Tag: Tony Allen

A collection of songs referencing their own internal rhythmic structure, or perhaps providing commentary about tempo and meter in general.

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.

The three-hour live shows have settled into their own rhythm, with the stranger and more electronic offerings drifting into the territory of The Final Hour, between 11pm and midnight. This show is for the early risers who might be familiar with the upbeat indie pop that gets played at the top of the show but are missing out on the darker moods that are featured near the end.

The Fogerty Brothers are putting their upbringing to good use in the genuinely psychedelic outfit Hearty Har, parsing the electric sitars and paisleys of long ago into a legitimate translation.

As individuals, Jay Som and Palehound each have their musical quirks and unique style. Together as Bachelor they plot a strange new course through the realm of dream pop.

If you are of a certain age and exposure to the MTV, you would think that people in Tijuana eat barbecued iguana, but that was just Stan Ridgway and Wall of Voodoo reaching for a cheap rhyme. Polvo takes the song's nervous energy and turns it up a few notches.

This is an ominous title for a posthumous release, but Allen’s stuttering drum work will no doubt stand the test of time, and this melding of his work with more modern non-Afrobeat collaborators is a glimpse of a fascinating future.

There’s no detail too small or scar too deep for Eels to pick up and examine in a wry musical light.

It’s hard to to live up to a name like Young Fresh Fellows when you’ve been at it for almost 40 years, but good time rock and roll never goes out of style.

“Did you say you wanted FIVE?” asked the turkey-leg vendor, his incredulity betraying the slightest bit of Norwegian accent. The crowds at the Trondenes Middle Ages Visitor Park thronged past as the young man counted the hands available to the pair before him, performed a simple matching algorithm to the five turkey-legs being requested, and came up with a non-computing value. “We’re hungry,” offered the machinist helpfully. The gymnast kept an eye out for Sverre the allodialist. They needed to have a few words with him about the land titles, preferably in the privacy of the sleek three-man catamaran that had discretely brought them here. The half-darkening of the sky that passed for night at these latitudes meant the usual tactics were out and they would have to convince him to come willingly.