News & Developments


Prada presents "The Postman Dreams" by Autumn De Wilde.


A selection of songs from Over the Garden Wall.
Catch the series on iTunes or on Cartoon Network.


After nearly a year of delightful toil, we are proud and relieved to say,
It's happening November 3rd.


Meet Me In Montenegro (dir. Alex Holdridge & Linnea Saasen) premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival.

It features original music by the Blasting Company, plus nostalgia and wonder-inducing images of life and love in Berlin and Montenegro. Wishing Alex, Linnea and company best of luck with the film. It plays at the festival through the 13th and will hopefully reach far and wide in the near future.


Melodie de Ascultare by Emil Croitoru. Filmed by Nicholas Weidner at the Museum of Jurassic Technology.


A selection from the Museum of Jurassic Technology series.
One week until the return of Cory Beers (on drums)!


After a devastating fire last year, the Warsaw club that hosted us in 2012, Sen Pszczoły, is back from the ashes!
We recently heard the bad news and good news back to back.
Glad they're still around.


International Accordion Festival
The things a little kolo workshop can do.

~ Excerpts from M. Benkelman's Suspended Bridges: The Engineering of a Fantasy ~

Some time ago, in the encroaching mountains of Serbia or Tennessee, two brothers shared a quixotic dream: to build a new bridge from Turkey to Europe. The bridge, lined with tapestries and populated by a thousand great white birds, would soar over the Mediterranean sea. During their traverse, commuters would be flanked by low-growing patches of colorful flora. The bridge would be a swath of color and light, a paintbrush stroke between continents, between cultures, between civilizations. On each independence day of every independent polity (because in our unity as people, such celebrations are universal) grandiose displays of fireworks would erupt from the bridge and the Christmas (yes Christmas, for the brothers grew up too long without one) lights would crawl across the bridge like festive veins of ivy on the eves of all the world's favorite holidays on or around December 25th.

Pleased by their idea, the brothers set off with considerable alacrity to sell rare, forgotten and unclaimed music in the streets, that they may raise the funds (approximately $85 billion would certainly do) by the generosity (monetarily speaking) of the persons whose lives they one day hoped to improve.

While journeying south and west in hopes of finding a venerated yet loathed - depending, that is, upon one's side of the aisle - Moroccan bridge builder whose inventions and discoveries in the field of arcs and geometric spanning had shaken the foundation upon which Europe's most architectural minds were, until recently, so precariously perched; and which architect, quite unfortunately lacked the sharp and sturdy tongue that is required if one is to spread open the gilded fingers of the continent's investors and thus lived in squalor and solitude, far from men. Along the way and deep in the south of Spain, they encountered - the two brothers - their cousin Daniel, a pugilist and flute maker, whom they had not seen since their uncle's wedding, during which blows had been exchanged, blood (or at least wine) spilt, gifts ungiven, leaving the deep respect and love between the two families forever dashed upon the bouldery rift between those unyielding mountains of stony, patriarchal pride.


In defiance of his father's wishes and with but one frustrated tear in his eye, Daniel bade farewell to his home - the home whose walls had soaked up and made soft condensation of the familiar sounds of youth, the moisture of the roots; the home whose door had each day opened with a cool exhalation, pressing back the incessant glare of the sun for an exhilerating moment as if spreading a curtain, baring the heat-painted panorama of masonry and minarets and the wide, roaring sea, which clambered up the sloping rocks, taking from them slowly and drowning the stories caught between their layers with its steady, booming sighs.

Far below now and nearly all the way to the shaded bend of the last switchback before he would forever lose sight of his town - his bay with the sea cradled and half-tamed in its arms, his cliffs and the brilliant patch of sky they, the cliffs, cutting so sharply & forcefully upward and seem to have been carved out especially for him- Daniel turned back to take it all in one last time: his youth, his home, and the faint figure of his father, barely distinguishable from a tree, leaning against the light blue door clamped over the cave's small, puckered, downturned mouth; an imperceptible shadow passing over his face as the smoke rose heavily from his pipe.

Turning away, so his ears now made their final pass over the scene (how hastily it all fades), Daniel thought he heard somewhere amid the upward gush of the sea, the still, hot city and the scuttle of wind over stone and brittle bush; on some audible plane nestled between the sound of one's thinking and the sound of wings, he thought he heard his father mumbling the syntactically unique string of curses that now, under certain conditions, vibrate in his own throat just so perfectly.


The wind pushed them backwards as they walked, the three of them, mostly in silence and somewhat apart. Occasionally two would catch each other's stride, sharing for a brief moment the thoughts that pursued and absorbed them. Sharing for briefer moments their voices - rivulets of thoughtless, vibrating air - guiding one another to safety somewhere above or below the thoughts. They invented a vocabulary for the mundane things, a simple, low and highly expressive tongue that reduced their small talk to its most nonsensical and essential molecules. Over the graver issues, they fought mundanely but viciously, seeking disagreement where there was none imaginable, testing one another for the sake of noise, that it may wash out what the waves brought rushing in, the cold and mysterious future, the steadily eroding past, the indiscernibly whispered answers to their cacophonous longings and questions.

Gallery of Archived Footage

Blasting Company - Allan Barnes

Blasting Company - Autumn de Wilde

Busking in Timisoara - Florian Parva

Upcoming Performances

Weeklies around Los Angeles ongoing with the The California Feetwarmers

Correspondences & Inquiries

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~ or write to blastingcompany{at} ~