Slipped Discs

Walkmen - You & Me

Shifting through hazy memories, The Men’s crooning biographies wade within life-long habits and haunting afterthoughts, behind barbed guitars metamorphosis’s into breezy steel drums. The tangle of jangle stir tiny tempests out of whittled punk’s brittle ballads as, “You & Me,” fades into consciousness. The Walkmen, join Okkervil River at Madison’s Annex September 14th

Fujiya & Miyagi - Lightbulbs

Switched-on digi-rock swings in glistening grooves and super-agent cool. Quietly enunciating hip, intimate jungle come-ons, “Lightbulbs,” turns machine-tooled algorithms ultra-sexy. Lip-licking lyrics cling to galvanized shotgun funk, cross-wiring prog-Afro punk to cybertronic pop. Bristling precision sneaks, creeps and floats - ticking like a time-bomb, seducing futures through dance-floor politics and patented syncopation.

Giant Sand - proVISIONS

Shivering guitars and rattling pianos haunt twilight flights from frontier sorrows as, “pro,” lassoes graveyard campfires, stirring up the ashes, peppering desperation with electric peyote blues. Twang with fangs, Giant’s prickly myths and flickering metaphysical fiction unleash tumbleweed tangos scornful and forlorn, avant-jazz roots-rock teetering toward Aussie goth, perched over sly, savvy alt-country snickering.

Wedding Present - El Rey

Reunited after eight years TWP makes, Rey,” shine. Showy, sour chic gets fleeced and flogged as, “Rey,” lines up jaded and dejected sophisticates; unraveling insolent romance and radiating rebellious charisma. Antihero love songs usher carousing sideshows of rifling riffs and withering wit as TWP’s thorny lyrics become smarmy balm for love’s restless jesters.

All Girl Summer Fun Band - Looking Into It

Beach blanket beats surround bee-hive harmonies as Portland, Or’s reassembled super-group hits the ground running. Peering past polka dot pop into boppy alt-rock, “Looking,” sneer and revere bubblegum party girls, making over ass-kicking battleaxes for a post-punk pajama party full of wicked good fun and swooning super-sonic pillow talk.

Portugal. The Man - Censored Colors

P.tM’s gloriously organic guru-rock casually marries slippery symphonies to orchestrated heavy metal outbursts. Cryptic and ambitious, seething with reverb-soaked psychedelia P.tM’s glowing tapestry of hippie hallelujahs parade grand gestures in brutally naked waves and splendid otherworldly promise. Lofty and solemn, heavy and serene,”Censored,” startles, bending conventions and resurrecting epic, howling, hurricane-flavored salvation.

Present - World I See

Rippling tranquilly then mounting musical monsoons, “World,” sculpt electro-static passages into disembodied audio odysseys and rambling ambient jams. Reveling in eerie atmospheres, tempting chemistry in magical distractions, the Present’s gurgling births evolve from thundering avalanches to scurrying monsters - scraping escapees lost in a field of alien heartbeats breathing and breeding spidery silences.

Peachcake - What Year Will You Have the World?

Nostalgic, encyclopedic, underground and ironic,”Rule,” compiles pre-fab pageants from socio-cultural colloquialisms and old-school computer doodles. Whip-smart cybernetic pep ride sine waves texting paisley-flavored polemics, knob-twisting fixes input smirking circuitry, robotic loops program mood-altering samples tripped, wrung and processed. Peachcake’s madcap android bonfire blinks, re-thinks and stutter-boogies to algorithmic bliss.

Panics - Cruel Guards

Throaty vocals cushioned in strings and brass cast stoic shadows across jangly refrains as the solid, soulful Aussie rock of, “Cruel,” croons cool, stone-faced fables. Shifting slave chain beats between rousing hooks, The Panic’s valiant hearts are well-prepared for soldiering on, delivering swelling, resilient emotions exploding into proud pleads and open-armed anthems.

Friendly Fires - Friendly Fires

An elastic calamity coldcocking ping-pong bass around popcorn jungle percussion - FF’s edgy, pop-disco romances pack plenty of jagged hot flashes, capturing groovy futures beneath neon-saturated satin. Smart and spastic, FF’s new-wave bounce hits the ceiling before landing on the dance floor, swiveling synths and crackling guitars shrieking in slippery hiccups and sputtering funk.

Winterpills - Central Chambers

Sweet harmonies wrapped around rich, dark laments, Winterpill’s defenseless elegance waltzes around articulate sleep-walking angst. Minuets and rhapsodies receive pop-rock arrangements and post-modern wittiness, sagas reduced to reclusive tunes washed in deliberate, cinematic poetry and tastefully electric diplomacy. Spinning literary nuance, “Central,” reassembles foreign films with methodical logic, unearthing our delusions with melodic confidence.

Todd Rundgren - Arena

Protool pomp etch race car riffs as producer-performer Rundgren’s rails against time and empires, reactivating big-hair hammerhead rock for deep themes, exposed schemes and metaphysical convictions. Unleashing an arsenal of retaliating romps and machine-tooled machismo, “Arena,” channels ballistic outrage and foot-stomping frustration into iron-clad wake-up calls, rapid-fired blasts roasted over fiery blue-eyed soul.

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