Meet the Turboniques drag axle. The concept is simple--hook a jet engine straight up to your car's rear diff, fire 'er up and hold on. They claim the slowest conversion they've got runs 8 second quarter-miles on turbine power alone. Wonder whatever happened to 'em?
Okay, Google, I understand the whole automated ad serving thing. And that keyword-to-webpage matches for Google AdWords can sometimes generate unintentional irony. But are you seriously trying to tell me nobody though this was in the slightest bad taste?
I mean, dude, I've seen footage of concentration camp rescuees, and "Sexy Jewish singles" ain't exactly the phrase that springs to mind.
(Actual Google ad from The Unofficial Borat Homepage. For those of you who don't know, Borat is a controversial fake Kazakhstani journalist character created by
British comic Sascha Baron Cohen to, among other things, bring out the hidden anti-Semite in his interview victims--in one memorable sketch, getting a bar full of Alabamans to sing the "traditional" folk song, "Throw The Jew Down The Well"--so the irony here's got more layers than a Dagwood sandwich.)
This, dear friends, is what the Internets are there for:
A gallery of monkeys riding things which are not monkeys. [via metafilter]
I dunno what it was about Italy in the '50s and '60s--something in the water? Some sorta lysergic Dali-worship thingy? Some subliminal vein of national design wierdness that couldn't find its expression in Pininfarina's car designs or Armani's suits? Whatever it was, they had some seriously trippy shiznit going on with guitar design back then. Fetish Guitars has the skinny. Hope ya read Italian, 'cause I'm pretty sure they ain't revealing nothin' to us Anglos. (Pictured: Roots rock genius and Emmylou Harris sideman Buddy Miller with his prize Wandre axe.) [via musicthing]
If there's one thing that's been a constant during the past hundred years of recorded music, it's the one-hit wonder. Fads come and go, and bands and singers fit in with the fickle public taste for one glorious summer, or more memorably, create that one novelty hit that crosses the line from ubiquitous to annoying. And usually, other than getting the odd karaoke patron to stumble their way through "99 Luftballons", or having a wedding DJ drop the "Macarena" or "Bird Dance" so the five- and eighty-five year olds can get their groove on, that's all there is to it.
Sometimes, though, a song comes along that, even though the artist responsible doesn't get to enjoy any measure of lasting success, the song itself is enough to resonate through rock and roll culture as something greater than itself. Think "Louie Louie"--Richard Berry had a minor R&B hit with it, but when it mutated into a garage rock standard in Seattle, and eventually the Kingsmen recorded it as a wild three-chord stompin' ball of energy that spoke not of the lonely sailor's lament that the lyrics portray, but a molten stream of teenage lust and aggression, it became the father of everything from "Wild Thing" to "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
Where'd they get that guitar sound, though? The guitar was once the gently strummed instrument of the troubadour, after all. Fingering a chord that's nothing more than root, fifth and octave, and punching it out in measured, percussive fury--a man named Link Wray invented that shit. Back in '58, he came out with a jam called "Rumble", based around nothing more than a two-chord riff moved around the blues progression, a spare, stomping drumbeat and the odd switchblade flick of pentatonic riffage for a turnaround. It hit Top 20 in the US even though it was widely banned, its gang-inspired title and air of slow, rumbling menace enough to frighten the powers that be in the Ike era.
For that, his style will be immortal. Sadly, the man himself ain't.
Link Wray, 1929-2005. Rest in Peace.
It's the classic "Behind the Music". One minute you're young, famous, and beautiful, winning popularity contests and starring in reality TV. The next minute, you're being flogged on eBay for less than you ought to be worth, and what's worse, nobody's even bidding.
Seriously, wealthy bike nuts of America, whiskey tango foxtrot? Sure, I ain't got that kinda dough-re-mi, but for a bike as sweet-looking and well-crafted as anything by Hank Young, let alone a Biker Buildoff winner like the Lakewood Special, forty large ain't unreasonable, is it? Where's Jay Leno when you need 'im?
Following up on yesterday's eco-hotrod post, here's a few more rides for those who rock down to Electric Avenue and then take it higher:
