Slipped Discs

Miles Francis - Good Man

Fired in desire, Francis’ woke soul lays silk sheets over liquified beats, sleek orchestrated hits slipping into slithering riffs flexing restless paisley-pop chops around passive jazz arabesques. Distilled in philosophical goodwill, therapeutic improvements and grateful appraisals, “Man,” examines personal ramifications with fretless testaments and glamorous semantics, cathartic karma joining elastic analysis for honest commentary, velvety boogie and steamy dream-weaving solos.

Charlotte Adigéry & Bolis Pupul - Topical Dancer

Witty digi-dancehall catcalls choreographed in spiffy electro-funk fun, “Topical,” lobs post-colonial exposés into skewered lampoons; pastel Krautrock stocked with mesmerizing evidence tripping motion-activated statements endorsing cosmopolitan acceptance and sensual transcendence. Laughable facts extracted from social labyrinths, Charlotte and Bolis mix style with wiles where sarcasm and mockery disco down swinging in lingual commingling, stinging in sly asides and impish manipulations.

Bodega - Broken Equipment

Hungry punk commandos seeking appeasement through reason and logic for solace, Bodega attacks with collective pressure and heady bedlam, ringmasters at moon-barking carnivals painted in insidious grit, clanging jangle and streetwise choirs. Decadent declarations confronting contemporary life’s abundant conundrums and mind-numbing redundancy, “Broken,” courts corrosive duplicity, targeted marketing and dissociated behavior in endearing sneers catapulting tabloid shrapnel into existential minefields.

Jenny Hval - Classic Objects

Precarious narratives drifting with otherworldly gifts doting over ghostly totems, “Classic,” waxes and refrains, speculative texts enmeshed in everyday occasions piecing fleeting metaphysical sedatives into pixie-dusted productions.  A perceptive conceptualist, Hval flits in synthesized glimpses, conjugating vast galaxies trimmed in whimsical descriptions, unraveling scrapbook snapshots yearning for utopian openings within global moments timed to find sublime designs inside reality’s reliability.

Congotronics International - Where’s The One?

A collective consciousness encompassing four continents, Congotronics International’s ten lead vocalists, five guitarists, three likembe players, five percussionists, two bass players and three drummers conjure exalted call and response romps ensconced in lively rocktronics and rich Congolese traditions. Joyful and divine, “Where’s,” pairs rampant trance with ecstatic improvisation, mystical radio transmissions broadcasting eclectic dialectics crossing chosen-family jams with borderless euphoria.

The Linda Lindas - Growing Up

Jubilant exuberance cruising through old-school cool, “Growing,” molds renegade escapades polished from wrecking-ball squalor into gorgeous boardwalk rockers whose crushing punk-pop bluster yield playful mayhem. Indignant mosh-pit indigents strapped to amps and thrift-store power-chords, The Linda Lindas revive fiery diatribes, happy thrash compacted into rambunctious sunshine channeling riot-gurl pearls with brick-and-mortar choruses driven by punchy harmonies and manic anarchy.

Tomberlin - I Don’t Know Who Needs to Hear This

Cat’s cradle fables weaving pristine meaning from stirred yearning curdling timid simmering, Tomberlin’s lyrical spiritual pilgrimage sparks compartmentalized catharsis coaxing smoldering salvation from delicate melodies melting intricate rhythms into curious fury. Plaintive arrangements equipped with nimble chamber-folk podiums and searing pop-rock pulpits, “I Don’t Know,” exposes tender sentiments beneath expressive confessions, stoic disclosure woven from sincere appearances delivering sumptuous comforts.

Psychedelic Porn Crumpets - Night Gnomes

Syrupy psyches rock metallic flashbacks laced with lava-lamp glamour as, “Gnomes,” battles baroque jangle-folk with bold, thunderclap magic, a posh wizard’s blues-rock blizzard dizzy with elastic rabbit-hole nosedives. Lysergic-painted craniums embroiled in roaring swagger, PPC gleams, tin-foil dream police unleashing bonker sing-alongs gushing in flanged anthems hooked on gonzo chain-saw rainbows and washed in withering strings and dazzling fuzz-buzzed bangers.

Mitch Davis - The Haunt

Swinging and digging in heart-skipping whims and hip-dipping synergy, Davis tastefully lays downtown boogie bubbling under cavalier smooth-jazz; calm and collected messages tickling sunny synths in laidback syncopation, bound by hound-dog bass and humming in tumbling drums. Suave parcels harboring style and smiles, “The Haunt,” saunters in dapper finger-snapping happenings, bygone fondness buttered in toasty jive walking sly hepcat strides.

Oceanator - Nothing’s Ever Fine

Thrills spilling into introspective quests, “Fine,” hits the ground running with matter-of-fact traction waxing nostalgic in white-knuckle muscle and savvy electric ballads whose methodical plotlines squeezed heavy reverie from grounded sounds, husky percussion and pounding progressions. Strong and honest, yet open and hopeful, Oceanator succinctly pivots from joyrides to layovers in revved crash-course discourse powering economic songs with guitar-centric prowess.

Pink Mountaintops - Peacock Pools

Distorted sorcerers, courting, cavorting and teleporting, Pink Mountaintops’ monster stomp-box gypsy-rock climbs sublime heights casting nomadic paranoia down dark wells buzzing in six-string floods and dunked in glorious glam-punk thunder. Hurtling cataclysmic theatrics into scorned hornet downpours and swamp-boogie chainsaws, “Peacock,” scours around demonic romps propped up by flashy cabaret pushing savage myths stirred by gravelly wit and raggedly mosh-pits.

Mary Lattimore & Paul Sukeena - West Kensington

Dappled in airbrushed plucks and prickly permutations ushering nebulous weddings where ghostly corrosions bleed into passive atmospheres with abstract majesty, “Kensington,” tends heavenly glens and sparkling gardens, tranquil banquets merging delicate brevity to blended serenity. Dispossessed processionals hatching placid tones sown from processed electronics, Lattimore’s harp and Sukeena’s guitar cleanse in choral auroras, visceral visions writhing mightily and wilting willfully.

View More

Viewing Page 87 - of 91

‹ First  < 85 86 87 88 89 >  Last ›

Contact Maximum Ink music magazine

• Contact: Webmaster(at)maximumink.com
• (608) 245-0781
• No Longer Accepting Unsolicited Packages
  Please email Webmaster or call for more info