DISCLAIMER: This is a shameless, self-promo post for the Dead Albatross music prize, an alternative to the UK’s Mercury prize judged not by industry insiders but people that listen to a lot of music. Like me. Click the words hyperlinked above for the full scoop and shortlist – meanwhile, here’s a review of sorts for […]
No more garage rock tapes, I said to myself. (I talk to myself a bunch. Don’t you?) Since I invented this feature, I’ve been picking through Wuxtry’s cassette cabinet, in hopes of finding something new and exciting to write about. I gambled on two tapes that lacked descriptions – only to find mostly non-descript, “authentic” […]
Desertshore is intricate and sonically interesting, yet it remains at times curiously passionless
The missing link between Robert Wyatt and Disco Inferno, A. R. Kane sounded equally at home in the club as in the bedroom, under the stars and in the studio.
By Princess Stomper It goes dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun. I am playing Bejeweled Blitz as I listen because I am a fidget, but I realise as the clock runs out that I have forgotten the game. I have forgotten how to play it. Match. Lines. Of. Three.
Keep your ears tuned to the small towns. The future of music is living in South Dakota.
If punk was a roar of rage, industrial music was a scream of terror.
The band’s name? Blowjob. My cool, cruel friends had told me it was because I blew down the recorder. Bastards.
One drunken female fan fell straight at my feet, and offered her hand to me to waltz while she was recovering. Wish I’d accepted.