It is difficult to make lush pastoral pop like this without going completely overboard into schmalz territory, but this band manages quite well, carefully draping their orchestral tendencies over a solid base of interesting songs.
If you got The Nude Party to perform at your next get-together, it would be the kind of shindig that produces two marriages, three break-ups, and gossip for years to come.
The Gaslamp Killer earned his nickname by ruining the vibe of clubs in San Diego’s Gaslamp district with his incongruous DJ sets, so we must conclude those clubs were lame.
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.
Hissing steam and spitting fire, the Old 97s chew up the rails and cross-ties by playing country music with a punk attitude.
The haberdasher heard a light thump and roll, then felt something tap against a shoe. It was a peach pit. Looking up from the stack of brochures, they saw the orthodontist grinning and wiping their mouth with a sleeve, glancing at the gap on the blanket where the fruit was drying in the sun, clearly suggesting that perhaps another one was in order. The tandem moped leaned against the back of the Gate of Hercules, shielded by its bulk from the bright Croatian summer sun. The peaches had hours to go, and they had forgotten to bring a game., having only whatever reading material they had managed to scrape up in the Hotel Pula lobby.
The Just Joans keep it in the family, and they keep it fairly civil, covering their lethally caustic Scottish wit in a layer of pleasant pop.
The paper bag sounded unusually loud as the pair passed it back and forth, sharing the dried apricots as they waited in line for the exhibit to open. Once again, their contact was to be intercepted in the gift shop, according to the dossier that they had found taped under the back seat of the Combi. The ornithologist scanned the sky for any migratory species, though they really should have known better. The magistrate felt at ease with the assignment; this was their first visit to Ankara, but the premise behind the Ulucanlar Prison Museum was quite familiar.
The first wave of UK punk crested and shrank back, but the Mekons are still thrashing and foaming.
The Just Joans are the sonic equivalent of tartan… between the girl group influences, the pitch-perfect pastoral pop, and a sense of humor as black and bitter as truck stop coffee, they could not be more Scottish.
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