Welcome to the Dog Days of summer. Thousands of years ago, the ancient Greeks and Romans believed that during these weeks “the Sea boiled, the Wine turned sour, Dogs grew mad, and all other creatures became languid; causing to man, among other diseases, burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies.” Mama said there’d be days like this. So stay cool, and keep the dogs at bay. These records need some serious SPF. Time to round ’em up.
If Vampire Weekend had grown up on the beaches of California they might have turned into Cayucas. Their album is a sunny drive up the Pacific Coast Highway with a salty sea breeze blowing through the open windows.
Summer singalongs kissed on the cheek by nostalgia.
I have no explanation for Gibson’s music. It’s almost unfair to show “Kissin’ On The Blacktop” because it’s by far the most straightforward song on the album.
Could you call it country-tinged electronica? Sure. Could you describe Gibson’s voice as a honky-tonkin’, half-drunk, slurring Scott Walker? Well, sometimes. Could you just get on with it and play something? Yup.
More pedal-steel madness to satiate the guitar freaks out there. Randolph has jammed with Eric Clapton, Derek Trucks, and Carlos Santana. He knows how to rip it up, and this is a rockin’ little record you want your jockey to play.
Caution: Will cause phrensies.
What if Grace Slick had left Jefferson Airplane after Woodstock, moved to the UK, and become the lead singer of Uriah Heep? Wonder no more.
We built this city on hard rock and Hammond organs. (And possibly the skulls of our vanquished enemies.)