Tag: Flat Duo Jets

As you may suspect, Peter Bjorn and John hail from Sweden, and as you may expect, they do Anglophonic indie pop better than the Anglophones.

Out of all the ways there were to get into Zugdidi — they could have taken the ekranoplan, for example — the agency had chosen the bus. This exasperated the developer to no end. Their gear sat somewhere in the guts of the green behemoth, guarded by six different hardware and software protocols, but it still felt queasy to be so far removed from it. The meteorologist peered across the botanical garden to the Dadiani palaces. Somewhere in there, a nondescript yogurt stand would have a small radio playing Konnakkol techno. They were to purchase two cones and overpay. Instructions would follow.

A rowdy, loving tribute to The Cramps, even rawer and more intransigent than the original, from two women furiously channeling Lux Interior and Poison Ivy.

This is kept stripped-down and acerbic, completely aligned with the band’s original punk-folk ethic.

The baker took one last look at the cake, sitting on its gold-rimmed stand on the veranda, the carefully cultivated gardens surrounding the Palacio Rioja visible in the background. If it weren’t for the two backpack stealthcopters leaning against the railing, it would be Instagrammable, hashtag noneofyourbusiness. The architect finished the final touches, and gave a silent nod. In a smooth motion, the two of them had their packs on and had plummeted over the edge, carefully angling away to not disturb the icing.

The archivist’s breath misted in the freezing vault as gloved hands lifted the metal canister off the shelf. Getting to Greenland had not been trivial, driving the snowcats to Nuuk undetected had been a challenge, and breaking into the Katuaq Cultural Centre’s secret collection room, dug out of the permafrost, could be described as difficult. Now, locating the footage was close to impossible, given the hundreds of linear meters of shelving that were visible. The producer unspooled the first few feet off the reel, peering up through the film to the overhead light. The muffled sound of Persian hip-hop could be heard from the theater above. Maybe it was not so impossible.

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.

Snow was expected, but never showed up. Suits me fine. Surprisingly, this is the third episode of 2019, and I’m warming up to the hectic weekly pace. Thanks to Mark, Generoso, Lily, and Robin for tuning in and triumphing over the depths of midwinter midnight.

I really love Khruangbin, despite the pronounciation quandary they plunge me into whenever I play one of their songs.

Beach House's music always rings as the soundtrack to some brain-warped too-much-party film montage. WIth "Drunk In LA", their song titles are catching up with the vibe.