If Cormic McCarthy’s end-of-the-world novel The Road is made into a film before the world actually does end, this album by The Thermals should constitute the soundtrack.
Eleven tracks, each one a number (“Nine,” “Sixteen,” “Fifteen Parts 1 & 2”), none of it sequential, none of it essential.
Gnarls Barkley may have owned the summer, but Indian Summer belongs to The Tyde.
Feedback and distortion fans,
Penetrating detail, story arcs
Your little brother knows him only as Whistler, the old fart who supplies Wesley Snipes with anti-vampire weaponry in the Blade movies. The rest of us know him for who he is, Kris Kristofferson, the esteemed singer-songwriter whose inebriated ramblings at the podium make for the only worthwhile viewing at any given country music awards telecast.
Literate punk rock masterpiece.
Take a good listen, Secret Machines. This is the way to make the stoners smile.
Over the years, my ex-bandmate always tried to push Quasi on me like
he was Natalie Portman genuflecting before the altar of The Shins in
Garden State (This band will change your life!).
Forty minutes of mostly forgettable, meandering soundscapes.
