Slipped Discs

British Sea Power - Valhalla Dancehall

Razor sharp post-punk rumblings dissecting gun-barrel ballads into flickering, splintering sympathies; Brighton’s glory-seeking rockers slip ripped riffs, beseeching speeches and steamy ennui into cosmic canyons of epic gestures and earnest curses. Blistering encouragement paired alongside drenched repentance keep the dynamics fresh and the feeling electric as, “Valhalla,” bends and blends, stormy surrenders catapulting urgent cataclysms and sanctifying moody, brooding catechisms.

Scott H. Biram - Bad Ingredients

Raw, rambling laments and roaring, storming bulletproof blues turn what often is Biram and one guitar into a cut-throat road-house smack-down. Tinderbox tempests unravel midnight confessions as ragged sour-mash mojo seeks open roads and honest hearts through rambunctious redemption. Covering Lightnin’ Hopkins and Bill Monroe, “Bad,” flags punk-roots magic from authentic Texas desperation, stirring gutbucket gumbo into fast-talking grifter wisdom

Brown Bird - Salt for Salt

Somber and sensual, brisk gypsy jigs saw bluesy two-steps and woodsy rocking-chair tattletales conjuring back-porch baptisms from sawdust dance-floors. The East Coast duo’s raspy pluck, rosin-heavy flights and twisted tempos season blackwater stomps. Boosted by devilish bravado, “Salt,” bows and curtsey, bone-thin and thirsty, packing galloping insights into gossip-bound ghost stories, wily waltzes where goblin gauchos prance, scamper and canter.

Band of Bees - Every Step’s A Yes

Deep-shag folk-pop and chameleonic conga lines meander through cosmic jukeboxes extolling unburdened bliss powered by boundless curiosity as, “Yes,” nets leisurely achievements for Britain’s drowsy dabblers. Speculating over cavernous psychedelic jug-bands and subtle Afro-Cuban dueling, The Bees’ poppy-field jamboree gracefully conjure a splendid blend of humble, hummable campfire head-trips subverted into tropical daydreams drizzled in unhesitating harmonies and fretful tenderness.

Blackout Beach - Fuck Death

Cave-dwelling rebellions breath visceral visions from ghostly oceans, sociopathic passengers decipher slow-boiling coils of queasy frequencies, “Death,” catches digital crickets in yawning melancholy. Post-victory aftermaths reenact tawdry odysseys with desperate absolution, slithering in withering synths and eviscerated electronic evangelism. BB’s shackled tabernacle harvests karmic ghouls, harsh guitars, fading aid and wheezing pulses dissolving in transistorized sighs and grimy sine-wave mysteries.

Robin Bacior - Rest Our Wings

Darting flocks of fleeting thoughts trot, wobble and swoon, “Wings,” brings refreshing delicacy to nomadic sadness. Reliable but pliable styles plucked from jazz, country and pop lift Bacior’s lilting bicoastal moments through rollicking waltzes, shy ballads and prancing chamber-folk flights. Swaying tempos surge and swell like woozy ocean waves rolling over crinoline-brushed piano, frisky gypsy strings and preening acoustic guitar.

Sean Bones - Buzzards Boy

A supernatural marriage of big hooks soaked in friendly chemistry, “Buzzards,” brims with polished tropical obstacles trapping crafty afterthoughts. Upbeat outbreaks and laid-back ransacks beam beat-sweet hippie trips grooving to savvy showmanship. Rafter-crashing bedroom pop, slippery indie-rock and revved-up modern reggae contribute to the blue sky vibe hatching fissionable visions Bones knits together with daring flair and festooned savoir faire.

Cory Branan - Mutt

Six years since his last full-length - Memphis-bred songwriter Branan’s greasy ease with table-turning wit, scrappy toe-tappers and husky-voiced hosannas polishes tarnished carnage from broken Romeos and saddle-sore Cinderellas. Grizzled whispers undercut raging impatience peppering renegade serenades and Tex-Mex sketches, “Mutt,” skulks behind sobering dobros, E Street orchestrations and wistful strings for endearing dog-eared diplomacy, despondent correspondence and whip-smart country-rock.

Black Moth Super Rainbow - Cobra Juicy

Plastered in plastic and slathered in magic, “Cobra,” strikes glowing proto-disco poses, rubberized brain-wave foghorns riding tripped-out caramel carousels immersed in smeared weirdness, funky crunches and melted squelch.  Grinding auto-tuned teases dressed in oily foliage and rainbow grease. BMSR’s nano-bot pop knits chrome bones to marshmallow flesh doused in glitter, heaving beats lacquered in saccharine diving deep into lava-lamp lakes.

Bambounou - Orbiting

Brittle digital disco-militant turned knob-twiddling citizen, Chinatown Parisian Bambounou paints acrylic breezes inside robot-driven legions, tapping pneumatic habits and punctuated passions through plastic-wrapped splashes and dribbling squiggles. Chicago House boxed and restocked, swift clicks stitch while palpitating synths squawk, peripatetic actions packing funky false-starts sends, “Orbiting,” off the charts plotting twitching minimalist partnerships between icy flights and scalding hip-hop gestalt.

Black Forest Fire - Transit of Venus

Sweet bee-hive vibes float, coat, storm and swarm conjuring corrosive hypnosis from free-floating jangle, “Transit,” channels rapturous aftermaths past sizzling six-string narcolepsy enlisting rumbling drums, skittery riffs and ghost-riddled vocals to mobilize BFF’s spongy alt-rock stunners. Cushioned in vertigo-inducing diversions, the Austin trio’s effusive debut swoops, dives and glides in half-abandoned rambles, landing in undemanding reverie and stolen candy-coated emotions.

Brown Bird - Fits of Reason

Wicked intricacy provides grizzly intimacy among cleansing frenzies as, “Fits,” whips tricky electric licks and timid minstrel picking into haunted gallows night-tripping. Frisky gypsy fiddle and gritty twisted guitar canter and spar while Spanish tangents planted in galloping arabesques duel curdling Turkish minuets; BB’s smoke-house atonements stoke brimstone moments inside smoldering poetry woven from unrestrained flamencos washed in global hobo-folk.

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