Slipped Discs

Los Campensinos! - Sick Scenes

Charging into civil frays rinsed in slippery wit, poet-soldiers Los Campensinos’ clever dismembered indie-pop memoirs brew effusive mulligan stews. Ladling beat-driven battle-cries into polysyllabic analysis, “Scenes,” reconvenes riot-act culture-wars with unruly punk execution and breathless intrepid reflections while lyrical volleys pitched to educated punks and literate misfits engage name-dropping brains and gyrate bohemian bodies for pro-active chitchat from socio-political riffraff.

Blanck Mass - World Eater

Adamant patterns saddling digi-shifted rapture capture shadowy carousels unraveling in harrowing goth-rocked proms; “Eater,” feasts on gnarly card-punched conundrums soaked in primordial ooze and plastered in redacted catastrophe. Cut-and-paste taste-tester Blanck Mass’ manipulated impatience distorts engorged discourse contorting dense agitated electronics into burning firmaments forming formidable sound-on-sound stampedes from ash-filled heavens as Jericho free-falls storm ghost-rattled gates in crushing vapor-waves.

New Street Adventure - Stubborn Sons

Posh caramel-coated soul folded into upfront street-punk funk, “Sons,” run silver-tongued urban-jungle rumbles lathered in heart-throb bravado and midnight-player panache. Tough, but supple anguish enriched in champagne refrains, NSA layers bluesy doo-wop harmonics over sharp sparse rhythms and voluptuous bass, chasing wavering faith with dockside struts erupting in openly romantic tantrums painted with hard, lean facts and hungry, plundered truths.

Laetitia Sadier Source Ensemble - Find Me Finding You

Former Stereolab chanteuse Sadier’s savvy ensemble dispenses ultra-smooth Afro-Cuban grooves amid graceful Cubist coos, baking tasty space-age pastries drizzled in paisley daydreams and blissful sophistication. Purring prog-pop narcotics administered with casually accurate precision, “Find,” seeks half-whispered secrets revealing quenchable sensual pleasures in plush, palpitating escapes; captivating couture happenings set free among retro-metropolitan salons, sleek catsuit cafes and chic beatnik playgrounds.

J. E. Sunde - Now I Feel Adored

A palatable gallery framing prim prismatic anachronisms in golden melodic afterglows, “Adored,” explores hand-crafted baroque-pop with quaint restraint, studious ingenuity and transporting choruses. A Minneapolis folk artisan whose poised and polished causes deliver melancholy allegories in bittersweet suites and steadfast narratives, Sunde’s idealist’s appeals, thoughtful offers and sun-drenched sentiments prove nimble fodder for land-locked chanteys, modern-day madrigals and gallant ballads.

Shelby Earl - The Man Who Made Himself A Name

Coming at you like a rodeo queen’s rockin’ stepdaughter, Earl’s swirling torch-singer swagger corrals fiery hearts raging in free-range bangers packed with outspoken anecdotes and solace-seeking pleads heated in glib sympathy. Dynamic commandments undercut blues-infused memoirs while, “Name,” campaigns in untamed mind-games stuffing the ballot-box with leather and lace prayers and lobbing tumbleweed valentines over honky-tonk sonnets riding roadside gospel.

Chaz Bundicks Meets the Mattson 2 - Star Stuff

The ever-inquisitive Toro Y Moi unites with the telekinetic Mattson Twins for a flashy astral-jacked collaboration whipped in old-school jazz-funk blow-outs and cosmic conquistador-rock symphonies.  A feel-good goulash whose heady segues cite chain-lightning psychedelics while quoting Motown, “Star,” jams in flammable high-five space-jive, fusing weepy wah-wah, nimble rhythms and pliable bass into swinging bell-bottom epiphanies perfect for super-charged intergalactic get-downs.

San Fermin - Belong

Energetic connections tie lavish imaginations to theatrical passion as cavalier art-pop maestros San Fermin bring stately elation to level-headed revelry, balancing talented hindsight against luxurious urgency. Cultivating tasty mayhem through polyphonic tectonics, “Belong,” fawns over sophisticated cadence, fusing varnished harmonies among orchestrated trills and nimble drum-fills, creating a sumptuous, melodic cocktail bubbling in sly pride, restless meditations and honest wonder.

Blaenavon - That’s Your Lot

Rich, melodramatic catalysts catapult spiraling pile-drivers spun from indie-rock waltzes trimmed in delicate affections; “Lot,” rides emotional tides whose unguarded martyrdom erupts in tough bluster before regaining load-bearing composure.  Heart-broken ballads straddling glorious six-string introspection shelter dashed hopes and bold soapbox confessions while Blaenavon’s strong, agile mastery of tangled pains and double-fisted resistance juggles fevered soliloquies born from sensitive redemption.

Maximo Park - Risk to Exist

Deploying fidgety syncopations glibly pivoting around anxious bass, skid-marked guitar and panicky percussion, Maximo Park’s snarky remarks spark savvy rallies, conjuring tight, propulsive convulsions ripe in curt, subversive rhetoric tailor-made for post-millennial politics. Dry wit commits splendid revenge enlisting, “Exist,” in fluid moves to slip crisp incriminations inside dance-able propaganda while wiry New Wave renegades demolish through posh, swashbuckling outrage.

Cold Beat - Chaos By Invitiation

Rinsed in kinky synths programmed for cynical, clinical minimalism, “Chaos,” micro-manages galactic sadness seized in seductive electro-pop buzz and scrubbed with candy-coated vocals from moonstruck cyber-waifs. Mining ghostly tones from computer ghouls schooled in fleshy caresses, dabbling sound-lab collaborators Cold Beat unleashes fiendish dreams firing laser-guided desires via stratospheric lyrics; tempting tingling senses with machine-tooled cool engineered in space-ballad algorithms.

R. Ring - Ignite the Rest

Authentic, contentious, veering from reckless and tempestuous to direct and defenseless, the debut album from The Breeder’s Kelley Deal and Ampline’s Mike Montgomery overflows in raw, real feeling, plucking sublime ruckus from serrated impatience and surly curiosity. Spellbound thought-bombs launched from electric strings bent in relentless invention, “Ignite,” tussles in barbed garage-rock muscle injecting eccentric chemistry into classic indie spasms.

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