Slipped Discs

Wand - Laughing Matter

Exploratory story-tellers, L.A.‘s Wand rock jam-band bangers and space-folk head-trips, spreading electric medicine by mashing heavenly frenzy from math-rock flash into epic splash-down psychedelia spanning grand, mechanical fantasies and anxious, impatient improvisations. Lost inside friendly schizophrenia, “Matters,” rattles, straddles and roars with stammering mantras building into sizzling six-string siroccos only to fade quietly among cryptic wizard’s riddles riding long-distance bliss.

Weyes Blood - Titanic Rising

Lush, air-brushed constructs papered in three-layered prayers and cross-stitched wishes, the radiant, “Rising,” reaches for embraceable transcendence past unseen horizons warmed in weather-beaten sunbeams and pitch-bent redemption. Forward-looking and nostalgic, Weyes Blood’s comforting bell-bottom ballads, tweaked in sweetheart country-rock and frosted in seventies ballroom pop, gently envelope sumptuous swirls with breathless momentum while guiding climbing song-lines into sublime musical design.

Ainslie Wills - All You Have Is All You Need

Savvy ballads powered by subtly tumultuous sophistication, “Need,” sneaks fleeting details into tender heart-wrenching chemistry, taming multiple hungers through rich, empathetic vocals and smart, spirited lyrics, driving heartbeat percussion and lofty chamber-pop arrangements. Blessed in expressive restlessness, Wills builds teasing intrigue from intimate simplicity with grand candle-lit piano and head-spinning synths bursting into thirsty dance-floor grooves from lush, hypnotic solace.

Chelsea Wolfe - Birth of Violence

From hallowed to harrowing, Wolfe’s unholy folk hosts throaty subterranean ghosts channeling incandescent animals prowling around divine shrines; mythic predicaments floating in glowing omens and soaked in soul-baring prayer. Visceral riches twist, enrich and bewitch with lusty bluster and sizzling whispering while the sophisticated, “Violence,” casts silk nets over raging seas; trembling requiems scored in scorched mourning and glorious euphoria. 

Devon Welsh - True Love

Personal searches versed in complex moods, “True,” brews tactfully monastic passions with pondering honesty, plush constructions buffed with minimal stimulus and maximum impact. A naked voice that aches to divulge stubborn secrets, Welsh swells in embellished telepathy, ravishing pathos and secular connections, mesmerizing with openness and purity, candid transparency lit with cathedral candles and layered in weightless, storied moral inventories.

Ben Watt - Storm Damage

Cradling stony consolation, patient contemplation and stylish reprisal, “Damage,” seeks dependable serenity through row-house prose proposing reflective perspective; grounded pronouncements treading weathered memories entrenched in tender contentions, select recollections and candid family defenses.  Cloaked in minimal synths, slithering bass guiding flickering rhythms and teasing keyboards, Watt’s watchful observations walk between folk and soul, mining the past while embracing the future.

Wax Chattels - Clot

Tactile blasting-caps unmask ferocious commotion among rampant rants, angular angst and prog-punk conundrums, aligning Wax Chattels’ grinding minefield zeal to fine-tuned minutiae unleashed into industrial wormholes and snooze-alarm tsunamis. Risky vindictive outbursts seething in diabolic mosh-pit tolerance, “Clot,” rocks bruising, stupefying counterrevolutions; anxious impatience reined in and directed into white-knuckle combustion teetering between stark barking catharsis and funky expunged grunge.

M. Ward - Think of Spring

Fragile magic casting mellow spells, Ward turns Billie Holiday classics into discerning interpretations for voice and acoustic guitar, spotlighting hesitant regrets and pressing confessions through timid insinuating minimalism. Hip, cool, and wise while pining, lost in lover’s limbo, “Spring,” swings in sighing hindsight and fond farewells; intricate, sophisticated blues left at the altar dressed in nuanced truth and warm regards.

William the Conqueror - Maverick Thinker

Boxcar heartache rumbling in weathered leathery roadhouse blow-outs, “Thinker,” swings in rustic shuffles rocking lonesome locomotion with gritty vision, slithering commitments and fleece-lined teases. Cool bruisers and Faustian roust-abouts, William The Conqueror chase steam-powered demons in roots-infused collusion, streetwise preachers blessed in pithy expressions and dressed in grinning brimstone shakedowns for rowdy congregations seeking greasy hobo poetry for stone-cold showdowns.

Martha Wainwright - Love Will Be Reborn

Compassionate rapture encapsulated in volatile country-folk opuses, voracious vocalist Wainwright ventures past preening bleeding hearts, vanquished anguish and ravenous tragedies into transformative warnings adorned in transcendent magnificence; brutal beauty shining in uncompromising defiance. Orchestrated in divine rip-tide flourishes, the gorgeous, “Reborn,” cleanses weathered contentions, writhing, conspiring and prying open consuming wounds while piecing together tenuous remnants replenished in ephemeral remembrances.

We Were Promised Jetpacks - Enjoy The View

Heart-wrenching Zen bending grand rock melancholy into life-affirming whirlwinds, “View,” holds tenderness inside a tempest; subsiding, colliding and confiding in plaintive refrains hanging onto dear life among tremolo-soaked guitars and sine-wave synths. Flushed in muscular bluster and raging in heavenly embraces, WWPJ’s intimate vigilance rushes from apologetic to hyper-kinetic, rescued crooners swinging hard with out-stretched hand anthems underwriting clenched-fist grooves.

The Wombats - Fix Yourself Not The World

Erudite court jesters postulating brave mania while populating metaphorical stories with cock-eyed logic and flash-mob glamour, The Wombats announce private thoughts with demonstrative aplomb; devil’s advocates and savvy satirists jimmying pithy aphorisms into buff, customized pop-rock. A party record for intellectual refugees, yuppie nerds and polyester lotus-eaters, “Fix,” twists convincing epiphanies into pulp-fiction pop-quizzes, smooth clues included in crackerjack ear-candy.

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