Slipped Discs

Holy - All These Worlds Are Yours

Paisley-upholstered roller-coasters tie epic messages to dashing crashes, melting thundering crescendos into zany bangers with dizzying synchronicity and pivoting divinity as, Holy’s blown-minds anoint orchestrated head-trips in bell-bottom bluster and power-pop counter-point. Gorgeous distortion filtered through kaleidoscopic thoughts wrapped around astral blasts and flashback panache, “Worlds,” curls in swirling cut-and-paste riffs from mythic witnesses switching cosmic melancholy for blissful well-wishing.

Here Lies Man - You Will Know Nothing

Chugging jungle thunder plants head-banging chants among high-strung drum-lines weighing, “Nothing,” with festival heaviness whose rich rhythms spin rattle-snake earthquakes and ravenous Saturday Afrobeat raves. A thick stomp-rock stew cooked in psychedelic underbellies, Here Lies Man construct riff-rich rituals around bluesy boogies and heavy-metal head-butts, combining power, grit and agility to scoop hallucinogenic get-downs from tribe-inspired parties celebrating iron-clad madness.

Kristin Hersh - Possible Dust Clouds

By enlisting singed incantations with misfit rhythms and sixth-sense experiments, the raw, innovative “Clouds,” rains taunt, indie-rock over meta-fiction revelations and character-driven mysticism; restoring and exploring mind-melting narratives backed by crafted catastrophe and cast-iron imaginations. A wonderfully unconventional guitarist and lyricist, Hersh thrusts, bucks and tugs, building exorcised lies into industrial shuffles and constructing untamed therapeutic grooves from ghostly psychosis.

Hand Habits - placeholder

Spotlessly evocative waif-pop folk-rock, “placeholder,” sprinkles whole-grain psycho-twang glitter over well-fed bohemian beds blessed in wall-to-wall melancholy and polished in life-learned mercy.  Aching in patience and woozy with rumination, Hand Habits’ appetite for mellow magic produces tasty licks, condensed sentiments and caressing chords; wind-tossed willow wisdom refracting passive windowsill considerations into water-nymph symphonies where sparkling downstream daydreams become sun-ripened masterpieces.

Ralph Heidel - Moments of Resonance

Germany’s Heidel leads the collective Homo Ludens into knitting-needle cathedrals housing sharp scissoring rhythms, spacious chamber-music infusions and crashing cinematic windfalls. Fashioned from brooding jazz, sweeping classical bombast, collapsible ballet and Geiger-counter trance, “Resonance,” pounces in pondered reconnaissance; intuitive movements chasing break-through conclusions through enigmatic rapture, heralding swelling peril lurking in prog-rock preludes and trick-or-treat suites livid in devilish relish.

Hælos - Any Random Kindness

Sensual leopards riding coded messages over aerobic kaleidoscopes, “Random,” panders, flexing expectations and tempting chance connections with purring exertions flaunting rhythmic charisma in steamy bedroom overtures under night-fueled mirror-balls. Near-tribal street-parties fading into cosmic flotsam, Hælos mixes musical mosaics from fluid tug-of-war dialogues, promenading prayers whose receding pleads ebb and flow, stretched over synth-pop chasms and sprinkled in lyrical catch-phrases.

Jesca Hoop - Stonechild

Traipsing in thorny fields with lantern-lit lyrics peering into family histories, “Stonechild,” rides rustic percussion over choral swarms with dainty language framing prancing enchantments and Arcadian chamber-pop cascades trotting past fascinating pagan parades. Electro-acoustic dreaminess decorates spirited philosophical operas while Hoop swoops in bewitching chills and prog-folk thrills, cross-stitching tranquil fables from mischievous melodies bending sensitive menace around maternal concerns.

Marika Hackman - Any Human Friends

Brawny, chameleonic pop asserting strong-worded verse into sultry declarations, Hackmann back-hands the establishment expressing diabolical gender politics whose smooth moves hide hard truths. Harmonies harboring cultivated barks dance beneath torch-song longing while cosmopolitan pondering flutters in overt flirting, turning, “Friends,” into frank, sweet menace colored in slow-burning funk; mutual-consent temptations bathed in tuneful ingenuity, coaxing emotional resonance from heady hallucinations.

Jenny Hval - The Practice of Love

Playful and provocative, Norwegian novelist and evocative sonic adventurer Hval juxtaposes persistent rhythmic flow with inquisitive philosophical prose, taming origami angels whose pressing questions bend and fold into majestic revelations; coded poetry posing unfinished riddles. Sensuous fantasy planted in mind-expanding mantras, “Practice,” packages pensive transcendence with earthy images, stacking florid organic mysteries with perplexing reflections, impenetrable connections and perceptive conjecture.

Hiss Golden Messenger - Terms of Surrender

Born from dive-bar backrooms and blue-collar bayous, Hiss Golden Messenger’s lonely indie-folk holds deep-fried asides against gritty blacksmith licks, free-range tumbleweed twang strung from barb-wired country and roots-bruised blues. Rugged hungers fed thankful banquets, “Surrender,” values valor, neighborhood labors and noble fellowship devoted to roadhouse shuffles bathed in Hammond organ and rambling self-examinations woven with hard-won truths and trust-worthy verses.

Hurt Valley - Glacial Pace

Good-natured scoundrels, shaggy string-band brethren Hurt Valley leads ghost-town honky-tonk from pioneer cheer to hobo emo, thick with braided guitar licks and starry minor-key harmonies. Rolling-hill road-trips through Zen-centered relationships conjuring intricate rest-stop rambles radiating stray bohemian dreams, “Pace,” grazes sunrise highways, kicking up dust with wagon-train refrains in urban cowboy cadence, washing waltzing folk-rock off-spring in heady riverbed sedatives.

Houses of Heaven - Silent Places

Whirlwind warlocks, fallen hobgoblins and metallic talisman circle hard-wired bonfires as Houses of Heaven’s drugged spark-plugs ride reckless techno-pagan waves sprayed in rattling factory malice and etched in rampant interplanetary anvils. Subterranean synths pinned in solemn robo-pulses dance around thunder-dome percussion piloted by glacial masons, plummeting, “Silent,” from elusive pursuits to ambient panic, half-cocked stalker-rock wrapped in urgent, nervous worry.

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