They are committed to every minute of the production. The songs are thick and powerful, the melodies tasteful and attributable to an Elvis Costello influence.
The Wrens packed the upstairs stage at midnight on a Sunday and the crowd was still there when I left. The live show had an edge like a broken knife blade.
Monk ran home with his new punk rock CD. He ripped the cellophane off with his teeth. He threw it in and immediately began jumping around the room like a fool.
She pulled at his ears. He pulled at her ass. She stepped back, staggering and gasping, not like one would expect from a Queen. She grabbed at the jug blissfully.
The chosen sounds transposed from washy, pretty feel to a more unnerving discordant sensation, and served to keep the appreciative audience transfixed.
Sporting an industrial edge with homemade instruments of garbage, bicycle wheels, and saw blades, combined with their traditional stringed counterparts.
Low-key slacker wrappe (that’s French) style that employs wavering and dreamy tones underlain with deliciously applied analog keyboard and guitar sound.