Slipped Discs

Sean Bones - Buzzards Boy

A supernatural marriage of big hooks soaked in friendly chemistry, “Buzzards,” brims with polished tropical obstacles trapping crafty afterthoughts. Upbeat outbreaks and laid-back ransacks beam beat-sweet hippie trips grooving to savvy showmanship. Rafter-crashing bedroom pop, slippery indie-rock and revved-up modern reggae contribute to the blue sky vibe hatching fissionable visions Bones knits together with daring flair and festooned savoir faire.

The Cribs - In The Belly of the Brazen Bull

Cage-rattling factories spewing wicked ballistic ballads, “Belly,” staggers, captures and beautifully bashes majestic mosh-pit rock, toppling unstoppable sincerity, crackling melodies and fist-thrusting courage for sizzling missiles lobbed straight into delirious miracles. Back to the original three brother line-up, The Cribs’ rip-roaring chords, needling riffs, anxious bass and thunderous drums stir caterwauling cauldrons into directly vexing tension mounting restlessly perplexing connections.

The Mynabirds - Generals

Armed in barbaric bass and tribal beats, bombshell mambos get dressed in contrapuntal thunder pasting neo-New Wave ruckus to girl-group goose-steps. Lo-fi pop cinched in synth-rinsed rock, “Generals,” generates thrill-ride exuberance. Guided by explosive blues-fueled momentum, The Mynabird’s brain-child Laura Burhenn crafts muscular melodic odysseys; charming armaments commanding tantrums in tantric chants micro-managing savage ballad aftermaths while channeling rallying challenges.

Marissa Nadler - The Sister

Trolling ghosts strummed from courtyard guitars lifted in slightly surreal tranquility, Nadler’s ephemeral gems shepard rainy-day phrases roasted over fond remembrance and hung under widow silhouettes; wind-tossed blossoms simmering in minstrel eloquence, seasoned in spell-binding ambience. The plucked, struck and quietly corrupted performances cavort in post-modern folk as stately sorceresses cast, “Sister,” in whispering steel-guitar sympathies and supportive keyboard choirs.

Echo Lake - Wild Peace

Poltergeist rock steeped in sleepy reverb, “Peace,” radiates cagey patience; icy, isometric psychedelics traced in fiery spirals.  The London duo’s nebulous efforts yield restlessly propulsive results as singer-songstress Linda Jarvis sparkles inside Thom Hill’s spelunker’s wonderland. Purring, whirling space-age stoner sonar stirs shiny calliopes into tissue-paper tempests, stitching galactic mattresses stuffed with serrated jangle, subatomic harlots and corrosive rainbow solos.

Nouela - Chants

Marrying matter-of-fact melodramatics to arresting piano-based pop “Chants,” plants scorching torch-song scorn alongside prowling nightclub lust. Unveiling lively insights inside sophisticated sizzle, former People Eating People front-woman composes imploring stories rich in major mojo. Playing the majority of instruments as well as co-producing, Nouela’s beguiling trials bring swinging invigorating taunts born of world-wounded wisdom and drenched in flirtatious jungle stealth

The Eastern Sea - Plague

Bleeding hearts over lean, vigorous rhythms, college-authored indie-rockers TES’s post-baroque opuses breezily weave beckoning beacons; arpeggiated chords sandwiched between reverential splendor circling soaring poise drenched in soft-spoken choruses. From demure to dynamic, the Austin quartet’s urgent coercions bridge modest, methodical confidence redirecting surf-pounding countenance forged from informal retorts. Chaste, impatient, plaintive clockwork cadence, “Plague,” spreads tender blends beneath steadfast syncopation.

Cosmo Jarvis - Think Bigger

Coy sleep-on-the-floor troubadour and tongue-wagging scalawag versed in barn-stormin’ boogie, cottage-pop nods and cheeky hayseed romps, Jarvis carves rustic punk busking into swinging, string-assisted folk-rock. Stacking bodacious stomps and impish twisters beside sly irony and giddy wit, the imminently amiable, “Bigger,” configures cap-sized happiness through wide kaleidoscope eyes, placing hammock banjos and child-recital ocarinas among woozy strings and blistering guitars.

Micachu and the Shapes - Never

Ferocious, lo-fi, pitch-shifted, cock-eyed grime climbs aboard clanging go-go robots whose drop, bop and roll trashcan stanzas stock posh, misbegotten urban disturbance and cartoon-wonky tromping, Micachu’s skewed views fuel droid-punk wrung, sprung and cunningly drugged. Dabbling malfunctions pinned to fizzling synergy, clipped, stripped to stammering ambience and tumbling conundrums, “Never,” severs rational fashions catapulting deconstructed rumpus around outrageously contagious mayhem.

Shoes - Ignition

Chiming designs primed in dreamy vertigo and twisted anticipation, “Ignition,” rocks stream-lined time-bombs ticking in consoling explosions backed by pedal-powered guitar barbs and spring-loaded showdowns, gleaming harmonies fleeing,  glistening counterpoint inside calming three-part karmas. Subversive architects of heart-throb pop the Shoes’ snap carries surly undercurrents; soliciting dissidence beneath dazzling chassis, rifling obsessive resentment and bittersweet demeanors through compassionate mash notes.

Thenewno2 - thefearofmissingout

Sci-fi spies trolling dream-soaked decadence, gregarious guttersnipes, Thenewno2 spin grinning, systemic webs dredged in sweat and edgy threats; cautionary tales from predatory explorers. A gangly chain of tawdry flotsam looped into haughty admonishments, “thefearofmissingout.” packs Blade Runner stunners slithering in illicit dimness and slowly glowing boasts orbiting sizzling visions dripping in lizard-rock trickery and floundering fantasy ground from blurry underworld-blues.

Wild Cub - Youth

Cross-stitching riffs atop wicked pixilated calypso, “Youth,” boosts effervescent funk onto chattering pop-rock catalysts; inter-faced layers convey airbrushed gusto alongside melancholy holidays. Provocative and alluring, WC’s bright, bold vocals fold throbbing tropical mobs into thick, tightly-knitted synths and bristling ADD bass; catchy ecstasy etching reckless romance on moon-lit dance floors spun among fleet-footed memories decked out in glamorous closed-circuit subterfuge.

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