Slipped Discs

Luke Temple - Don’t Act Like You Don’t Care

Folksy consoling grooves caressed in essential sentiments, the Here We Go Magic mastermind turns gurgling turmoil into upbeat Talmudic jamborees. Nestling old-fashioned passions, “Don’t Act,” frames love-pangs against organic harmonics and honest optimism, bending tender amends into lively unguarded pardons through layered nuance. Wavering between humble and grand, Temple’s intimate minimalism, scores fleeting, deeply textured tunes from faint, dainty serenades. Luke plays Chicago’s Lincoln Hall October 18th with CANT.

Treefight for Sunlight - A Collection of Vibrations for your Skull

Brimming with spinning day-glo piano runs, trippy choirboy whimsy and tumbling pop-rock glee, TFS’s cartwheel zeal manifests youthful truths into carefree catalysts; magical infatuations spawning epic fascinations, arm-stretching sections nestling plush harmonies over Danish retro-psychedelia. Crashing clouds of angelic after-thoughts led by radiant sages, “Vibrations,” bounces merrily knitting rainbow ballets stoked in action-packed happiness, shimmering hymns kicking in quivering climaxes

Thenewno2 - thefearofmissingout

Sci-fi spies trolling dream-soaked decadence, gregarious guttersnipes, Thenewno2 spin grinning, systemic webs dredged in sweat and edgy threats; cautionary tales from predatory explorers. A gangly chain of tawdry flotsam looped into haughty admonishments, “thefearofmissingout.” packs Blade Runner stunners slithering in illicit dimness and slowly glowing boasts orbiting sizzling visions dripping in lizard-rock trickery and floundering fantasy ground from blurry underworld-blues.

Tamaryn - Tender New Signs

Swimming in glittering crinkle, prismatic clatter and narcotic jangle, Tamaryn’s astringent hints commences sensuous squalor luring metallic salads, warp speed nose-dives and mermaid mirages into sumptuous acid-baked spider webs. Buoyant blasts undulating in hypnotic implosions, “Tender,” surrenders, remembers and seduces, sparkling darkness unearthing cavernous shadows wrapped in cellophane waves, ghost noir strewn among galactic goth, dimensionless dementia and psychedelic salvation.

Teni - Afrodisiac

Afro-Cuban fusions dipped in seductive percussion, midnight horns mournfully cornering soul-jazz labyrinths, “Afrodisiac,” matches soothing coos to tempting tempos for cool musical jewels swayed by reggae and bathed in highlife. Generous, spirited and softly persuasive, Teni’s Nigerian roots and London birth bridges global traditions with feminist wisdom, an earth-mother enchantress doling bold, lavish mantras through bewitching sophistication and sultry funk. 

Tegan and Sara - Heartthrob

Moving from their adorably uproarious indie-pop past into the slick, mega-watt synth-rock of, “Heartthrob,” Canadian’s beat-driven twins blossom from diary-fired pen-pals to incendiary scene-stealers. Burning with lustful thrusts, smoldering condolences and torrid choruses, the sisters still manage to earn sympathetic connections and admirable allies. Infectious and perceptive, Tegan and Sara play Madison’s Orpheum February 24th and Milwaukee’s Pabst March 7th

Tin Cup Serenade - Tragic Songs of Hope

Sizzling calypso, sad jazz and spiffy Dixieland spritzers make the subtly bubbly, “Hope,” float over champagne smirks, foxy nods and manicured purrs. Coy, buoyant jive slides behind laid-back cats packing hot tropical options, TCS’s witty sophistication lounge atop finessed burlesque; cheeky, scat-happy patter tumbles from languid mambos to casual rags inserting modern takes on swinging traditions for blissful retro-hipster commissions.

Trentemøller - Lost

Techno-driven symphonies spawn slippery epiphanies as skulking sonics apply jungle cunning to withering rhythms; “Lost,” offers grueling subterfuge hidden in subversive interludes, electric tempests ripe in cyborg orchestras exploring shrewd grooves. Insidious, sumptuous and irresistible, Trentemøller’s rumbling trance-rock earthquakes and chilled reptilian soundscapes deliver beautifully kinky delinquency; elaborate labyrinths built beneath elastic theatrics unmasking minor-key majesty trimmed in baffling catastrophes.

Emiliana Torrini - Tookah

Painting bewitching pictures in post-millennial folk-pop, “Tookah,” produces an organic assortment of slinky jazz-chick calypso, willowy astral-ballads and sleek dance-beat rallies. A cross-pollinating angel piloting gentle landings under starry skies, Torrini’s cabaret princess carves delicious candle-lit synthesis slithering in flickering rhythms; silky, electro-pixie whimsy spins sophisticated dangers into sumptuous comforts as ravishing passions coated in mischievous teases net refreshing pleasures.

Maria Taylor - Something about Knowing

Sultry magnolia vocals spawning hush haunted thoughtfulness, “Knowing,” bestows its lush lullaby sighs inside wise replies, caressing confessions and nurturing purrs. A sweet dreamy folk-pop filly filling aching hearts with cantering kindnesses, Taylor sails through life’s twists and turns riding gallivanting melodies into heavy-lidded bliss; lovingly tumbling over frolicking alt-rock trysts armed with self-assured charm, harmonious balms and sizzling riffs.

Alexander Turnquist - Flying Fantasy

Twelve-string inspirations arranged around classical instruments and modern electronics; master guitarist Turnquist composes sparkling armor whose tight-knit bliss calm and excite, curious flurries that circle and take flight. Stirring churning murmurs, “Fantasy,” gallantly dallies; Zen engines bending and blending into dappled catacombs; mystical, cyclical hives buzzing in resounding rounds, doused in quivering rhythms and plucked like weeds from still-water dreams.

Turn to Crime - Can’t Love

Jack-hammered spooks grooving on chill-punk gotham-rock, the Detroit trio Turn to Crime’s charred barrage slithers in dank midnight sizzle; amniotic zombie soundtracks scrounging for seedy psychosis chasing impatient basement jollies. Flirting in diverting mercies, spastic gymnastics and minimalist kismet; “Can’t,” plants tattered mavericks in subterranean craniums as cage-rattling blasts poach kettle-quivering rhythms moving a mesmerizing hysteria headlong into post-modern purgatory.

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