Slipped Discs

Soviet Soviet - Endless

Frenzied cadenzas bend in hyper-kinetic descents, writhing in spiked Molotov pleads and driving serrated stampedes; Soviet Soviet’s sinister dissidence unhinges Pandora’s sordid wardrobe of contorted buzz-saw gauze laid over restless hornet’s nests. Pedal-box rock wrought with electro-shocked sonics, “Endless,” ties live-wire funeral-pyres mired in corrosive moments to warehouse samurai wearing razor-sharp armor tunneling under nervous tournaments with terse, furious focus.

Joan of Arc - He’s Got The Whole This Land Is Your Land In His Hands

Freaky future-pop jams move to amuse overactive catalogers as, “Hands,” slams sonic oddities against free-verse curses; cunning puns tumble over rickety riffs while loopy grooves boogie beneath jigsaw monologues.  Making tasty tunes from haphazard patterns by weaving intriguing collegiate seizures into unpredictable art-punk missiles, Chicago’s Joan of Arc build science-blinded ironies from eclectic intellects, coordinating disordered oratory around deadpan mechanics.

Fred Thomas - Changer

A modern chronicler with the gift for gab, Thomas’ uncommon commentaries nail contemporary life with supple wit whisked into frenetic sketches and melodic observations crammed inside ambling tangents. Offering heavenly synth instrumentals and rabid minstrel binges, “Changer,” ranges from solemn indie-rock to sly punk-pop for a petulant session compiling vital DIY spunk from shredded op-eds, savvy caveats and peanut-gallery rallies.

Bash & Pop - Anything Could Happen

Lo-fi tigers colliding in double-barreled rockabilly benders and smarmy garage-rock raves, Tommy Stinson’s Bash & Pop demolishes by swinging rhythms attacking deranged twang while trolling a rip-roaring Rolodex of snarling roadhouse blues. A rollicking, rocketing joyride, “Anything,” swerves with curve-ball assaults heralding feral melt-downs primed in street-wise desires and con-artist barn-burners. Bash & Pop play Milwaukee’s Cactus Club January 13th

Tim Cohen - Luck Man

Warm and fuzzy wonder washes over Cohen’s cozy notions, trippy sympathies and jocular journeys, elevating quasi-narcotic concoctions from hippie-dipped simplicity to epic medicine for psilocybin sentimentalists. Narrative clarity surrounding whimsical kismet propel, “Luck,” constructing a rich, ramshackle tapestry from home-grown pop-rock options whose welcoming tones and elemental metaphors navigate uncertain times with winsome wisdom captured in shining pearls of self-assurance.

Sallie Ford - Soul Sick

Surf-twang spit mixed with skiffle-riddled blues and punk-country gumption laced in boardwalk organ grinds; Ford subtly incorporates soul-sister back-up singers and braying hepcat horns to leverage vintage signature sounds into bawdy solace, howling accounting and smoldering testimonials. A rootsy groovy rock ‘n roll rodeo, “Sick,” whips juke-joint jive into revivalist pile-ups brimming in tart, razor-sharp whimsy and smarmy, charming camaraderie.

The Orwells - Terrible Human Beings

Gunpowder prowlers scarred in charred blues-rock scorchers and hot-wired wise-guy tirades, “Terrible,” bangs and boogies in snarky bar-room blarney. Partnered in tarnished guitar-slinger garnishes and slathered in wicked pithy wordplay, The Orwells’ gloriously sordid shenanigans pack feisty double-barreled rapture into cackling anthem-tantrum magic. Tireless renegades on record and on stage, the dizzying quintet swings into Milwaukee’s The Rave March 17th.

Deep Throat Choir - Be OK

Surging voices bobbing in undulating choruses, Deep Throat’s triumphant collection of women singers apply warm, organic harmonies nurturing hardy folk-gospel raves among communal indie-rock hymns. Removing traditional instruments from the group’s eclectic selection of contemporary covers, “OK,” lovingly blends gorgeous home-cooked roars and tender, buoyant chorals into a lively, largely a capella affair marked by generous spirits and kind hearts.

Los Campensinos! - Sick Scenes

Charging into civil frays rinsed in slippery wit, poet-soldiers Los Campensinos’ clever dismembered indie-pop memoirs brew effusive mulligan stews. Ladling beat-driven battle-cries into polysyllabic analysis, “Scenes,” reconvenes riot-act culture-wars with unruly punk execution and breathless intrepid reflections while lyrical volleys pitched to educated punks and literate misfits engage name-dropping brains and gyrate bohemian bodies for pro-active chitchat from socio-political riffraff.

Blanck Mass - World Eater

Adamant patterns saddling digi-shifted rapture capture shadowy carousels unraveling in harrowing goth-rocked proms; “Eater,” feasts on gnarly card-punched conundrums soaked in primordial ooze and plastered in redacted catastrophe. Cut-and-paste taste-tester Blanck Mass’ manipulated impatience distorts engorged discourse contorting dense agitated electronics into burning firmaments forming formidable sound-on-sound stampedes from ash-filled heavens as Jericho free-falls storm ghost-rattled gates in crushing vapor-waves.

New Street Adventure - Stubborn Sons

Posh caramel-coated soul folded into upfront street-punk funk, “Sons,” run silver-tongued urban-jungle rumbles lathered in heart-throb bravado and midnight-player panache. Tough, but supple anguish enriched in champagne refrains, NSA layers bluesy doo-wop harmonics over sharp sparse rhythms and voluptuous bass, chasing wavering faith with dockside struts erupting in openly romantic tantrums painted with hard, lean facts and hungry, plundered truths.

Shelby Earl - The Man Who Made Himself A Name

Coming at you like a rodeo queen’s rockin’ stepdaughter, Earl’s swirling torch-singer swagger corrals fiery hearts raging in free-range bangers packed with outspoken anecdotes and solace-seeking pleads heated in glib sympathy. Dynamic commandments undercut blues-infused memoirs while, “Name,” campaigns in untamed mind-games stuffing the ballot-box with leather and lace prayers and lobbing tumbleweed valentines over honky-tonk sonnets riding roadside gospel.

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