Tag: Westbound Train

I don’t care how many times I have to cut and paste Snõõper’s name to preserve those weird accents, they’re worth it.

Out of all the songs to receive Animal Collective’s swirling dayglo treatment, “Jimmy Mack” might be the most unexpected yet the most deserving. Elsewhere tonight, loyal listener Underdog, usually located in the wilds of Georgia, was able to tune in around lunchtime while traveling in Japan, making the second show in a row with a listener based in Asia. Get me marketing!

Following a proud tradition of weird Australian pop, The Stroppies give us the sort of incisive harmonic jangle the world needs right now.

They had been shot at. They had avoided countless booby traps. They had been served tiny delicate cups of the most aromatic and poisonous espresso. All of these events were framed as interrupted cribbage games. Maybe they played too much. The phlebotomist ruminated on this as they locked up their two-wheel drive all-terrain motorbikes across the street from Kirov Park. The Transnistrian passports had been excruciatingly expensive, but the ergonomist insisted it was justified, for complicated political reasons. The pieces rattled against the cribbage board and the very dangerous little notebook in the messenger bag as they strolled through the trail, looking for a man holding two empty water bottles.

The mechanical harvestman towered over the fig grove, its spindly arms tucked underneath as it towered over the fruit trees. The cryptobotanist aimed the infrared reader at the edge of the cultivated land, where the real Bhutan took over, hoping for even a quick glimpse. The landscape gave nothing in return. The operator’s headphones leaked the sound of some Turkish reggae, bounced from a satellite to overcome the foreboding mountains that ringed the valley. They both had patience to spare. The beast they were seeking had only one food source, located right here, and everyone’s gotta eat.

You can always tell a Kinks song.

It's a steamy Florida night, and it marks the debut of Julius C. Lacking on the airwaves of WFIT, a university radio station in Melbourne, Florida. The random nature of the playlist is born of a catastrophic home furnishing disaster that hopelessly jumbled the contents of the vaunted Lacking Selection, the music library which Julius has been aggregating for the last twenty years. The process of its re-cataloging and collation, which promises to last decades, will henceforth be known as The Lacking Organization. Let it begin.