Tag: Oranger

I am generally skeptical and disrespectful of band names with special capitalization, but IDLES look and sound like they mean business.

The best place to hide seemed to be, ironically, right behind the ballot box. The numerologist and the baker had been underway on a wholly distinct mission, having already secured the deflated knifeboats inside a conveniently placed culvert. They now seemed to be caught in the crossfire of two opposing factions, each intent on some inscrutable and erratically violent purpose that seemed to be nothing but foiling the other side’s efforts. The roving skirmishes had drawn away participants and created a fairly event-free circle of balance where the pair could hunker down and plan their next move. It was going to be a long night.

Well into their third decade, G. Love and Special Sauce still sound like they are in no particular hurry to get there.

The Sasha river was running dry, and the aerialist maneuvered his craft to take advantage of the fact. As they moved swiftly along the crumbling banks, exoskeletal legs easily scrabbling over the terrain in an unearthly three-limbed gait, they encountered sun-baked sections where a trickle fed a series of pools on the cracking river bottom, animals congregated around them in a temporary truce. They hadn’t seen a human since Saturday, a fact that concerned the actuary more than the dry river, and the attempted distraction of some Guatemalan gamelan techno was not working. In its steel box, the package of Peanut Butter Crunch patiently rustled and awaited its delivery.

The economist wondered where they’d be if the herpetologist had been available. Probably not prone under a cover of leaves, covered in protective armor, tapping two small bamboo sticks as a ruse to attract a golden lancehead. The rhythm was from the single Nordic folk d’n’b that had played on repeat 142 times on their trip out of the Port of Santos. It had been difficult to find a captain willing to land them on Ilha de Quemaida, so it was not wise to criticize their choice of music for the journey. The epidemiologist was nearby, peering into the carefully held vial and running the numbers on when it would be filled at the current rate of collection, and how quickly they could get off the island once that moment arrived.

There wasn’t enough room on the narrow boat for the botanist to take out a handkerchief and wipe their brow. The square head vessel, slicing through the water on its way to the Phong Dien Floating Market, looked to be laden with mangos, but that was a ruse. The pyramids that piled the boat only a had a skin a single mango deep. Underneath were piles of something with about the same density as mangos, but much much more valuable. The captain twisted the knob on the cabin radio on hearing some narcopolka, the device’s limited capacity making the sound increase not in volume, only in distortion. The sun sparkled off the water, a thousand heat lasers evading the shade thrown by the wide straw hats they wore.

The pilot felt the glider’s control surfaces bite into the updraft. The craft smoothly pitched up and right as the surreal Eastern Washington terrain unfolded beneath them. The plucky strains of a Bolivian polka filled the small cockpit, the whistling of the wind no true competition. Facing backward, the specialist peered at the techmapper. Somewhere below, there was something messing with the surveillance satellite and downing any powered aircraft that dared approach. Up ahead, the clouds were bunched up in a way any seasoned traveler of the skies could tell was just. not. right.

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.

It's a slack time for new releases, but The Lacking Organization still has a tremendous backlog of excellent music from 2018 to work through. Gratitude to tonight's participants, ranging from Charley attending CES in Las Vegas to Sean fiddling with the dial and wondering if he got the right station.

This is MACHINE SHOP, a special one-hour mixtape from yours truly featuring songs about all the weird devices we humans have imagined and constructed out of musical parts. I’m closing it out with the Smugglers’ “She’s A Machine,” which inspired me to put this together when a search for it revealed all sorts of inexplicable gadgetry lurking in my library.