My Benelli Super Vinci let out a light thwack
that sounded more like a high-powered nail gun than a goose-killing Italian shotgun.
The scrip-scrape of the skate blades, the thwack
of the stick, the are of the puck as it soars toward.
Beyond the crush of bodies, Helen heard the sound of running feet, the thwack
of truncheons, the shouts of the men.
The game is the essence of the English summer with the smell of new-mown grass, the aroma of linseed oil, the thwack
of leather on willow, the moans about the England team.
There's still plenty of bite with frontwoman Yukimi Nagano's sweet vocals honey-coating some alarmingly barbed lyrics, especially on Mirror, and Klapp Klapp is driven by a primal thwack
of drums and grinding synths.
Our solutions are rooted in our deep connection to our user base, which interacts in our online community, thwack
, to solve problems, share technology and best practices, and directly participate in our product development process.
on guitar, and new member Kurt on double bass for only his fourth show, Eli on bass and Gaff on drums, the band is very tight.
30pm All eyes are focused Down Under at the moment thanks to the cricket and Celebrity shenanigans, but there's more to Aussie blokes than just the thwack
of leather on willow, as this new documentary series proves.
SUMMER'S here and the gentle thwack
of leather on willow can be heard on village pitches across North Wales.
The violence in the film is a strong thwack
but it never gets extreme.
You could see every muscle move, hear every shout, thwack
of leather and every hoofbeat, and just feel the power of the horses galloping.
Shovels and Rope's musical elements are rudimentary--acoustic guitar chords, a distorted electric rift, a snare drum thwack
, and the occasional banjo, all with lots of space in between.
These massive machines operate surrounded by a sea of 'sound' words as they wham and ram, crack and thwack
their way to create space for a new playground.
Except maybe the gentle thwack
of a very hard ball being thrown at nearly 100mph by a big Lancastrian, crashing into the stumps of swaggering antipodean big mouth.
Mukai's sad, haunting voice carries the album; the rhythm section's contributions are so sparse that at times you forget it's there, until the sudden thwack
of a drumstick on a woodblock shakes you briefly out of your trance.