I always thought Kurt Vile was a play on the name of the German composer that gave us “Mack The Knife,” but that seems to be his given name (bonus: middle name is Samuel). Sonically, he’s more in line with Lou Reed than Weill, topping his awkward nouveau folk with a voice that may not be the most musical but is actually the perfect medium to express this particular malarkey.
The parade stretched through the downtown area, its colorful participants a completely normal distribution of small-town denizens. The statistician knew otherwise. They stood waving from the platform of the float, their flysuits carefully integrated with the diorama to give the appearance of animated mechanical humans. All they needed to do was get within twenty feet of The Mayor, and the technology built into the platform would do the rest. The imagineer adjusted the EQ on the float’s sound system, giving the Estonian techno which poured from the speakers more high-end sparkle. The crowd reacted favorably, some of them breaking out into dance.
The chauffeur peered at the rear-view mirror. The scattered reflection from the rain-slicked A7 revealed only headlights, no politely alarming Luxembourg police flashers. The Corniche bulleted down the roadway, the flutter of its diplomatic flags the only sign that it wasn’t standing dead still. Some miles away, in Ettelbruck, the authorities were coming to the conclusion that the altercation at Chez Fred had been a distraction. In the back seat, the jeweler closed the briefcase, satisfied with its contents.
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