SomaCow

No More Kings sound like a modern version of Paul Simon. They weave more eighth note than Bare Naked Ladies could ever hope for. In today’s music scene, No More Kings pulls off a rarity. They make music that just makes you feel happy.

When you put in the cd and Zombie Me begins, you are overtaken with a primal urge to tap your foot and bop your head. When the music rolls into Sweep The Leg, a bright smile rolls over yourself with an internal laugh.

Nostalgia is dealt out in heavy doses with Michael (Jump In), and About Schroeder, and it works well. Even the band’s name is a tip of the hat to a pop cultural reference that any child of the Reagan Era remembers with fondness calling up memories of School House Rock.

Buy the CD here:

Check out the video for “Sweep The Leg”

SweepTheLeg.com

 

 43: I Want To Bereave [57:43m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

In this unfortunate hour of SomaCow, we delve deep into the nerd sandwich, discussing facets of both Star Trek and Star Wars in an effort to beat off the advances of our female listeners.

I still am amazed that neither Mickey nor J have seen this movie:

It shocks me. I remember seeing EGA no less than 14 times, and it REALLY was NOT that bad. A damn sight better than The Phantom Menace. You wanna talk about Utopia? Being surrounding by furry stinking weasel men hybrids… Now THAT is hot.

So, we compose ourselves from this chicanery by delving into the topic of Aliens in general. Have you ever had a close encounter? WELL THEN WHY THE SPUTNIK DIDN’T YOU CALL IN!!?!?!

Mickey gives us a rundown of the Richard Cheese show (it was flawless, from the sound of things, apart from the douche in the crowd.) And he got a nifty poster signed and framed by the boys themselves! Thanks to Richard Cheese, Bobby Ricotta, Gordon Brie, and Frank Feta… Your music is excellence, in every way.

Don’t forget to check out The Dark Romantics, in Orlando and Tampa Sun and Mon this week (well, too late now, but we’ll keep you posted!)

Also featured in this hour of SomaCow we had:

MC Chris
Gogol Bordello
Straight Outta Junior High

I am not much of a gambler.

I was surprised then, recently, to find myself invited to a local dog track for the day. I had been once before, but had confined my attention to the dogs being served at the concession stand.

If you’ve never been to the greyhound races, here’s how a typical race goes down.

The pawiers (I just made that term up!) bring the eight dogs out in front of the patrons (also known as the “suckers”) and stand there while everyone tries to decide which dog will lose them the most money. A large tote board stands over the track, with the current odds of each dog winning clearly displayed in giant numbers. This is so the dogs know how to get their revenge on us humans by winning only when nobody has bet on them.

Then the dogs are loaded up into the starting gates, and the track announcer comes over the PA to start the race with a very enthusiastic “Heeeeer commmmmmes Fluffy!!!”.

“Fluffy” is a mechanical rabbit which the dogs have been trained to chase. It flies around the track at the end of a long pole on its own little metal track, and the dogs obviously hate it with the heat of a thousand suns. I can easily picture the dogs getting together after the race and plotting Fluffy’s bloody and slobbery demise. Fluffy looked to my untrained, non-canine eye much more like a dirty tube-sock stuffed with old newspapers than a rabbit, but I of course am a mere human.

So the dogs chase Fluffy around the track, cursing him bitterly, to the finish line. I think I even overheard one of the dogs refer to Fluffy as a “flea-bitten varmint”, but I might have just been having a Yosemite Sam flashback from the warm beer.

I got a race program, sat down, and pretended to understand all the gobbledy-gook in the program about each dog. As far as I can tell, they mostly describe how many times the dog has won when he has peed immediately before a race. Dog-peeing apparently carries lots of weight with the track regulars.

Well, I had seen the number four dog pee for about nine minutes straight, right before the race, so I decided that he was sure to win. I marched up to the betting window, plunked down twently dollars and confidently announced the name of my dog: “I’d like twenty dollars on DontBetOnMeJ to win, please.”

He came in last.

Well, he came in dead, actually.

The other dogs stood around morosely, peeing solemnly in mourning.

All in all, it was a good way to pass a Saturday afternoon. Maybe next time I’ll pick a non-exploding dog and win a big chunk ‘o change.

OOh! Or maybe I’ll bet on Jai-Alai!