Slipped Discs

The History of Apple Pie - Feel Something

Raucous frosted Britpop anarchy glazed in porcelain voices, buzz-saw guitars and rampaging bass, bull-riding china-dolls THOAP grind through divine side-show glamour with fuzzed-out jousts around wiry New Wave may-poles. Capturing frazzled carousels spinning in paisley mayhem, “Feel,” reels in snap, crackle and pop, unfastening gung-ho poses around reckless psychedelics; coy, turbo-charged laments played cool, laid low and catchy as hell.

Avi Buffalo - At Best Cuckold

Lofty pop-rock toffee well-versed in majestic modesty, “Cuckold,” sports side-winding stories spiced in lyrical curve-balls and electric fireworks; a tender independence ascending from hungry imaginations lavished in biographical avarice. Wide-eyed and sure-handed, Avi Buffalo’s sophomore foray solidifies jangly band mechanics with living by your wits wisdom and gentle folk-poet moments powered by an unquenchable curiosity, uplifting sympathy and brilliant resilience.

Ex Hex - Rips

Shotgun pop-rock fire roaring chords and tricky riffs as, “Rips,” trips in guitar-powered powders showered in barracuda cool and driven with seductive friction. Bossy posses plying the raucous art of ominous harmonics, Ex Hex’s sparring darlings toss delicious barb-wired hooks baited in amazing zing, air-brushed lust and late-night flings packed in glitter-punk crunch, passion-trashed flash and polished New Wave cravings.

Steve Gunn - Way Out Weather

Organic, multi-stringed folk-symphonies seethe in slithering space-blues figures anchored in wriggling gringo rhythms; Gunn’s chattering talisman groove in elaborate slabs of tubular nuance. An unfettered zoo wild with collaborative habitats, “Weather,” churns electric devils from avenging crescendos; jammy candied banshees roasted in campfire crackle and dry-wood moan, baking tasty bandit-rock from sunny alt-country cunning, quicksilver shadows running under reclusive guru-roots.

Martin Carr - The Breaks

A perceptive pop pariah, plundering jukebox wunderkind Carr’s uncanny knack for rapturous rhapsodies brews crooning magpie stews steeped in aptly-turned phrases painting ingenious scenery and ultra-melodic blossoms falling from hummable humanist tumbles. Guided by a scavenger’s waggish navigation, “Breaks,” traipse British quips around ironic wit, bubblegum fuzz and sumptuous chamber-jangle; slyly colliding upbeat epiphanies into cheeky sympathies and colorful imagery.

The Shivas - You Know What To Do

Radical slackers mashing fab platters from the early sixties, The Shivas shake, rattle and roll with rousing garage-rock raves and shaggy surf-punk parades stomping on irreverent teen-age angst through reverb-soaked hillbilly blues, juvie beatnik strolls and party-hardy basement doo-wop. Carrying a torch for scorching R&B rip-offs, “You Know,” revs up barb-wired twang for some back-lot boogaloo steeped in rapturous nostalgia.

Lace Curtains - A Signed Piece of Paper

Flying off the page, the wry, slightly sinister mug-shot pop-rock inside, “Paper,” delivers underhanded candor, footloose truths and gritty hubris with a journalist’s eye for detail and a crooner’s ear for tunes. Hep-cat chit-chat to rile up the riff-raff, Austin-based Lace Curtain’s clever squirrel-cage case studies uncover underground scoundrels among groovy sleuths; employing hard-luck pluck to construct solid, rollicking ruckus.

Torn Hawk - Let’s Cry and Do Pushups At The Same Time

Embryonic buzz-saws mount chattering catalysts as, “Pushups,” ricochets between cyber-writhing synths, fiendish drum-machines and thrashing axes mastering chain reactions; laser-guided geysers pump short-circuited quirks over spring-loaded explosions raining pulsating mayhem beneath well-crafted commotion. Micro-managing cinematic sound-factories, flight-controlling maestro Luke Wyatt aka Torn Hawk swoops down on a polyglot of runaway nanobot fantasies whose playfully layered mazes surround collapsing musical maps.

Buzzcocks - The Way

Backed by a new drummer and bassist; songwriters and founding members Shelley and Diggle storm the palace gates with curt pertinent couplets and snarling barroom guitars. Blunt pop-laden punk spiced with decisive social dissection, “The Way,” blazes through breathless rock testaments written by hungry class-ravaged curmudgeons ripe for a fight and armor-plated statesmen armed with forthright bite and open-hearted bark.

Trash Kit - Confidence

Deliriously fearless, gate-crashing Brits, Trash Kit’s combustible punk crunches lob punchy girl-powered telepathy into shuddering bungee lunges spiked in gangly harangues aboard runaway trains. Dodging and dislodging toppling monopolies with twisted anarchist’s bliss, “Confidence,” scrambles estranged scatterbrained funk around elastic ska-rattled catastrophes strung from caterwauling pinball logic and sweetly teetering ricochet rallies for impassioned caffeinated gymnastics and quivering, contrasting mathematics.

Suburban Living - Suburban Living

Lavished in plastic-wrapped passions, rocketing robo-beats and space-age claustrophobia, Suburban Living’s frosted dream-pop winds neon vines through glazed veins to produce dance-away blues groomed for glamorous calamity. Gorgeous bourgeois facades present brave faces held in withering glances, gilded lilies carrying shy, romantic gestures inside shadowy scowls, wringing, “Living,” from livid to submissive through alley-cat bass, tunnel-vision synths and digitally-carved guitar.

Mind Brains - Mind Brains

Zapped with a scavengers’ appetite, Mind’s grinding retro-hip collisions beam home-built futures from intergalactic travelers on pagan-sanctioned safaris. Dabbling in defrocked prog-rock complete with Greek choirs and Gregorian oracles, the ensemble’s hay-wired electronic apocalypse trips in 8-bit blips and psychedelic kinetics; sampling humanity between cryptic snippets from alien meandering, “Brain,” plants closed-circuit quirks and druid-maneuvered chaos among ribald tribal camaraderie.

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