Slipped Discs

Mini-Mansions - Mini-Mansions

Ghoulish pursuits from pop-rock hooligans, Mini-Mansion’s crazed clichés cleave dream-speak tweets into a scrumptious rush. Cryptic gibberish and lecherous messages canned into pounding, pouncing demonic delights, a bushwhacked grab-bag evoking Spoon, Supergrass, even Billy Joel, this self-titled debut scoops goofy gremlins into spirited shenanigans, walking bass pirouettes into spiraling guitars and barrelhouse piano for campy vamps and predatory rock-star glory. Mini-Mansions appear Dec 8th at Milwaukee’s Mad Planet and Dec 9th at Madison’s Project Lodge

The June - Green Fields and Rain

Merseybeat meets the Maharishi as Italian jangle-rock rides sunshine psychedelia in spritely, air-tight flights through wizardly, electric-folk holidays draped in clean, sweeping dancehall harmonies. The June’s fearlessly weird and winsome crimson mission includes manicured melodies cushioned in majestic suggestions, earthbound analogies and techni-colored choirs. “Green Fields,” cultivates incurable romantics and heaven-scented meditations, refreshing medication for tired lives and crowded hours

Die! Die! Die! - Forms

Hyperactive packages bundling sudden flooding, hurricane-force haikus buried in an astro-tinged blitzkrieg of Kiwi punk bluster, Die! Die! Die!‘s warrior stories ride tumbling avalanches of swarming guitars, monster bass and torrential percussion. Urgent vertigo uncorked and sputtering, “Forms” congeal and unveil; buzzing in a pummeling, rummaging crush, blending rampaging rhythms against agitated visions whose cathartic textures catapult across cosmic mosh-pits.

The City Champs - The Set-Up

Getting up and under the brash, downbeat sound of a cresting, cooking Hammond organ with side-swiping, chicken-pickin’ electric guitar and kickass trap kit drumming, Memphis’ TCC shoulders ferocious restraint, buttery souls and sizzling swing. Augmented with occasional bass, horns and Latin percussion, “Set-up” remains powered by three equal talents trading interplay tucked inside velvet waves, cool nuance and rooted grooves.

Notekillers - We’re Here To Help

Caustic hostages sorting through clustered squalor; surfing curling furies and polishing purring pandemonium, Philadelphia’s Notekillers burn through a blur of microtonal moments, pelting the ears like sonic grommets. Fine-tuned noise rock ruckus plus bluesy snaggled-tooth groovin’, “Help,” hosts vice-grip commitments to colossal oscillations washed in kamikaze tsunamis, wordlessly streaming careening frequencies in an onslaught of stuttering staccato and hemorrhaging tremors.

Breathe Owl Breathe - Magic Central

Blissfully breezy, B.O.B.‘s fluid musings sly rhymes and placid tactics combine sophisticated kinderpop to whimsical chamber-folk. Ballads of benevolent sentiment happily waxing philosophic, “Central,” sneaks heartbeats between light-hearted lullabies leisurely weaving intricate sympathies from nimble narratives; encouraging enticements tinged with Cuban rumbas, timid tangos and tottering waltzes. B.O.B. plays Milwaukee’s Cactus Club Nov. 9th and Madison’s High Noon Nov 10th.

Terry Ohms - What Do You Mean What Do I Mean?

Rambling musical munchies welcome blissful hippies and slick hipsters into rainbow roadhouses and sunshine sideshows as Vulture Whale’s Wes McDonald unleashes loose-lipped lyrics over languid street corner boogie and tasty Southern funk. Party-dude grooves elevating scruffy shuffles to Orgone-lubricated sojourns, “Mean,” celebrates life’s idiosyncratic happenings, a free-wheeling eco-friendly Bohemia poured into blessedly messy drawls, devil-may-care come-ons and stoked folk-jam remedies.

Birthmark - Shaking Hands

Synthesizing and simplifying haunting chamber-jazz into sequestered sambas and cinematic symphonies, Joan of Arc’s multi-instrumentalist Nate Kinsella spawns songs drawn from resplendent intelligence; composing potent tones honed and harnessed, methodically weighed and conveyed. Smoothing moods and stirring scourges. “Hands,” cerebrally conceived art-folk moments juggle backwards tracks and monochromatic mantras to create precarious canvases, pairing acoustic solitude alongside avant rabbit-hole confessions.

Brian James - Brian James Gang

The Damned’s former guitarist cruises bargain basement blues in leathery, rock and roll ecstasy, squeezing out ballsy British punk-rock rants in snarling, cat-scratch flash and rabid, stabbing grit. Amped up and adamant, “Gang,” rumbles with bristling swagger, dancing along powder keg edges while lighting nuclear fuses. Mod, fitful firing squads sculpt churning, anarchist’s shrapnel, prowling provocatively beneath seething cathartic artistry

Radioseed - There Has To Be More

Serving cosmic cocktails in vibrant trip-hop gospel and shambolic ambient landscapes, Eurovillage’s Peter Wikstrom lays sun-kissed synths over dazzling Belize-teased beats. Androgynous dreamboat psychedelia sashays down air-brushed runways, turbo-lifted into paisley gravy and padded madness. Stratospheric furnaces cook delirious conspiracies, melting swells and poolside exotica. Ushering carpets of calm, “More” extends, suspends and upends convention within imagination’s all-night disco temple.

Rusty Willoughby - Cobirds Unite

Veteran of Seattle bands Pure Joy and The Llamas. Willoughby gathers talented friends together to croon clue-strewn Americana constructed from vagabond bravado and heart-felt camaraderie. Decorated in classy attachments, “Cobirds,” blends vibraphones to steel guitars, banjos and cellos before injecting Visqueen’s Rachel Flotard’s ghostly back-up vocals into burnished, burnt-out ballads dipped in desolate effortlessness, alt-country hunches formed from waltzing thoughts.

Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern - Essex Arms

Hefner’s Hayman weaves beautiful, magpie melodies inside English folk-rock serenades; brisk, busker’s delights laced in sweet, solemn solace and poetic biography. Adventurous remembrance culled from sharp, detailed hindsight and a journalist’s lens, “Essex,” breeches bittersweet sequences, framing youthful folly as personal mementos, adolescent messages turned into classic verbal portraits wistfully pilfering willful nostalgia, exhuming a vanishing era in crafted memories.

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