Slipped Discs

Porches - The House

Wooed in precious auto-tuned swoons fluttering over freshly-plucked percussion and subtle sultry synths, “House,” hosts sophisticated tastes whose aches quake and memories tremble; bon vivant savants’ tender architectural splendor supporting liquid glass tapestries poured over beseeching cotton-candy balladry. Heaven-sent sentimentalist Porches presents spellbound sonics surrounding emotional quandaries and haunting promise. The cyber-phantom romantic plays Madison’s High Noon Saloon February 23rd.

Public Memory - Demolition

Velvet neon streaked across galvanized clockwork, “Demolition,” blends ancient anchorless pangs into precise rhythmic devices for luscious zig-zag schematics infiltrating cool sonic fogs. Submitting shimmering images sinking in impoverished economy, billowing in silhouettes and tangled in directionless dimensions, Public Memory interjects fishbowl ghosts broaching cybernetic etiquette with mobile claustrophobia,  lost, vacuum-sealed lightning rods smoldering under stainless glazes and frosty blue-prints. 

Tim Presley's White Fence - I Have to Feed Larry’s Hawk

Gritty, jittery surf-twang dirges crash irrational art-punk passions into casual goth-pop pathos as Presley’s baroque-folk mojo floats unhinged flings past refracted realities with eerie calm and devilish delirium. Rocked in cock-eyed ironies, analogue anarchy and supernatural theatrics, “Larry’s,” packs fractured twilight torch-songs around tender demented wig-outs; slow-drip trips shaking off memory-lane mind-games with trans-dimensional calliopes, flubber-toughened bass and ricochet-rattled guitars.

Rozi Plain - What A Boost

Ghost-jazz serenity coasts in seamless tonal flows painted bright with uncanny poise superimposed over immaculate alien fairy-tales; “Boost,” boots soft narcotic software rinsed in whispered swinging, manicured splurges and game-maker restraint. Hushed, art-pop hymns sprout horns in formal proportions as tactful mastermind Rozi Plain plots, flip-flops and slow-bops, hosting tasteful, post-modern world-beat roaming in golden ratios, raving beneath well-behaved races.

Palehound - Black Friday

United in jaunty indie-pop conjugation and earnest, burgeoning soul-searching, Palehound’s multi-tasking aspirations connect reflective second-guesses to thirsty curiosity where timid self-image tends tender envy with verbal caresses redressing fleshy blessings. Demonstrable confidence celebrating fragile valor through visceral descriptions hip to shared joys, the tangibly candid, “Friday,”  transforms humble, home-demo authenticity into sophisticated engagements balancing patient postmortem refrains alongside full-bodied rebuttals.

Possible Humans - Everybody Split

Splintered six-string acrobatics barreling through estranged jangle as militant rhythms charge toward sordid destinations, “Split,” rips and sniffs garage-rock riffs with anxious disdain and scholarly mockery, terse head-first affronts by tough punks flexing jam-band flair. A churning whirling finely-tuned unit, Possible Humans scatter a basket packed in flashy influences, spicing up simmering opinions with live-wire pig-piles and rambling carny double-talk.

Pretend Collective - Pretend Collective

Cornered formulas morphing crackling day-tripping narratives into thoughtful yacht-rock holidays, “Pretend,” befriends memorable templates decorating electric rodeos and paisley parades in work-week secrets and slow-burning concerns. Rallying ballads dipped in hazy persuasions co-opt pop conventions and sprinkle winks among earnest coercion as the eclectic Pretend Collective sprinkles slightly sinister melancholy into time-warped stories supported by cavorting metaphors and sneaky clichés. 

Lee "Scratch" Perry - Heavy Rain

Rock-steady grooves moving beneath phantom chants, haunted harmonica and sad brass, “Rain,” rains, “Soldiers collecting souls,” and “Children of the Night,” over slippery redemption days blazing in faith served by curdling serpentine certainty. Karmic shaman Perry’s scrubbed dub companion to this year’s revelatory, “Rainford,” welcomes mothership liberations; baptized night-walker trance channeling blessed messages through loose, echo-chamber complacency and studio-proven juju.

Poliça - When We Stay Alive

Lulled hungers gnawing on sleepless dreams, Poliça’s celestial velvet electro-pop sprinkles frosty possibilities over slow mirrorball burns, crystal teardrop trip-hop for lacquered insomniacs hijacking midnight soul trains to meet imaginary lovers. Blithe spirits writhing beneath iridescent skies, “Alive,” smolders in secret meetings, tribal fires and aloof grooves; tastefully pacing through shifting mazes inside computer-made jungle barricades designed for agile passion.

Purity Ring - Womb

Infused in slippery grooves coveting uprooted muses and VR fantasies, “Womb,” wraps studio-flavored layers around cellophane sounds from enticing sequined sirens luring with glitch-inflicted purrs, space-age reverb and slow lubricated bass. Cotton-candy mantras from ocean ghosts patrolling distant discos, Purity Ring hints, winks and whispers inside hovering nightclubs, sub-orbital appointments prowling around holographic clouds cradling electro-pop angels and trip-hop rainbows.

Pine Barons - Mirage on the Meadow

Risky trysts gifted in grand New Wave riffs wrung from psychedelic sideshows, “Mirage,” charges, barges, barks and barters, fostering tooth and claw rock inside fist-pumped power-pop and spawning dance-floor swansongs from underdog anthems. Choirboy voyagers and passionate navigators, Pine Barons engage and upstage, swinging casual theatrics from desperate precipices, on the verge insurgency partnering with exalted posture and enterprising empathy.

Pom Poko - Cheater

Swinging time signature wig-outs couched in crushed fuzz, “Cheater,” breeches and screeches crunching rambunctious punk and tumble-pop assaults into exuberant alt-rock chop-suey served with anointed cartoon counterpoint. Guitar-wielding Norwegian teasers and spunky bounce-house funkateers, Pom Poko conspire in wiry time-bombs; elastic tomboy bombast paving crazy paisley mayhem with brittle playground pick-ups sprinkled in slick ricochets, hurricane mania and wicked hiccups.

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