Slipped Discs

Cool Ghouls - Animal Races

A late-sixties throw-back telegraphed in kaleidoscopic jangle wrangling brittle six-string synergy, “Animal,” tips a narcoleptic Stetson to West Coast ghosts wrestling echo-laden wig-outs tripping in electric finger-picking and sweetened with tumbleweed pedal-steel and heady harmonies. Yearning folk-rock hold-outs prone to exquisite psychedelic rampages and transcendental anecdotes, Cool Ghouls’ concrete cowboys pound paisley pavements chasing hard-scrambled solos engulfed in house-party R&B.

Tim Presley - The Wink

Connecting mismatched Mad-Hatter pitter-patter to snappishly synaptic punk-pop catastrophes, White Fences’ resident sound-chemist Presley severs and tethers, performing curious surgeries on tropical-goth, intentionally demented Baroque-folk and wobbly wizard-rock. Half-joking commotion roasted in paradigm rhymes from imaginative dream-captains practicing Dada black-magic, “Wink,” rethinks normal instincts in rickety syncopation, spindly persistence and elliptical dips merging absurd jabberwocky subversion into urgent fringe-art conversions.

Soviet Soviet - Endless

Frenzied cadenzas bend in hyper-kinetic descents, writhing in spiked Molotov pleads and driving serrated stampedes; Soviet Soviet’s sinister dissidence unhinges Pandora’s sordid wardrobe of contorted buzz-saw gauze laid over restless hornet’s nests. Pedal-box rock wrought with electro-shocked sonics, “Endless,” ties live-wire funeral-pyres mired in corrosive moments to warehouse samurai wearing razor-sharp armor tunneling under nervous tournaments with terse, furious focus.

Tim Cohen - Luck Man

Warm and fuzzy wonder washes over Cohen’s cozy notions, trippy sympathies and jocular journeys, elevating quasi-narcotic concoctions from hippie-dipped simplicity to epic medicine for psilocybin sentimentalists. Narrative clarity surrounding whimsical kismet propel, “Luck,” constructing a rich, ramshackle tapestry from home-grown pop-rock options whose welcoming tones and elemental metaphors navigate uncertain times with winsome wisdom captured in shining pearls of self-assurance.

Hand Habits - Wildly Idle (Humble Before the Void)

Nodding cosmic odysseys bottling wide-eyed sighs, gently picked riffs and cyber-guided lullabies, “Idle,” drives prime prairie-land fantasies adrift in intoxicating promises spritzed with feathery innocence and foggy prophecy from banshee-teased feedback. Delicate chamber-rock shredder and pliable dream-pop diver Meg Duffy leads Hand Habits down cozy, fur-lined rabbit-holes, roping glowing psych-folk with heavenly six-string lassos, wrangling persuasive angels in alluring reverberations.

Hollow Everdaze - Cartoons

Rockin’ cosmopolitans, over-the-moon psyche-pop crooners and fab gentlemen tripsters, Australia’s Hollow Everdaze indulges in nostalgic pageants soaked in Sixties mystery, injecting hallucinogenic benders sprinkled in continental splendor and cat-burglar nerve. Touched in lush xylophone and champagne strings, “Cartoons,” draws curious augmented chords while artful guitars melt melancholy melodies into fuzz-pedal buzz and furious indie-rock exhaustion plunges into chronic symphonic sonnets. 

Fake Shark - Faux Real

Non-stop power-pop frolics in hyperbolic gimmick-rich shtick, uncorking Fake Shark’s ultra-catchy packages of spring-loaded ear-worms and hook-riddled rock-outs. From crunchy funk shot out of a cannon to auto-tuned struts flushed with cheeky pleads keen on creamy harmonies and glitch-inflicted party-rock, “Real,” squeals in wicked wit, indulging endless remedies for an audacious mental vacation booked with smarmy charm and kinetic cool.

F ingers - Awkwardly Blissing Out

Ghost-motioned notions floating over fizzled glitches download pre-natal fables from electro-static catalysts rallying proto-metallic crickets in rippling micro-rhythms; the aqueous, “Blissing,” bobs in inquisitive synchronized minimalism backlit in embryonic sonics. Pagan spacemen creeping through fleeting, shoe-gazed mazes, F ingers wrings Krautrock kabuki from abducted fluctuations glazed in intermittent symmetry, splashing harsh sparse departures among serene dreams and burnt-out fuse-box ambience.

Holy - All These Worlds Are Yours

Paisley-upholstered roller-coasters tie epic messages to dashing crashes, melting thundering crescendos into zany bangers with dizzying synchronicity and pivoting divinity as, Holy’s blown-minds anoint orchestrated head-trips in bell-bottom bluster and power-pop counter-point. Gorgeous distortion filtered through kaleidoscopic thoughts wrapped around astral blasts and flashback panache, “Worlds,” curls in swirling cut-and-paste riffs from mythic witnesses switching cosmic melancholy for blissful well-wishing.

Cloud - Plays with Fire

Sparked by trippy sixties bliss and nineties shoe-gazed glaze, the intrepid, blessed Cloud bakes hazy, fuzzed-out blazes among blithe sighing, folk-singer hopes and psychotropic commotion for subtly rumbling indie-pop parfaits. Gifted in placid, triple-tracked daydreams, “Fire,” fuses familiar feelings to unbound surroundings, offering modest optimism simmered in bittersweet cosmic-rock and set free to wander in harmonic wonder among interconnected reflections.

Suuns - Felt

Interstellar bottom-dwellers Suuns stoke tense, probing microtones into lurid, industrial furnaces burning mechanical alien samplings; contorted, Gordian knots tied by sneaky, schematic strategists keen on discreet frequencies. Timid minimalism skittering in antsy post-nuclear trances heighten paranoid self-absorption and eerie conspiracy as, “Felt,” superimposes eroding ghosts over menacing presence manifesting half-buried tremors exposing glowing, cyber-snaked databanks primed in grimy, post-pillaged villainy.

Gum - The Underdog

Thick, wonky psychedelics morph pliable plastic soul from cozy programmable prog-rock, Gum’s savvy dramatics feature phlanged jams, turbo-charged harmonics and steam-cleaned keyboards, perfect strobe-lit choreography for dry wits and mobile hips. Waking from sedated dreamscapes inside rainbow echo-chambers “Underdog,” doles out wavy space-age funk-dunked flashbacks, camouflaging disparaging remarks in glorious Technicolor while surrounding drowsy lunar-lounge soundtracks in fizzy seltzer-pelted feelings.

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