Slipped Discs

Field Music - Making A New World

Meticulous British misfits, Field Music’s well-honed maelstroms drop methodical chops with syncopated pay-offs, ironic jaunts prompting funky hopscotch prog-pop copping lavish classical sashays, scoffing and bopping in rigid missions, artistic marvels and ballroom subterfuge. Semi-satirical lyrics with half-nervous verses, “World,” swirls in reflex-stretched get-downs; euphoric detours creeping beneath sweeping robot operettas rolling in cosmopolitan options, post-modern propositions and blue-eyed cyber-soul.

Innocence Mission - See You Tomorrow

Fragile valor lifts, “Tomorrow,” from waterlogged underdogs with simple deliberate wishes to beautiful morning-dew messengers sending heavenly intentions into brave new days. Drowsy flowery tunes wake in fragrant chamber-pop bouquets through The Innocence Mission’s whispered wisdom whose delicate hesitancy often blossoms into noble heroics, subdued moods floating on wind-tossed vocals escorted by aching violins, timid nylon-string guitar and muted brass.

Beach Slang - The Deadbeat Bang of Heartbreak City

Brazen cantankerous boogie cooked in panting nocturnal yearning and dried in beaten string-sweetened hindsight, bittersweet beacons Beach Slang tangles, tallies and tussles; slashing crafty savagery from confident stomps and crashing open-hearted targets into eloquent melt-downs. Simmered, slashed and shaken, “City,” splits gritty pity into pithy garage-rock gestalt and honest symphonic punk prayers infused with jagged thought-bombs and pop-conscious, riff-driven bombast.

Poliça - When We Stay Alive

Lulled hungers gnawing on sleepless dreams, Poliça’s celestial velvet electro-pop sprinkles frosty possibilities over slow mirrorball burns, crystal teardrop trip-hop for lacquered insomniacs hijacking midnight soul trains to meet imaginary lovers. Blithe spirits writhing beneath iridescent skies, “Alive,” smolders in secret meetings, tribal fires and aloof grooves; tastefully pacing through shifting mazes inside computer-made jungle barricades designed for agile passion.

Squirrel Flower - I Was Born Swimming

Electric aquatic folk-jazz passages flow, compose and collapse in placid untapped undertow emotions, turning, “Swimming,” into imprisoned indie visions flailing tailored failures in celebrated guitar-centric revelations. Stamina enamored in strong wills and obsessive quests, Squirrel Flower’s warrior stories challenge tactful fashions in casual banshee banter, churning free-verse turmoil within raptured fascination, unraveled in unparalleled attractions and repackaged with unrequited compassion.

Ben Watt - Storm Damage

Cradling stony consolation, patient contemplation and stylish reprisal, “Damage,” seeks dependable serenity through row-house prose proposing reflective perspective; grounded pronouncements treading weathered memories entrenched in tender contentions, select recollections and candid family defenses.  Cloaked in minimal synths, slithering bass guiding flickering rhythms and teasing keyboards, Watt’s watchful observations walk between folk and soul, mining the past while embracing the future.

Lanterns on the Lake - Spook The Herd

World-weary theories, brooding allusions and glimmering myths pour misty indie-rock ribbons over the sterling, “Herd,” whose glowing poltergeist appetites devour prowling chamber-folk showdowns caked in pining minor-keys. Eloquent evidence presented in strident insights, brave faces and noble hearts, Lanterns on the Lake’s wicked militant waltzes exhibit uninhibited wishes within acceptable regrets, haunted responses and ponderous caution launched into whirlwind symphonies.

The Undercover Dream Lovers - It’s All In Your Head

Vacuum-sealed chameleons unreeling dream-pop disco, chiffon love-songs and wide-lapel nostalgia, The Undercover Dream Lover’s glossy soft-rock posse pops bubblegum boogie with coy, roller-rink grins rinsed in seamless synths and subtly sudsy ironies. Air-brushed muscle flex, “Head,” from floating aerobics to lubricated play-dates; enticing purrs merged into fuzzy feelings laid over fleeting beats charged with simmering fevers enacting heavy-breathing bedroom theater.

Agnes Obel - Myopia

Angelic poems rappelling down twilight cathedrals like holy metronomes winding through honeycomb harmonies, “Myopia,” soaks tissue-paper vocal layers with dovetail flutters falling into undulating beds where driftwood choirs bathe in ghostly hopes and crystal-clear miracles. Intricate, intimate chamber-pop composer Obel levitates and meditates over waking melodies lifted in swift deliberate rhythms painting dainty pulsating radiance with strings, voice and keyboards.

Samuel Rohrer - Continual Decentering

Percussion-driven visions blissfully enlisting plastic crackles, tubular infusions and placid splashes, Rohrer plops, plots, waxes and scratches; modulated shape-shifting impatience planting ambient trance in palsied palpitations from triggered kicks. Future grooves powered by deep African roots and free-jazz imaginations, “Decentering,” tends towards abstracted happenings born from magical fragments and energized through the drummer’s intuitive moves, minimal symmetry and burning curiosity.

Drama - Dance Without Me

Glamorous, incandescent R&B lights up dazzling romantic attractions as, “Dance,” tip-toes over gossamer-pop from slow-dancing divas greeting savory secrets with level-headed heavens, addressing lush mistrust with sweet, runway struts. Fledgling pleasures nudged into cooing courtships, Drama’s candelabra superstars draw heartthrob mug-shots from sensual penthouse pulses; cocktail piano flirtations partnered besides suave sampled fantasies cutting the rug with polished, cabaret philosophy.

Terry Ohms - Cold Cold Shoulder

Double-talk alt-rock guitar-jockey Ohms roams in impulsive hustles flushed in psychedelic head-rushes, indignant riffs dipped in deep-fried fuzz and slippery epiphanies greased with searing stratospheric jams. Uptight and out of sight, “Cold,” rolls in shoulder-chip bravado, perplexed intellect funneled into ramped amps blasted in rabid rants and nimble sympathy; sandpaper anarchy paved in cathartic barking, jet-fueled blues and six-string furies. 

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