Slipped Discs

Joan Shelley - The Spur

Helmed by Shelley’s sweet, steady voice and firm, maternal verse, “Spur,” cradles intimate fables, poetic lessons addressing human connections in blameless language. Hushed kindhearted comforts rocked in friendly eloquence, “Spur,” nurtures and cultivates through clanging steel strings finger-picked with watch-maker’s patience. Tasteful, courageous country-folk hopes wrapped with melodic options and graced with spacious arrangements, tackling thorny thoughts with resolute truths.

Florist - Florist

Suspended in low-gravity ambience, the self-titled, “Florist,” explores musical feng sui, twinkling trinkets sequenced between golden electro-folk, precious bubbles of breathless beauty insinuating patient cadence casting willowy silhouettes capturing elaborate artisan facets in poised minimalism. Adept at modular process and acoustic maneuvers, Florist consorts with alien organics, unflinching glitches in contemplative savoring as isolation and communion mingle in tentative gentleness.

Stephen Peter Rodgers - Speck On A Clover

Level-headed perspective and unflappable affirmations glide in effortless epitaphs and sensible aphorisms while Rodgers unlocks smart hearts with cautious pop-rock optimism and folksy stoic motivators; well-tended scenarios whose sensitive cleverness yield common sense served with disarming charm. Wise advice dispensed in catchy choruses lecturing from precipices, “Clover,” hones tender empathy through various tuneful ruses, playing observer, participant, mentor and friend.

Elf Power - Artificial Countrysides

Subtle chords poured over chiming timebomb rhymes, “Artificial,” imparts strangely pragmatic magic with soft prophecies monitored in indie-rock objectivity, earnest doubt sensing ephemeral peril and spouting concrete lyrics hiding oblique secrets. Generated from structured percussion, hounded bass and synchronized synthesizers, Elf Power’s deadpan candor lands methodical thoughts caught in unstoppable clockwork swarming around elusive proofs, descriptive lists and existential chemistry.

Naima Bock - Giant Palm

Lit in tropical sauntering and baroque folk, Naima’s inquisitive indie-pop depictions delight in bright curios, cerebral themes seasoned in sensual connections and melodic narcotics. Bossa nova woven from placid jazz and infused in chamber-music nuance, “Palm,” lifts and lilts, breathing easily from yawning symphonics to flighty sighs, a casual mastery playfully majoring in simmering mysteries, moody perusal and measured pleasures.

Alex The Astronaut - How To Grow A Sunflower Underwater

Happy bombast dashes in poppy puppy-dog philosophy as, “Sunflower,” gleefully releases mirthful bursts furnished in sturdy wording stirring cavalier feelings with feverish rhythms and ferocious whimsy. An infectious collector of monumental events born from ordinary discourse, ATA embraces day-to-day vitality, infusing adolescent ballads with ear-candy grooves, conversational melodies embellishing simple things with metaphysical court-jester grins, precocious hope and grand humanity.

Standards - Fruit Town

Razor-sharp guitars kickstarting cross-stitched syncopation with prime number rumbles, pivoting duo Standards splinter thinking man’s panic, joyriding high-fiving and machine-tooled tomfoolery over pummeling thunder and dazzling flash. Whether cantering banjo somersaults or electric whammy-bar cartwheels, “Fruit,” produces fluid, flexible, prog-rock calisthenics; gracefully racing from collaborative lab-rat spasms to meticulous prog pop-quizzes firing surprising sparks with dizzying fissures riddling reliable designs.

Ezra Furman - All Of Us Flames

Electro-shocked glam-rock walks bittersweet glitter-swept runways in triumphant comeuppance and bruised ruminations while introspective pep-talker and hindsighted night-stalker Furman turns messy confessions into redemptive adventures. Pirates, petitioners and pariahs steeped in poignant memories, abandoned regrets and large scars, “Flames,” claims underdog bragging rights manifesting winners among sinners, trampled champions quaking in leather boots and trembling in lean, unlaced, life-long pursuits.

The Mountain Goats - Bleed Out

Reliable mile-marker rhetoric varnished in barking irony, “Bleed,” telegraphs concise, instructional mutterings from coded slogans negotiating Zen warrior journalism in a variety of required vibes, from delicate and dangerous to divisive and diplomatic. Reflex rhythms administering hospital-corner lyrics soliciting mercenary missions, The Mountain Goat’s chameleonic abilities jog, sprint and charge as the incredibly competent unit issues reprieves, restitution and reprisals

SRSQ - Ever Crashing

Glazed in tasteful, celestial flamboyance touched in undulating funk and painted in palatial pathos, SRSQ’s phosphorescent sentiments glow beneath velvet proclamations, yearning harmonies reaching past heartaches’ maze braving flashy orchestral collapses in underwater operas. Cavernous hazards challenging craggy dramatics ghosting emotional moments behind lightning-swift riffs and hungry, thundering hooks, “Ever,” revels in sophisticated mayhem, fabulous happenings, bold, voluptuous and scintillating.

Kiwi Jr. - Chopper

Holding back this side of breaking down, “Chopper,” bops in cool grooves, a foppish mockery taunting rock’s honesty with civil wit fashioning detached actions cooked in jangle-emo hooks and sparkling snark. Comedic, cultured, class-war survivors and unashamedly brazen art-rock romantics, Kiwi Jr infuse laconic pity into electric New Wave Britpop, floundering in strait-jacketed compassion with stainless-steel feelings and doomsday ennui.

Kal Marks - My Name Is Hell

Calloused shadow-dancing with corrosive bulldozers, marauding toppler Marks’ cunning uphill testaments bludgeon jumpy boxer’s shuffles into jittery ninja fits kissed by kettle-whistle blitz, ham-fisted calamity slamming in muscular punctuality. Soaked in high-voltage polemics on an electric-fence tightrope, “Hell,” swells in relentless tension, each song making steady headway from edgy oppression to effective connectivity emblazed in collective rage and synchronized visions.

View More

Viewing Page 89 - of 92

‹ First  < 87 88 89 90 91 >  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