Slipped Discs

Palehound - Black Friday

United in jaunty indie-pop conjugation and earnest, burgeoning soul-searching, Palehound’s multi-tasking aspirations connect reflective second-guesses to thirsty curiosity where timid self-image tends tender envy with verbal caresses redressing fleshy blessings. Demonstrable confidence celebrating fragile valor through visceral descriptions hip to shared joys, the tangibly candid, “Friday,”  transforms humble, home-demo authenticity into sophisticated engagements balancing patient postmortem refrains alongside full-bodied rebuttals.

Possible Humans - Everybody Split

Splintered six-string acrobatics barreling through estranged jangle as militant rhythms charge toward sordid destinations, “Split,” rips and sniffs garage-rock riffs with anxious disdain and scholarly mockery, terse head-first affronts by tough punks flexing jam-band flair. A churning whirling finely-tuned unit, Possible Humans scatter a basket packed in flashy influences, spicing up simmering opinions with live-wire pig-piles and rambling carny double-talk.

Longwave - If We Ever Live To Forever

Triumphant and forthright, wandering and despondent, ”Forever,” weathers emotional storms, disembodied indie-rock melancholy pledging edgy amendments to precipice confessions through prowling guitars, climatic choruses and head-rushed rhythms. Breathless manifestos addressed to friends, banging in subterranean strangeness, Longwave plunges desperate hungers into rattled nostalgia, leaving heartbroken heads to sort jealous dregs from shipwrecked regrets, holding wildfire trials with burnt bridges juries.

Sean Henry - A Jump From The High Dive

Cock-eyed sardonic rock stocked in slacker melodramatics, “Dive,” rides millennial divides slinging six-pack garage-pop against surf-punk smugness and indie-jangle sunshine. Free-wheeling chameleons Sean Henry display different faces with flippant simplicity and clever leveraged whimsy, softly mocking catchy affections with cheeky rhymes and bouncy renouncement; frivolous pillaging skillfully wielding wicked wit in sick jams digging ironic self-acknowledgment with savvy savage craftsmanship.

Rachel Grimes - The Way Forth

A theatrical time capsule capturing prairie arias, settler soliloquies and rural ruminations; Grimes’ divine Folk Opera offers documentary memories examining Manifest Destiny while Western Expansion dances among minstrel shows and letters home. Multiple view points from bandshell barkers to second-generation perspectives carry, “Forth,” through heavenly choirs and biographical fragments, glorious story-telling orchestras weaving hoe-downs, sojourns and history into reverent evidence.

Emily Yacina - Remember the Silver

Lived-in pop props Yacina’s sensible premonitions against deceptive mid-tempo affections connecting rhythm-driven perceptions to calm, collected, level-headed introspection and inviting kind candor inside systemic memories from smart hearts. Personal journeys turned into happening maps, “Silver,” fills unavoidable joys with better judgment assumptions sealing the deal in learning-curve verses and well-informed choruses customized in friendly empathy, attentive mentions and centered defenses.

Squirrel Flower - I Was Born Swimming

Electric aquatic folk-jazz passages flow, compose and collapse in placid untapped undertow emotions, turning, “Swimming,” into imprisoned indie visions flailing tailored failures in celebrated guitar-centric revelations. Stamina enamored in strong wills and obsessive quests, Squirrel Flower’s warrior stories challenge tactful fashions in casual banshee banter, churning free-verse turmoil within raptured fascination, unraveled in unparalleled attractions and repackaged with unrequited compassion.

Lanterns on the Lake - Spook The Herd

World-weary theories, brooding allusions and glimmering myths pour misty indie-rock ribbons over the sterling, “Herd,” whose glowing poltergeist appetites devour prowling chamber-folk showdowns caked in pining minor-keys. Eloquent evidence presented in strident insights, brave faces and noble hearts, Lanterns on the Lake’s wicked militant waltzes exhibit uninhibited wishes within acceptable regrets, haunted responses and ponderous caution launched into whirlwind symphonies.

Terry Ohms - Cold Cold Shoulder

Double-talk alt-rock guitar-jockey Ohms roams in impulsive hustles flushed in psychedelic head-rushes, indignant riffs dipped in deep-fried fuzz and slippery epiphanies greased with searing stratospheric jams. Uptight and out of sight, “Cold,” rolls in shoulder-chip bravado, perplexed intellect funneled into ramped amps blasted in rabid rants and nimble sympathy; sandpaper anarchy paved in cathartic barking, jet-fueled blues and six-string furies. 

Jim Andralis &The Syntonics - My Beautiful Enemy

Sly irony hides behind upfront hungers, exposing emotional strangleholds in well-composed odes as home-grown straight-shooters Andralis and company introduce natural narratives to casual analogies for root-cellar novellas ripe with redemption. Traveling country-folk balladry cast in novel plots exacting tragic costs, “Enemy,” cements spent identities to scrappy tabernacles and spirited fierceness for punches to the gut in the kindest way possible.

The Black Watch - Brilliant Failures

Combative ballads locked in flinty indie-rock battles, “Brilliant,” thrills in morose maelstroms and chill with jangle-cradled fables, a diligent intelligence distilling urgent evidence into existential tempests with guitar-centric tendencies. Discontented sentries railing against unlimited insignificance and metaphysical ennui, The Black Watch’s Trotsky moxie roars with authority, swiping decisively with furious swerves, cooked in psychedelic vibrato and hand-delivered with professorial calm.

Deathlist - You Won’t Be Here For Long

Armored martyrs reincarnated, wedged between midnight insights anchored in severed memory’s embers and thick rich cyber-rock fissures, the deliciously demonic Deathlist manifest gothic operatives dredged from granite trances and refined in grinding mindfulness. Flood-gates tease check-mates with industrial maelstroms washing ”Won’t,” in rigid insistence and cataclysmic opinions, mountain-climbing caution scaling skyscraper impatience with gritty riffs, cloaked vocals and crooked hooks.

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