Slipped Discs

Alexander Turnquist - Flying Fantasy

Twelve-string inspirations arranged around classical instruments and modern electronics; master guitarist Turnquist composes sparkling armor whose tight-knit bliss calm and excite, curious flurries that circle and take flight. Stirring churning murmurs, “Fantasy,” gallantly dallies; Zen engines bending and blending into dappled catacombs; mystical, cyclical hives buzzing in resounding rounds, doused in quivering rhythms and plucked like weeds from still-water dreams.

John Hiatt - Terms of My Surrender

Not going down without a fight, “Surrender,” delivers swinging pulp-fiction prescriptions inside stinging country-blues and Cajun-flavored folk blending broken souls howling in backwater train-yards with scrappy jackals laughing at obsessive confessors. The tender-hearted Haitt assisted by his savvy touring band, slow-cooks his character-driven narratives in vinegar and molasses; each tune brimming with simmering wisdom and affectionate connections to foolish pursuits.

Nonono - We Are Only What We Feel

Frosted in cheeky mystique, NONONO’s arched marches and pouty pomp knit braided parades coiled in daredevil levels of mood-swing flings. Explosive pop-star parties collide beside fitful disco-queen dreams as fancy anthems pour scorching hopscotch bop over steel-edged gusto; the blissful, wistful, “Feel,” dances in Olympian victory laps coloring forthright flights from beat-featured ballads in post-romantic reds and cool neon blues.

Landlady - Upright Behavior

Bemused truths produce demented descents as precocious notions step lightly within the clever, mega-inventive, “Upright,” poised between grand land-mine melodies and sophisticated parlor-pop mayhem. A wild, beguiling ride micro-managing the manic alongside the meticulous, Brooklyn-based Landlady’s uncanny shenanigans demand articulate conniptions from unquenchable quests; framing the band’s elegant experiments around snazzy free-jazz calamities dipped in conflicted sympathy and delectable intellect.

Turn to Crime - Can’t Love

Jack-hammered spooks grooving on chill-punk gotham-rock, the Detroit trio Turn to Crime’s charred barrage slithers in dank midnight sizzle; amniotic zombie soundtracks scrounging for seedy psychosis chasing impatient basement jollies. Flirting in diverting mercies, spastic gymnastics and minimalist kismet; “Can’t,” plants tattered mavericks in subterranean craniums as cage-rattling blasts poach kettle-quivering rhythms moving a mesmerizing hysteria headlong into post-modern purgatory.

Vulkano - Live Wild Die Free

Fed in shredded unvetted energy, drenched in effervescent discontent and buoyed by devilish bubblegum crunch, “Wild,” piles tribal-pop trials onto feverish Swedish punk from swishy witches dishing delicious dirt. Gleeful banshees ransacking mad-hatter attics, Vulkano’s tangled pagan bounce pounces and denounces, piloting untamed raves, frantic chants and game-changing bangers for synth-pinched party-time in sugar-shack shin-digs hosted by giddy little anarchists.

White Fence - To the Recently Found Innocent

A preening bohemian swaddled in caterwauling twang, uncurbed reverb and delicate psychedelics, White Fences’ Tim Presley blazes deeply between heady reverie and rabbit-hole reality. Dripping in mythical ripples rinsed in renaissance ruffles, “Innocent,” cements White Fences’ heightened hippie-rock senses; jamming in jagged cosmic jangle while groping dislocated ghosts and deconstructing cock-eyed looking-glass blues through sparkled chakras dressed in electric petticoats.

Bishop Allen - Lights Out

Fun-loving summer plunges plunder fairground funk grafted to groove-proven pop; “Lights,” delights in firefly flair, bouncing from sassy tropical follies shrink-wrapped in space-bop to sweet collegiate chamber-folk roasted over liberating wit. Dancing with chameleonic grace, the sly and versatile Bishop Allen produce studious fusions to launch glorious weekend get-aways, incessant tensions firing bouncy counterpoint into smart art-songs paired alongside calypso-discos.

Merchandise - After The End

Literate dilettantes skimming deep wells stocked in jealous rebels, vampire-rockers Merchandise power around cool moody subterfuge; smoldering consolers rebounding from romantic panic through calm elegant honesty, a brave sincerity born from seamless melancholy adrift in glittering indifference. Distinct but distant, muscular yet paralyzed, “After, ” unmasks underhanded candor, conjuring dark theatrics composed over steely blue-eyed soul and post-punk dance anthems.

The Wind and The Wave - From The Wreckage

Gripping cynicism washed in high-minded harmony and waxing nostalgia, “Wreckage,” wrestles desert divas from defensive confessions. Edgy treasures cloaked in smokin’ hot subplots, Texans Dwight Baker and Patricia Lynn rage and coo in a swaying buffet of alt-country canters and folk-pop trots where tough marries fluff with strong-worded flirts skirting sizzling pistol-whipped shuffles, heartbroken cowboy ballads and stern, spurned barn-burners.

Elephant Stone - Three Poisons

Hard-wired McGuyvers tripping in interstellar systems, Elephant Stone’s sneaky dream-rock stalks snarled schematics engineering half-magic acrobatics as wavy sci-fi soul barrels through dharma bum blues. Crafted micro-encapsulated psychedelics harness mod-melodic pyrotechnics while groovy utopian glow flickers in glam-trampled guitars and incense-dispensed sitars; “Poisons,” seep between sleepy memories and swimming visions, bending minds in polished cosmic doppelgangers and throbbing phosphorescent testaments.

Christopher Denny - If The Roses Don’t Kill Us

Major chord euphoria baptized in warm purring Wurlitzers, bantering pianos and gurgling guitars; “Roses,” flows in spunky country-gospel, embracing Church-bell bright liturgies and family-friendly redemption. Sprinkled in Dixieland boogie, dusted with evangelical twang and shielded by hand-quilted happiness, Denny’s folksy notions are pitched with revival-meeting zeal and colored in frontier lovers’ gumption, turning lively homespun wonder into gentle denim revelations.

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