Slipped Discs

Fanfarlo - Let’s Go Extinct

An orchestral collection bridging melodic-pop odysseys and blue-eyed space-age soul, Fanfarlo’s gloriously cordial morsels dissolve in sugar-coated opuses dipped in bittersweet majesty. A merciful circus rich in handsome anthems, debonair fanfares and suave hurrahs, “Extinct,” unflinchingly mixes tender indulgences tumbling from charismatic waxing against muscular pulses racing in sumptuous runs. The London-based quartet plays Madison’s High Noon Saloon April 8th.

Frog - Kind of Blah

Country-river folk spinning skinny-dipping syllogisms from hot-tip hipsters and daydreaming beatniks, “Blah,” shadow-babbles in swirling pop-culture skullduggery surfing an eclectic fusion of runaway sentences, nervous diversions and murmured worries. Rambling jam-band acoustics canoodle into sunny indie-rock wonder bundling Frog’s vernacular spectaculars into exquisite hillbilly shape-shifters curating meandering pandemonium from literate misfits for a contorted multi-storied voyage sailing furiously curious purges.

Fruit Bats - Absolute Loser

Wry insights tucked inside casual attitudes, “Absolute,” captures classic cinematic waxing where starry-eyed melodies sail faithfully around troubadour-infused chamber-folk. Turning alt-country assumptions into candied Americana whose kind primal comforts warm and restore in strummed guitars and sweeping strings, FB’s Eric Johnson tussles with probing roving shuffles and sophisticated serenades, proving equally adept at meandering panhandler ballads and cultivated indie-pop homilies.

Rae Fitzgerald - Popular Songs for Wholesome Families

Sequestered with questions and plagued by doubts, patient, sanctioned tales drift in cozy proposals and humane refrains while, “Wholesome,” promotes hopeful moments in hand-holding folk and frail, sophisticated soul. Confronting uncomfortable feelings with bare-boned poems gathered from tarnished karma, Fitzgerald builds strong confident pleads for intimate release, achieving subdued resolution after fever-breaking heartache cautiously launches tantalizing analysis over waltzing indie-pop.

Flock of Dimes - If You See Me Say Yes

Rooted in soft, buttery coos spread over glitzy, pedal-box loops, “Yes,” chirps, shimmies and percolates; angel-arranged choirs concocting modern comedies whose tender surrenders on rainbow-covered dance-floors capture deeper meanings among inescapable feelings. Zapped in dizzying inspirations, Wye Oak’s Jenn Wasner’s side-project’s spring-board chords, careening sequences and braided cascades spew cellophane daisy-chains lining daring designs with thrilling frills and sensitive revelations

Ian Fitzgerald - You Won’t Even Know I’m Gone

With a Shakespearean ear for fated turn-abouts and karmic comeuppance. Fitzgerald’s wry asides and respectable skepticism turn back-storied morality plays and tongue-twisted parables into stainless-steel honky-tonk detailing small-town heart-break, self-destructive desires and guilty-pleasure complications. The strong, wiry, “Gone,” present pithy ditties in philosophical scuffles with double-dipped wit fitting crafted, diplomatic passions encapsulating everyday characters with crossroad anecdotes and daring narratives.

Sallie Ford - Soul Sick

Surf-twang spit mixed with skiffle-riddled blues and punk-country gumption laced in boardwalk organ grinds; Ford subtly incorporates soul-sister back-up singers and braying hepcat horns to leverage vintage signature sounds into bawdy solace, howling accounting and smoldering testimonials. A rootsy groovy rock ‘n roll rodeo, “Sick,” whips juke-joint jive into revivalist pile-ups brimming in tart, razor-sharp whimsy and smarmy, charming camaraderie.

Fake Shark - Faux Real

Non-stop power-pop frolics in hyperbolic gimmick-rich shtick, uncorking Fake Shark’s ultra-catchy packages of spring-loaded ear-worms and hook-riddled rock-outs. From crunchy funk shot out of a cannon to auto-tuned struts flushed with cheeky pleads keen on creamy harmonies and glitch-inflicted party-rock, “Real,” squeals in wicked wit, indulging endless remedies for an audacious mental vacation booked with smarmy charm and kinetic cool.

F ingers - Awkwardly Blissing Out

Ghost-motioned notions floating over fizzled glitches download pre-natal fables from electro-static catalysts rallying proto-metallic crickets in rippling micro-rhythms; the aqueous, “Blissing,” bobs in inquisitive synchronized minimalism backlit in embryonic sonics. Pagan spacemen creeping through fleeting, shoe-gazed mazes, F ingers wrings Krautrock kabuki from abducted fluctuations glazed in intermittent symmetry, splashing harsh sparse departures among serene dreams and burnt-out fuse-box ambience.

Florist - If Blue Could Be Happiness

Feathery folk-pop fortresses subtly shaded in dawning electronics, Florist nurtures sun-soaked hopes in honeyed buzz, building breezy reasons out of gentle requests and wide-eyed flights; sentimental recollections lending sensitive reflections to smooth, acoustic revelations. Backyard guitars plucked in sweet, diary-inspired innocence weaves between timid synths tinted in wildflower whimsy, as, “Happiness,” hatches tentative connections, waking sleepy daydreams from wondrous slumber.

Friendship - Shock Out of Season

Tweaked in sneaky steel-guitar whose tranquil coos harbor casually rhymed lines from still-water conversations, the candid, low-key Friendship sails over electronic prairies with chill skills suspending bendable endings in calm, transcendent intensity. Winding mindfulness spoken over slippery smooth grooves, “Shock,” quivers in quiet writer’s revelry rippling among passive analysis, methodical plots and hazy persuasions offering simmering glimpses into early-morning memories.

Ezra Furman - Transangelic Exodus

Quirky, acerbic burlesque reviving glitter-bomb funk with savage back-catalog swagger, “Transangelic,” telegraphs juicy velvet-crushed struts around tortured misfortune while ravenous tramp-rock pageantry jars in joyous flamboyance. Show-biz kisses tied to misfit wit, Furman’s dishy disclosures turned uninhibited smack-downs crackle in pop-culture sass and revel in devilish truths; exposing trauma to karma on drum-machine pulpits in hook-heavy temples with street-wise choirs.

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