Slipped Discs

Los Bitchos - Let The Festivities Begin

Nimble conniptions swimming in Peruvian chica, Turkish psychedelia and Argentine cumbias, pan-continental instrumentalists Los Bitchos’ whirlwind surf-punk wedding-band vibes ride celebratory euphoria for communal grooves brewing exotic holidays. Vacation invitations swinging in contagious playfulness, “Festivities,” hits the hips with infectious head-trips, shedding pretentions, flouting conventions and shredding in mesmerizing tremolo rolling over subtle convulsions with giddy-up percussion and crazed bass.

Guerilla Toss - Famously Alive

Congealed surrealists Guerilla Toss demolish swaddled robotics inside blacklight psycho-sludge, concocting thick, gripping narco-pop lit in thunderous buzz and convulsive fuzz; delightful and spiteful, wholesome and loathsome.  Camouflaged in mammoth rampages, “Famously,” clobbers ravenous showstoppers in audacious mayhem, gleeful seizures and gallant insanity, an exorbitant neon fortress poured from cheering jackhammer lyrics into igneous glowstick glitz glitched, pitched and unhitched.

Yumi Zouma - Present Tense

Airbrushed crushes shimmering in invincible indie-pop, the heaven-sent, “Tense,”
sends modern valentines fashionably wrapped in tactful backbones, seductive muscle and dancefloor-driven, race-car hearts. A hook and melody machine clocking ultra-smooth moves from the inside track, Yumi Zouma retool sauntering confidence and unrestrained elation into splendid, shiny engines engineered with satin accuracy smitten with longing promises, parting remarks and lipstick symbolism.

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.

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