Slipped Discs

Extra Life - Made Flesh

Prog-rock opera staged by poet-warriors, “Flesh,” melts raw, visceral visions into fevered fanfares, provocative parables and contorted concertos. Assembling personal circuses sparked by both intense and tentative dynamics, Extra Life’s exalted and altered altar-bound pogroms swarm around ominous admonishments, dressing classical pastorals in Gregorian scorn and savoring intense interrogations between galvanized studio eruptions.

Tobacco - Maniac Meat

Bots gone amok in tilt-a-whirl curls and crunchy bungee-jumping plunges, Tobacco’s bionic bubblegum conundrums makes unrestrained graininess and over-modulated mayhem rock and rumble, hiss and fizzle. Molten sunshine pours over bristling synth-grunge dance-pop, sinister vintage plays abrasive cabaret, stomping out beefy, belching bass as, “Meat” grills electro-static sludge; brash pneumatic habits punctuating eerie, super-saturated riffs.

Dryft - Ventricle

Cosmic concerts imprisoning hissing precision, Dryft’s murmuring currents and logical dawns sculpt cyber-swaddled sun-bursts from intergalactic grinds, Laboring into wakefulness under glittering alien skies, “Ventricle,” unfolds slowly, vacuum-packed and industrial. Eclipsed, frisked and whisked past paranormal storms of zero gravity ambience, Dryft’s subtle shifts and soft landings nestle against cloaked cacophony and trippy mysteries, thawed and refrozen; space-age rage rewired.

Brian Eno and Rick Holland - Drums Between Bells

Spinning vigorously digitized Afro-pop and mesmerizing New Age, Eno pairs mystical rhythms and primordial chorales against Holland’s calm truths and processed epiphanies. Manipulated palettes gallop as velvety ooze moves through synthetic stews, grouping moody mathematics around deprogrammed metaphysics. Integrating techno-speak from cyber-specters and vivid images from androgynous monologists, “Drums,” plummet crystal epistles past philosophical obstacles, scorching horns and jazzy patterns.

Gauntlet Hair - Gauntlet Hair

Strafed in hyperbolic claustrophobia, mashed clattering and cataclysmic metaphysics, Gauntlet Hair’s groovy psycho-swampy rock resonates in unchained jangle bouncing soundly around syncopated reverb and euphoric Morlock melodies. Jungle-punk and soul-blues influences catapult the Chicago duo’s wind-tattered caverns through avalanche-managed planets. “Gauntlet Hair,” grows freefall cacophony for cosmic canvases, scathing, raving romper room operas drenched in glorious noise and industrial ecstasy

Blackout Beach - Fuck Death

Cave-dwelling rebellions breath visceral visions from ghostly oceans, sociopathic passengers decipher slow-boiling coils of queasy frequencies, “Death,” catches digital crickets in yawning melancholy. Post-victory aftermaths reenact tawdry odysseys with desperate absolution, slithering in withering synths and eviscerated electronic evangelism. BB’s shackled tabernacle harvests karmic ghouls, harsh guitars, fading aid and wheezing pulses dissolving in transistorized sighs and grimy sine-wave mysteries.

Gang of Four - What Happens Next

Spackled in crackling percussive patterns, squealing-wheel guitar and flagrant pavement-bass, Gang of Four’s well-executed confrontational abrasions cultivate brash, cyber-briar patches inhabiting rock-bionic labyrinths. Founding-member Andy Gill and company enlists high-powered cameos to hurtle post-punk thunder past punchy funky pile-drivers as the intrepid, “Next,” treks slithering across industrial deserts in scavenger caravans. The formidable Four play Chicago’s Park West March 13th.

Long Beard - Sleepwalker

Candle-lit trysts treading through jazz-backed jangle hidden in ambient brambles, Long Beard’s sonic cauldrons brew narco-folk oceans soaked in reverb-swirling maternity and soft sparkling arcs. Churning with vague yearning capped in passive rapture, “Sleepwalker,” weaves its lost horizons and bottomless fogs around clattering satellites unleashing pantry banshees strung from delicate electric canopies engulfed by wayward favors shipped in shining innocence.

Hide - Interior Terror

Banshee street-preachers and industrial-accident outcasts, Chicago’s harrowing HIDE harnesses sputtering ruptures performing metallurgical surgery with visceral incisions, swift insistent precision harboring harsh sonic carnage and bowery embattled cataclysms. Teletypes, iron spikes, crackling static and shattering glass become primal time-keeping creatures groaning and grinding beneath the distressed, “Terror;” edgy dread fed deafening existential polemics, looming pariah gloom and controlled psychic erosion.

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.

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