Slipped Discs

Strange Boys - Live Music

Wrangling gangly country-blues through barbed-wire honky-tonk, “Live,” whips bleary world-weary feelings into half-mumbled puzzles spun from boppy music-hall jaunts and growling carousing. Ragged haphazard screechers and grizzled hillbilly stompers howl, lurch and stumble around self-tortured portraits buoyed by cock-eyed twang. Glib, dilapidated investigators, SB’s riverboat-soaked roots prove surly seasoning to punchy moonshine crunches, plaintive hip-shaking impatience and tumbleweed cough-syrup doo-wop

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.

Natural Child - Hard in Heaven

Wrangling Chuck Berry benders behind Stooges blues and Stones bonuses, NC’s combination grease-monkey jungle-rockers and ravaged, red-neck boogie-blasters snarl, gargle and slither from rambling honey-suckled ruckus to narcotic garage-rock proselytizing. A tattered baptism of curbside service, “Heaven,” cleanses through hellfire hand-jive doused in rousing country-punk twang spread across limber R&B rhythms, piston-shifting slow-rides cruising through moonlit jams on endless highways

Clinic - Free Reign

Unglued blues prowl and peruse while muddled clubhouse curmudgeons creep, creak and brood, steely-eyed and serpentine, Clinic’s wiggling post-punk addictions and woozy basement-rock convictions cast murky magic over dank, clanging dangers; chain-rattling wranglers driving sleepless dreams between jazzy fog-bound travesties and mild-mannered psycho-ticklish ministries. Straining in mournful horns, jumpy percussion and spooked-out guitars, “Reign,” reclaims abrasive dockside savior’s endgame shenanigans.

Parquet Courts - Light Up Gold

Kinked-up and callous, PC’s barbecued ballast blasts upfront punk bristling in casual swagger. Side-swiped, hot-wired and sand-blasted; the band’s scrawny garage-rock blues produces greasy treats from shearing lyrics and lightning-bolt solos weaving tight-fisted riffs from unvarnished carnage. Abrupt cuts rustle up whiplashed balderdash within grinning six-string fingering, rolling, “Gold,” over knotty white-water subplots into brawny honesty wrapped around devilish merriment.

Hayden - Us Alone

Sweet downbeat feats of casual brilliance, “Alone,” unfolds subdued grooves inside jaunty melancholy; soft-spoken folk soaked in ragged truths and wheezing bar-room organ, second-hand synths, plaintive piano and understated garage-rock guitar. A laconic chronicler whose solid, waltzing promises drop despondent prophets into modest odysseys, Hayden patiently paints drowsy prowlers and unguarded martyrs; shaggy captains steering weary wagons to uncertain flirtations

Raccoon Fighter - ZIL

A raucous caucus of secret-agent cool, lusty hustles and rock-blizzard boogie, RF slug and chug brazen side-street mayhem atop gloriously predatory choruses and scowling, prowling verses. Ravenous good-time pageants fashioning fuss-free struts, monster stomps and cathartic parties, the Brooklyn trio’s, “ZIL,” dives head-first into fiery low-rider pile-drivers; scorching fortresses whose take no prisoner sizzle ignites explosive doses of scenery-chewing cruises.

Dott - Swoon

Decked out in burning bridges about burning bridges and well-oiled choruses, “Swoon,” zooms and fumes empowered by retro-minded drive and feminine guile, teetering between lip-gloss garage-pop and beach-party alt-rock. Scoring scoff-moppet kiss-offs beneath love-song recon, the fashionably angelic and brilliantly belligerent Dott plots stun-gun bubblegum through hand-clap ballads saddling toxic bop with luscious touches of disarming harmonies and surf-punk doo-wop.

Angel Olsen - Burn Your Fire For No Witness

Bruised crooning draped around unfettered coffee-shop garage-rock, “Burn,” churns and spurns with a raw, jagged backdrop of unvarnished electricity surging through crackling guitars and curdling words; unapologetic suggestions lapping brimstone ballads as haunted hearts feast beneath quivering lips and furrowed brows. Poised between salvaged salvation and tenuous redemption Olsen’s dreamy bohemian turns warrior-poet, courting sandpaper rampages and hypnotic rag-doll revenge. Angel plays Madison’s Revelry Fest May 3rd.

Warm Soda - Young Reckless Hearts

Thundering bubblegum conundrums tumble from sly reprisals, elevating, “Hearts,” from re-bottled power-pop to ingenious glam-rock rip-offs whose fizzy lo-fi wizardry tackles garage-god swagger in driving dime-store rhymes, race-track riffs and toasted locomotives for sugar-coated commotion sure to dissolve upon impact and leave a sweet taste in the aftermath. Lovesick misfits, Warm Soda resurrect restless petulance fueled by burning, yearning sentiments.

The Shivas - You Know What To Do

Radical slackers mashing fab platters from the early sixties, The Shivas shake, rattle and roll with rousing garage-rock raves and shaggy surf-punk parades stomping on irreverent teen-age angst through reverb-soaked hillbilly blues, juvie beatnik strolls and party-hardy basement doo-wop. Carrying a torch for scorching R&B rip-offs, “You Know,” revs up barb-wired twang for some back-lot boogaloo steeped in rapturous nostalgia.

Coutney Barnett - Sometimes I Sit and Think and Sometime I Just Sit

A divine brag and slag packing blues-punk funk and chunky dockside rock into brass-tacks swagger down savage cafe catwalks, “Sometimes,” combines wickedly descriptive gifts with bitter, brittle rockabilly licks; blinding bull’s-eye rhymes smothered in powerful scowls and impoverished scoffs. Beatnik-sweetened cockney caroler Barnett teases devil-may-care savoir faire to launch clever double-barreled revelations within caustic mocking, indigent belligerence and delicious indifference.

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