Tag: Robyn Hitchcock

Viagra Boys don’t care what you think… there’s plenty of room for a saxophone and John Prine covers in the backseat of a 21st century punk band.

The journey to the island had been placid, cutting through the postcard-blue waters on the kite hydrofoil like an experienced tailor shearing fine cloth for a new suit. Things were a bit more complicated now that they were at the Heraklion Archaeological Museum. The horologist consulted the mission notes, which simply stated “remove all anachronistic displays.” The historian, fearing seasickness, had taken a pill and was now having a comically adverse reaction that rendered them useless for these judgements. A security guard eyed them warily, but perhaps they could turn the situation to their advantage by playing up the effects as excessive inebriation.

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

Sneaks uses electronic layers and a disaffected delivery to create something that lives in the past and in the future and only circumstantially in the present.

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.

A variety of acoustic guitar performances from Hitchcock, of songs both original and by others, which results in a very contemplative sort of musical journey.

The Woolly Bushmen may look young, but they sound like a rusted IROC Camaro with a busted manifold roaring out of the 7-11 parking lot.

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.

A listener suggested I slip in Wham!’s “Last Christmas” but as someone filled with old-fashioned Lacking Integrity, I politely declined. That said, your host survived the season unscathed. In this episode, we dedicate the Middle Hour to some fine covers. Shout out to Robin in Atlanta for hanging out in the late-night post-holiday gulch.

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.