Slipped Discs

Angel Olsen - Phases

A compilation of demos, b-sides and unreleased songs, “Phases,” blazes in old-school croons; unvarnished rag-doll pop baptized in smoky Appalachian prayers and roasted over plugged-in indie-folk. A spiritual will manifested in swamp-gospel taunts from broken-hearted ghosts infiltrating tear-choked letters home; Olsen’s emotions whittle things to a fine, almost fragile point, presenting graveside love-songs to entice stony testimony from twilight revivals.

Autobahn - The Moral Crossing

Sensitive engines mixing post-punk menace with night-club medicine, indie-synth revisionists Autobahn construct hypnotic Krautrock highways with over-driven distortion coursing through shadow-battled tunnels, dredging lush crushes from curried fury while mounting corrosive campaigns against faceless rage. Glazed, serrated micro-managed calamities probe svelte, self-contained anarchy throughout “Crossing,” as swirling urges surge, merge and purge, churning cathartic rebel yells beneath grinding assembly-line timing.

Karl Blau - Out Her Space

Bright, infectious island vibes bob between bouncy Tex-Mex boogie and sweet Memphis soul for a beautiful bouillabaisse brewed in the chill, accommodating, “Space.” Original, well-informed, generous and modest, multi-talented Blau’s cavalier curios, impertinent excursions and lyrical larks fall together in jazzy, imaginative patchworks; liberating songs graced with natural logic backed by spry observations, sassy brass, gypsy strings and ambidextrous guitars.

Blush - Blush

Skulking in delectable doldrums while mermaid-zombie waltzes pounding out dour downbeats go from salty to sweet; Blush’s slithering alt-pop grinds swing, binge and fall fast asleep to wake in earthquake-rock raves where fun lunges in reverb-soaked vocals. Empowered by girl-group coos and street-corner cool, the self-titled debut pits thrifty riffs against power-chord fortitude to personify conjugal longing and slow-dance romance.

Calexico - The Thread That Keeps Us

Strong songs conjuring nuanced narratives inside miniature cinema soundtracks, “Thread,” strings laughing brass and growling guitars between barrio blues and field-hand fiestas hopping from solid indie-rock to gentle Tex-Mex chamber-folk to quinceañera party-funk. Ignited by vigilant sympathy for modern hardships, Calexico translates pride and honor into cautious optimism and valiant perseverance detailing small-time triumphs over age-old challenges and down-to-earth concerns.

Holy - All These Worlds Are Yours

Paisley-upholstered roller-coasters tie epic messages to dashing crashes, melting thundering crescendos into zany bangers with dizzying synchronicity and pivoting divinity as, Holy’s blown-minds anoint orchestrated head-trips in bell-bottom bluster and power-pop counter-point. Gorgeous distortion filtered through kaleidoscopic thoughts wrapped around astral blasts and flashback panache, “Worlds,” curls in swirling cut-and-paste riffs from mythic witnesses switching cosmic melancholy for blissful well-wishing.

Ezra Furman - Transangelic Exodus

Quirky, acerbic burlesque reviving glitter-bomb funk with savage back-catalog swagger, “Transangelic,” telegraphs juicy velvet-crushed struts around tortured misfortune while ravenous tramp-rock pageantry jars in joyous flamboyance. Show-biz kisses tied to misfit wit, Furman’s dishy disclosures turned uninhibited smack-downs crackle in pop-culture sass and revel in devilish truths; exposing trauma to karma on drum-machine pulpits in hook-heavy temples with street-wise choirs.

Joan As Police Woman - Damned Devotion

Cobra hypnosis flickering in prickly rhythms, “Devotion,” provokes soulful vogue strolls touched by runway-model coddling; purring allure perched in flirtatious patience like sleep-walking catnaps taken in fiendish Venus fly-traps awaiting tasty contact with ravishing magic. Empowered by Joan’s sensual progressions, chain-gang syncopation and subtle untroubled melodies, unshakeable boldness holds court over slinky visions assembling royal processions down proud prowler’s playgrounds.   

Editors - Violence

Brash, air-brushed hustle tainted in anguish and thirsty for terse purges, Britain’s level-headed Editors strong-arm suave, tarnished hearts pivoting in slithering alt-rock riffs ripped from romantic dance anthems.  Hungry, urbanized enticements spiced in tender regrets and thundering encouragement, “Violence,” pits glaring cynicism against blind faith; steamy, preening allegiances pairing locomotive percussion to devoted emotions and dark guitars to careful despair.

Deathlist - Fun

Penetrating bass races around heated rock beats driving sinewy six-string blues whipped in grit and laced in sinister, big-sister intimidation; “Fun,” runs hot and bothered plundering solitude’s dungeons while baiting double-dating danger with breathless reckless pleasure. Exacting slash and burn terms churning life-affirming ear-worms, the coy, cautious Deathlist grips defensive desires riled in fiery distrust and dipped in frenzied consent.

Suuns - Felt

Interstellar bottom-dwellers Suuns stoke tense, probing microtones into lurid, industrial furnaces burning mechanical alien samplings; contorted, Gordian knots tied by sneaky, schematic strategists keen on discreet frequencies. Timid minimalism skittering in antsy post-nuclear trances heighten paranoid self-absorption and eerie conspiracy as, “Felt,” superimposes eroding ghosts over menacing presence manifesting half-buried tremors exposing glowing, cyber-snaked databanks primed in grimy, post-pillaged villainy.

Yo La Tengo - There’s A Riot Going On

Pleasant experiments sated in reverent contentment, “Riot,” distills musical history’s pre-millenial side-streets into calm, contemplative journeys where ambient post-rock mingles alongside jazz-abstracted pop and Afro-Cuban lounge grooves flit among staid serenades. Delicate intent cements Yo La Tengo’s dependable independence with quiet, pervasive cravings anchored to tranquil blankets; docile, melodic motifs cloaked in luxurious convergences courting direct affection through introverted flirting.

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