Tag: The Limiñanas

Be ready to dust yourself off after traveling through The Limiñanas’ French Wild West.

Looks like July will be another three-show month, so I’m preparing lots of audio fireworks. We are delighted to discover Foxwarren and their sweetly trilling “Deadhead,” which features a most incongruous but enjoyable video. Also, Broncho was amazing, read my review on Ink 19.

Here comes Mhaol and you best behave, they have sharp elbows.

Another daylight arrival! I brought the wrong headphones! We started out with an AM anthem from Albert Hammond (Sr) in the quite capable hands of White Hassle. This song is also the reason Hammond gets a writer’s credit on Radiohead’s “Creep” which is a story for a separate time. Broncho in Salt Lake City tomorrow night!

Find a seat around the campfire, Sunny War is about to start.

Nothing like the feeling of having a new Broncho album to obsess over, I invite you to join me to, as they say in my native country, “sumérgete en cheddar.” Elsewhere tonight, panic at the discotheque — if you were listening, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Really, this review only needs five words: Francophone spaghetti western rock songs.

This collection of instrumentals is bewildering in its variety and intent, miniature symphonies with the tinkling plunk of a toy orchestra and a sharp whiff of sulfur from a struck match.

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 first mate adjusted the sails, letting out some wind to keep both skids on the sand. The sun shone down like a hole punched in a blast furnace someone painted blue, the radio broadcasting its gypsy salsa above the hiss of the sandmaran's travel. Leaning on the tiller, the captain let out a yell of warning as they crested a dune, gaining air for a brief moment. They still didn’t have a plan for replacing the statue, but they had a thousand miles of desert to work something out.