Short draughts—long swallows, men; 'tis hot as Satan's hoof

I'd advise all casual perusers of blogs who might have happened upon this page to click over to Karl before sinisterly melting back into the pervy Internet fug you may have appeared from. 2009, like 2008, sees Karl bravely struggle with the Herculean task of reviewing his top albums of the previous year without falling prey to a fickle electronic calendar which, as we all know, gives more of a shite about fads than genuine criticism. One of my favourite Internet pastimes is to keep abreast of Karl as he staunchly types page after carefully considered page of well-thought criticism. And who gives a shit if it comes a month or two after the herd? It's brilliant you see. I also have reason to believe that he is fuelled by a diet of horrendously sugary drinks, so read him while he actually has teeth to sink into the albums he reviews.

Of Montreal played the Button factory tonight. I'll wager that I, and others, will get at least two phone calls or texts later. One might read "That was the greatest heap of self-indulgent bum-juice to which I ever bore witness". The other might state something along the lines of...
"Ohmyfuckinggodofmontrealhowcomeineversawthemlivebefore
...howcometheyarenotthebiggestbandintheworld?"


I look at Kevin Barnes and I really do not know him. I can't establish if I even understand the cut of his jib, never mind if I like it. Like, what makes him tick, and should we really care for a man of his age acting so wilfully, indulgently, odd? Yet, from time to time an odd lyric and melody of his combine and manage a successful sideways stab at a sublime, slippery thought or feeling I've harboured. Sometimes, Of Montreal knock the wind out of me. I'm sure that if I get married, divorced and subsequently become bisexual I'll probably start to understand the rest of their canon.

If you were at this gig, please report below.

MP3: Of Montreal-A sentence of sorts in Kongsvinger
MP3: Of Montreal-Wraith pinned to the mast and other games