It's End Of The Road Festival this weekend. The nicest UK festival, in the nicest location. Other commitments keep me from going but this song will fit nicely for the voracious spirit. Not that Night Moves are playing, but just saying, they sound like they could easily fit in. If you are driving there, play this on your journey and watch your world turn a little more courdroy
The film opens with a gang walking into a dive bar. Among the gang is Matt Dillon, Nicholas Cage and Lawrence Fishburn. If this was now so what, but this is 1983. Dillon, contemporary of Cruise, was viewed as a potential icon. Cage is yet to start turning up in hammy action films, his real surname Coppola, after all he is the nephew of the director Francis, still fresh off Apocalypse Now. They're talking pulpy jivey language and everything is filmed in monochrome. Things look kind of fifties at this point. Seconds later, or rather seconds in, we realize that the barman is Tom Waits. Young, wiping glasses yet still worn-in. Later on Waits will deliver one of his riffy, jazzy deadpan jives like he does on his records. The camera pans and glides. Reflections of clouds in windows are sped up. Dillon goes to meet his girl. She is Diane Lane. A young Diane Lane hanging in her underwear on top of a cupboard. There is a gang fight, the fight gets broken up by a cool dude on a motorbike. The cool dude, spouting zen, is Mickey Rourke. A young Mickey Rourke, pre-problems. Nothing seems particularly real, it is like Coppola is taking elements of reality and recasting them in a form of poeticism that cinema these days feels a little too self conscious to embrace. Dillon's acting, at first seems jarring, like he is playing a bad ass in a much cheaper film, but it takes it's time to soak in, before you realize what Dillon is doing, before you realize the real nature of the film you are watching. Rourke and Dillon play brothers. And they have a boozy father. He arrives. It is Dennis Hopper. The film is Rumblefish.
Long after it was something made by acid drinking high school kids in New Mexico with cheap guitars but a while before it came to mean British kids saying "one one two" over Casualty samples, Garage was all New York loft vibes, soul divas and amyl. If you thought Toro Y Moi spent all of his time chilling out take a listen to this little garagey concoction recorded for Caribou man Dan Snaith's Jialong Records under the pseudonym Les Sins.
Riding in on the emerging spread of trap music, MiMosa's remix here mutates the crunky hiphop, 90s smooth R&B vocals and stadium size electronics into a hydraulically enhanced car ride with a boot full of guns and a crocadil influenced driver
Enya-esque. she'll never be an Ian although Enyian does have a ring to it. Like Clams Casino, The Dean's List, operating under the Kings Dead monica utilize an Enyaesque chorus layered into a party banger that I'm sure at one point name checks Frodo
How come nobody has come up with the bandname Ghosts before? Seriously, I'm asking you. Why? It's like nobody's claimed the best seat in a busy restaurant or discovering that the really hot American Apparel model in the cafe goes home alone and lonely every night to a phonecall with her Mum . Fools. Not the band but you. You people in bands with shit names like D/R/U/G/S, I hope you feel foolish now. Fools.