Slipped Discs

Iceage - Beyondless

Writhing, chopping-block raw wrath unravels in beautiful dilapidated rage. Beaten but undefeated, sloshed in edgy poet-apothecary’s barbaric hypotheses, “Beyondless,” slings strong webs around vigorous collisions. Brandishing brass and bombast to smash molten impotency into brazen punk-crunched burlesque, Denmark’s Iceage’s staged rampages crash overloaded locomotive polemics into full-moon roadhouse blues, carving starving hearts from double-crossed chaos, doomsday revelry and stubborn bluster.

Quiet Slang - Everything Matters But No One Is Listening

Sharp, biting piano trills lift lofty, hive-minded cellos above poignant, bowery choirs harmonizing in drowsy after-hours confessions while, ‘Everything,” rehashes dashed hopes with well-timed defiance and ragged pathos. Beach Slang’s Alex James’ beautiful reinterpretation of his own work stands as a transformative testament, a daring reassessment and a musical triumph. Catch QS June 14th playing Milwaukee’s Colectivo Coffee’s Back Room.

David Nance Group - Peaced and Slightly Pulverized

Fiery quagmires blazed in steel-gauged lacework, “Peaced,” seethes, bleeds and seizes in splintered full-moon rock unlocking stark urban cool and ghoulish cosmic blues.  Ignited in slow-roasted guitar-amp anarchy, unvarnished beauty bubbles and bends in David Nance Group’s competent hands conjuring prowling maelstroms strewn in blistering double-fisted resistance; coarse boisterous voices shaped by hip, slippery riffs lashed to adamant six-string savagery.

French Vanilla - How Am I Not Myself?

Pogo-brash No Wave sax ricochets throughout, “Myself,” serving pumped punk-ska sabotage around unvarnished dance-friendly ear-benders bristling with testy intellect. Democratic rapscallions, French Vanilla packs people-backed politics into flash-mob mosh-pits, interpersonal dervishes slurping down street-savvy attitude where sweaty expressions, thrashy passion and hollered logic bounce around road-rage crusades fueled by funky grass-roots pursuits. Catch them Aug 10th at Milwaukee’s Back Room.

Beach Slang - The Deadbeat Bang of Heartbreak City

Brazen cantankerous boogie cooked in panting nocturnal yearning and dried in beaten string-sweetened hindsight, bittersweet beacons Beach Slang tangles, tallies and tussles; slashing crafty savagery from confident stomps and crashing open-hearted targets into eloquent melt-downs. Simmered, slashed and shaken, “City,” splits gritty pity into pithy garage-rock gestalt and honest symphonic punk prayers infused with jagged thought-bombs and pop-conscious, riff-driven bombast.

Activity - Unmask Whoever

Schizophrenic alchemists blending unhinged inventions into mesmerizing tension, Activity’s dicey nightmare divinity spins agitated mind-games keen on twisted mysticism into heavenly ectoplasmic traps luring meaning from steamy post-punk riddles and Krautrock dream-journals. Tasked with passive catastrophes encroaching tantric mechanics, “Unmask,” wraps tight-rope soap-operas in shadow-world poetry, drenching deliberate suspicions in careening micro-industrial feedback nourished by brooding bass and underwater drums.

Adult. - Perception is/as/of Deception

New Wave roof-raisers and self-inflicted switch-flippers, ADULT. oscillate in primitive doomsday synths, bleak sequenced frequencies seizing ominous bounce-house romps for jet-propelled helter-skelter posing as stroboscopic pop. Baited, serrated and arpeggiated into diabolical molecules glued to dreary sneers, commanding stanzas and sadistic mystery, “Perception,” raves with infectious kinetics, unstoppable propaganda wearily delirious, propped up by low-cost robotics whirling at dangerous angles.

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.

Pom Poko - Cheater

Swinging time signature wig-outs couched in crushed fuzz, “Cheater,” breeches and screeches crunching rambunctious punk and tumble-pop assaults into exuberant alt-rock chop-suey served with anointed cartoon counterpoint. Guitar-wielding Norwegian teasers and spunky bounce-house funkateers, Pom Poko conspire in wiry time-bombs; elastic tomboy bombast paving crazy paisley mayhem with brittle playground pick-ups sprinkled in slick ricochets, hurricane mania and wicked hiccups.

ADULT. - Becoming Undone

Hard grinds timed to sharp tongues and harsh parched hungers, “Undone,” lunges from edgy precipices into analogue squabbles lit in fluorescent menace and delivered with banshee immediacy hellbent on electronic domination. Beat-driven precision powers ADULT.’s sullen industrial insistence into manic transcendence, synchronized patterns battling claustrophobic poltergeists with rubbery push-button shudders and cyber-carny anarchy tag-teaming vaporwave vampires clamoring in stroboscopic lockdowns.

Los Bitchos - Let The Festivities Begin

Nimble conniptions swimming in Peruvian chica, Turkish psychedelia and Argentine cumbias, pan-continental instrumentalists Los Bitchos’ whirlwind surf-punk wedding-band vibes ride celebratory euphoria for communal grooves brewing exotic holidays. Vacation invitations swinging in contagious playfulness, “Festivities,” hits the hips with infectious head-trips, shedding pretentions, flouting conventions and shredding in mesmerizing tremolo rolling over subtle convulsions with giddy-up percussion and crazed bass.

The Linda Lindas - Growing Up

Jubilant exuberance cruising through old-school cool, “Growing,” molds renegade escapades polished from wrecking-ball squalor into gorgeous boardwalk rockers whose crushing punk-pop bluster yield playful mayhem. Indignant mosh-pit indigents strapped to amps and thrift-store power-chords, The Linda Lindas revive fiery diatribes, happy thrash compacted into rambunctious sunshine channeling riot-gurl pearls with brick-and-mortar choruses driven by punchy harmonies and manic anarchy.

View More

Viewing Page 4 - of 5

‹ First  < 2 3 4 5 > 

Contact Maximum Ink music magazine

• Contact: Webmaster(at)maximumink.com
• (608) 245-0781
• No Longer Accepting Unsolicited Packages
  Please email Webmaster or call for more info