they would be bringing coral to the festivities. This one is from earlier in their career, closer to the wood years, but the Velvet Underground never goes out of style. This is from another good VU tribute album, Heaven and Hell from 1991 or so.

The rich wood floorboards were squeaking under the strain of the game. They had removed their shoes, sketched out the board using a special beeswax that would not damage the finish, and were hopping as lightly as they could, for they respected the solemnity of their location. Nonetheless, the portraits lining the Hall of Admirals in the Museo Maritimo Nacional felt they finally had something to frown about, their serious Chilean brows furrowed in naval concern as they observed the farrier and the anthropologist enjoying their tournament.

The mysterious Orville Peck is a modern cowboy marvel, a rare and legendary masked man with a dusty guitar and a lonesome coyote howl.

The specialist carefully manipulated the waldoes linked to the robotic arms in the front of the submersible. The pilot peered out of the top dome, the glare of the spotlights illuminating the complex structure of the oil rig but the visibility of this part of the Gulf of Mexico not allowing much to be seen past the first couple tangles of girders. A single wire tethered the craft to the surface, its sole purpose safely delivering the radio signal carrying its obscure music and coded instructions past fathoms of seawater. The robot arms clasped the watertight bale of Oaxacan tamales tightly. The mission was only half over.