Slipped Discs

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.

Vulkano - Live Wild Die Free

Fed in shredded unvetted energy, drenched in effervescent discontent and buoyed by devilish bubblegum crunch, “Wild,” piles tribal-pop trials onto feverish Swedish punk from swishy witches dishing delicious dirt. Gleeful banshees ransacking mad-hatter attics, Vulkano’s tangled pagan bounce pounces and denounces, piloting untamed raves, frantic chants and game-changing bangers for synth-pinched party-time in sugar-shack shin-digs hosted by giddy little anarchists.

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.

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.

Doldrums - The Air-Conditioned Nightmare

Splashing in spastic, ectoplasmic chasms while cobbling wobbly Afropop-goth to churning nocturnal infernos, “Nightmare,” slither through funky post-punk pratfalls trapping wriggling mysteries in strobe-lit bailiwicks; sexy webs slinging slushy jungle percussion into test-tube grooves. Deranged Canadians spraying neo-industrial bluster over transistorized Terrordomes, Doldrums’ rumbling cunning oozes in spooked latex interludes spawning intergalactic mash-ups attracting squirmy neural blast-offs into diabolical holodecks.

Deerhoof - The Magic

Tinkering in twerk-worthy earthiness, Deerhoof’s psychedelic shin-digs dodge and bop atop unstoppable chops, popping out funky home-grown grooves alongside noise-pop juggernauts. Heavy with levity, the foursome’s unpredictably trippy frack-rock talents gets goosed and let loose for fun, wigged-out hullabaloos. Euphoric avant-garage barn-burners dressed in reckless affection and smile-filled abandon turns the snap, crackle and blunt head-rushes inside, “Magic,” positively magnetic.

Tim Presley - The Wink

Connecting mismatched Mad-Hatter pitter-patter to snappishly synaptic punk-pop catastrophes, White Fences’ resident sound-chemist Presley severs and tethers, performing curious surgeries on tropical-goth, intentionally demented Baroque-folk and wobbly wizard-rock. Half-joking commotion roasted in paradigm rhymes from imaginative dream-captains practicing Dada black-magic, “Wink,” rethinks normal instincts in rickety syncopation, spindly persistence and elliptical dips merging absurd jabberwocky subversion into urgent fringe-art conversions.

Eat the Apple - A Glimmer of Hope or Skin or Light

A daring, darling musical revue featuring punk-goth operas topped in macabre cabaret arias barging into off-Broadway ballads, “Glimmer,” dazzles in rapid costume changes applied with stylized guile. Sprung from the collective consciousness of KT Niehoff and Ivory Gray-Smith, Eat The Apple’s soundtrack to their unpredictably original 2010 project is stunning fun-house philosophy sporting dark carnal happiness from smart melodramatic radicals.

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.

Gogol Bordello - Seekers and Finders

Punk gumption funneled into braying horns and dervish-serviced fiddles, the defiant, strident, Gogol Bordello’s quick-pivoting Balkan-rock rains raving Spaghetti Western rampages over Bolshevik-rich mosh-pits with skulking muscle and barking espionage. Growling defcon stomps packed in Cossack cool, “Seekers,” wreak compassionate havoc with gypsy-swinging opinions inhabiting iron-willed party-tunes. Opening for Modest Mouse, the band plays Madison’s Breese Stevens Field September 30th.

Shopping - The Official Body

Stacked in hyperactive passion announcing grass-roots counseling alongside animal-paneled pouncing, blunt British dance-punks Shopping jump past slumming proletarian presumptions with breakneck pecks and slithery rhythms from rooftop sleuths cruising urban jungles. The snappy clash between willfully fidgety guitar, wriggling fingered bass and twitchy tumbling drums cascade, “Official,” into careening street-parade paranoia with chain-clanging danger lurking behind every lurching, assertive verse. 

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