Slipped Discs

Manchester Orchestra - Simple Math

Weary indie-rock antiheroes compose symphonic underdog uprisings, energized by scorching discourse brimming in frank angst and suburban ennui. Vague prey hunted in restless, impetuous reconnaissance, “Math,” traps sacred aching in sinister hook-filled insurrections and breathless mosh-pit proclamations. Balancing searching grandeur against seething street-wise insecurity, MO’s epic introspection sweeps over tender defenses, bolstered by defiant alliance, minor-key reprieves and cathartic martyrdom.

Sallie Ford and the Sound Outside - Dirty Radio

Whack scats, romping bop and whip-smart jive straddle bawdy shotgun operas drawn from washboard boogie, barn-stormin’ rock-a-billy and smoldering back-alley soul. Ford and company’s vivacious revivalism injects contemporary perspectives into swinging traditions, pairing hootchie-cootchie come-ons alongside waltzing walk-on-bys. Channeling Patsy Cline, Big Bill Broonzy and Bessie Smith, “Radio,” radiates raw, feisty geek-girl charm for tasty raves and brash maverick ballads.

Grand Pianoramax - Smooth Danger

Machine-gun runs of skittish drums maneuver through arched arpeggios erupting from prattling Moogs and palpitating pianos. “Smooth,” beautifully moves lively prog-rock robotics, shifting tangled tangents into methodical madness. Interwoven explosions cushioning savvy raps, GP’s sophisticated cat and mouse bouts pit dynamite keyboard flights against ground-pounding percussion, scattering frazzled scales behind diligent rhythms and railroading classical backgrounds into hyperactive jazz acrobatics.

David Kilgour and the Heavy Eights - Left By Soft

Kiwi Merseybeat shaken, tamed and reborn, Kilgour and mates burst with deep-shag majesty, drizzling thunderous blues over braided electric-folk, adding vertigo-inducing transcendence over sturdy, understated song. Compact covenants swimming in shimmering chords, “Soft,” howls, prowls and harmonizes, campfire jangle-rock drifting in placid dappled patterns as level-headed lyrics brave vast swells of multi-layered guitars reaping rippling skiffle sizzling in psychedelic tranquility.

Anni Rossi - Heavy Meadow

Squeaky-clean dreams packed in vacuum-sealed sass, “Meadow,” spins quirky aesthetics into stoic, focused contrapuntal conundrums, engaging the head, heart and hips. Throbbing tropical marches slowly unroll infectious eccentricities coupling blinking syncopation to plunked funk and catwalk grooves to intellectual whimsy showcasing Rossi’s stilted staccato and incandescent wit devoted to rhythmic conniptions coloring dispassionate analysis, cautious tales within seductive art-pop diplomacy.

Secret Cities - Strange Hearts

Love children from Brill Building refugees, S C mastermind lo-fi, reverb-addled shin-digs; muffled scuffles baked inside grandly bandied jukebox soufflés whose gentle persuasions with twilight choirs shiver behind fading AM beach-party bingo.  Swooning and canoodling through retroactive odysseys, “Strange,” hosts idyllic misfit idolizers worshipping vintage pop thoughts, ghostly baroque smokescreens soaked in rainy-day dreams, fab nostalgia and timeless adolescent appetites. 

Alina Simone - Make Your Own Danger

Thrusting cellos, hunted drums, writhing flights of tungsten tongues dressed in blacksmith brass sparking private and perilous prose, “Danger,” wrangles war-cry choruses from hounded prayers, elusive truths become locomotive prey charging into accelerated folk-punk blues. Brittle, bold and brazen, Simone’s furtive curtsies and volcanic candor reinforce scornful searchlight labors, thorny bulimic images navigating lean serpentine situations, guarded, bartered and charmed.

Tom Vek - Leisure Seizure

Hard-wired, pneumatic-addled New Wave statements invade unbraided electro-clash abrasions set to tarnished tempos, droll factory-fashioned funk and slinky syncopated synthesizers; Vek’s clattering malice and energetic menace coil around coarse torque constructing post-industrial petulance via sermons on the dance floor. Suspicious and ambitious, “Leisure,” tumbles wonderfully, trigger-happy slap-shots aimed at callously cool feigned disdain, fabulously retro-fitted fits equipped with post-modern imaginations.

Elysian Fields - Last Night On Earth

Wickedly blissful whisperings slide between sumptuous chamber-folk symphonies , bluesy goth-rock siroccos and coy, alt-pop ballets, “Earth,” works sensual memories beneath placid passions toppling headlong down mesmerizing torch songs, potent potions quenching thirsty bursts from dream-laden maidens. Stirring purrs and banshee sweetness catapult EF’s mythological waltzes into melodic exotica, an embroidered fairy-tale cabaret pried from childhood fears and sentimental tension.

The Wooden Birds - Two Matchsticks

American Analog Set’s Andrew Kenny’s new band retains AAS’s laidback outlook compiling crisp wisdom inside colorful cooing and modest acoustic musings. Cozy, folk-pop breeziness fortified by shimmering marimbas, soft strumming and horse-drawn rhythms, “Matchsticks,” glows in deceptively demure assurances churning patient complacence from twilight insights and lively shyness, inviting politeness channeling sly, bouncy foxtrots, cantering ballads dispensing love-sick riffs .

Art Brut - Brilliant! Tragic!

Clever condescension rocks around hell-bent expressions as, “Brilliant,” rips through half-rapped narratives combining insolent wit dipped in irony, sputtering bluster outsmarting intellect and bristling against convention. Revealing and rebellious, post-punk apostles Art Brut’s blunt frustrations corral rough and tumble rhetoric whose cheeky reasons begat tender second-guessing amid cut-throat couplets whose deafening deliberateness clamor for conclusions colliding with middle-class conceits .

Dawes - Nothing is Wrong

Centered lessons season solemn solace; load-bearing laments serve thoughtful folk-rock fodder surrounded by cowboy hooks and slow-burning solos.  Dawes’ perceptive interventions weave nature’s metaphors between common sense and candid humanity. Estranged and tamed, tangled in twang, “Nothing,” inserts humbled hopes washed in honesty, crafting affable parables swimming through level-headed measures, street-corner troubadours versed in stoic weariness wound around fleeting days

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