Dare we say it—it just might be the most funnest thing you do all week.
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Dare we say it—it just might be the most funnest thing you do all week.
Continue reading
When it comes to some good, old-fashioned future-musics, it’s hard to beat West Coast motherboard motherfuckers Glitch Mob—not only do the they keep the computer-noises coming faster than a fifty-six, their live show is them just straight up jamming away on keyboards and controllers like you’re watching some grim and gritty re-boot of Nick Arcade. Continue reading
The hip and with-it Vacouverites of indie-twee five-piece Mother Mother boast twice as many matriarchs as Danzig does, and yet they still manage to find the time to give them a call every now and then just so they don’t have to worry so much. Continue reading
“It’ll be like a drive-in double feature in August of 2012. Things will be going on in the lobby, things will be going on in the hallway.” Continue reading
Gold lamé blindfolds, blue dream people, lots of fondling from phantom hands—it’s weird, it’s vibrant and it makes for a perfect visual component to the effortless and effervescent dance track that follows. Continue reading
Owing to the limitations of the print medium, band write-ups like these often rely upon quirky incidentals, like a notably zany name, some unorthodox instrumentation and when things get really desperate, foreign-ness. Seriously, in a pinch, you could float one of these things entirely on what your remember about Canada from sophomore-year social studies. Fortunately for Australian indie-glockenspiel-orchestra Architecture in Helsinki, Vegemite-ing the shit out of The Paradise tonight, their reputation (and polyphonic tunage) precedes ‘em, so we won’t be needing to resort to those cheap journalistic tricks … even though they really couldn’t have made it easier for us to go that route. Dicks. [MON.6.13.11. THE PARADISE. 969 Comm. Ave., Boston. 617.562.8800. 7pm/18+/$20. thedise.com]
Dublin’s James Vincent McMurrow, droppin’ aww-bombs at the Paradise tonight, is the writer of several damn good folk tunes and the singer of some even better ones. His beard is fiery crimson, his guitar the hollow-est of bodies, his voice softer than a newborn kitten made of several slightly smaller newborn kittens. He’s like Will Oldham with a full head of hair, a lilting accent, and all that creepy-awkward traded in for charming-awkward. Which can only mean one thing: someone has gained access to your sexual fantasies, and has weaponized them for maximum lady-boners. God help us all if he offers to make breakfast. [WED.6.8.11.THE PARADISE.969 Comm. Ave., Boston. 617.562.8800. 7pm/18+/$15. thedise.com]
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