Tag: Frankie + the Witch Fingers

They said it was difficult terrain to traverse, but that never stopped Forth Wanderers from blazing a path.

The aleatory nature of playlist selection for The Lacking Organization means all-instrumental sets are rare, so having two in one show definitely merits a mention in the show notes. Tonight’s highlight is Mac DeMarco, whose new album provides the perfect soundtrack for this particularly floaty stage of summer.

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.

Omni unites their sound with the thinnest of guitar strings and rhythms of utmost precision.

Khruangbin promises exotic destinations and luxurious accommodations in the distant hum of a prop engine.

It was a globe-spanning show, with listeners checking in from the Grand Valley, the Florida swamps, and as far as Japan, where it was already Wednesday lunchtime. Meanwhile, The Libertines are up to their old antics again, at least the ones where they sound like a recently unfrozen cadre of British Invasion troglodytes. Also fun: playing a track called “We Will Not Apologize” and following that up with “Stop Apologizing”. Sounds about right.

When you set out to record a song that’s been famous, or popular, or claimed in some other way by some other artist, you are taking a shortcut with great risks and great rewards. Rarely can you pull it off the way Chicks On Speed do with their rendition of Cracker’s “Euro Trash Girl,” with a radical approach to deconstructing and reassembling the indie country hit. You’ll just have to hear for yourself.

The Ghoulies from Perth, Australia look like regular blokes caught out grocery shopping, but the sound they make is an urgent, insistent punk rock howl with a frenetic keyboard bubbling through.

Straight outta Staten Island, the Budos Band has enough energy to power a nuclear submarine for seven months, allowing it to circumnavigate the globe three and a half times.

There wasn’t enough room on the narrow boat for the botanist to take out a handkerchief and wipe their brow. The square head vessel, slicing through the water on its way to the Phong Dien Floating Market, looked to be laden with mangos, but that was a ruse. The pyramids that piled the boat only a had a skin a single mango deep. Underneath were piles of something with about the same density as mangos, but much much more valuable. The captain twisted the knob on the cabin radio on hearing some narcopolka, the device’s limited capacity making the sound increase not in volume, only in distortion. The sun sparkled off the water, a thousand heat lasers evading the shade thrown by the wide straw hats they wore.