Tag: Sir Millard Mulch

Pack a light lunch and bring your paper money, because Station Model Violence is taking us back in time.

It’s the first night of the year where I arrive at the station in daylight. Also, it’s been unseasonably cool. But neither of those things is as notable as a new album from Toadies which brings up more of that brutal precision fuzz pop that made my ears perk up the first time I heard them over 30 years ago. Elsewhere tonight: a phone call from PJ, on the road, and middle-cased keyboards.

They said it was difficult terrain to traverse, but that never stopped Forth Wanderers from blazing a path.

Peach season is hot and heavy here in the Grand Valley, but I have yet to reach peach oversaturation. Give them to me in anything and everything, sure, I’ll try it. A special selection tonight in the form of The Beat, a one-hour set of music self-referentially dedicated to its own rhythmic components, after which things took their usual turn for the weird.

They appear to be American, not so much Trappists, but they sound like a clattering of drums and hooks.

If you want suave, it’s hard to get more suave than “Blue Velvet,” and horror-surf combo Messer Chups delivers a version that’s not only suave but also quite kinetic. From the accelerated temp to the lyrical guitar line to the luscious spring reverb, it’s a welcome spin on the old croony standard. Tonight’s show was accompanied by tremedous wind and lightning, with occasional rain.

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.

Raw, stinging, and pungent like a freshly-cut onion, The Bobby Lees quickly peel away their layers to share their tender, pearl-white hearts.

A soft Texas breeze ruffled the grass along the banks of Belton Lake. Why not Lake Belton? wondered the hydrologist. Behind the trees, the aviator finished securing the paragliders. They had arrived with two, but would be leaving with three, which added a true twist to the logistics. Across the water, the sounds of Jamaican country music could clearly be heard coming from a raucous campsite. They were about 300 feet away, and had not been part of the plan. But if there were to be witnesses, then let them be the inebriated type.

I have never been so uncomfortable, thought the hacker as they strained to match the wires in the fusebox, their head inches from one of the combine’s many potentially lethal harvesting blades. The lookout’s shadow was barely visible against the hangar door. Straining to clip the blue wire into the scanner, they heard a soft call and nearly lost an ear before remembering their uncomfortable position.