Slipped Discs

Charles Bradley - Victim of Love

Tear-stained refrains from sweat-soaked vocals, Charles “Screaming Eagle of Soul” Bradley travels between gospel’s desperate redemptions, pop’s brassy appetites and R&B’s suave partying. Cooking hard-luck lessons in shuffling funk, bluesy doo-wop and Superfly psychedelia, ”Victim,” simmers candid abandon and heart-piercing fierceness into ravaged salvation for love-sick trips to horn-heavy heavens. After having conquered Milwaukee’s Turner Hall May 8th, catch the Screaming Eagle when he brings it on December 4th at Madison’s High Noon Saloon.

CocoRosie - Tales of a GrassWidow

Dainty, daunting dervishes, CocoRosie’s sleepy freak-folk opuses embrace tasty hip-hop art-pop for quirky bursts working sonic sorcery. Eerie queries turn provocative prophecies while fractured mash-ups blend lysergic lullabies into an intriguing seasoning of post-millennial fairy-tales and coy, primordial short-stories. Haunting concerts of studio doodles flickering in whimsical serendipity, “GrassWidow,” possesses unexpected cyber-treasures unearthing nurturing caresses in cauldrons coddling candle-lit enchantments.

John Grant - Pale Green Ghosts

Lyrically fearless, “Pale,” rails and regales in retail tattletales; majestic melodies sweep and sneak snarky barbs and candid rants beneath intimate commitments to complicated natures.. From leathery synthetics to bubonic symphonics, propulsive electronics, grand-standing piano and ominous chamber-pop strings surround Grant’s calm, commanding voice for a layered banquet sanctioning willful, skillful pilgrims dishing frank, cantankerous bravado splashed in ego-bashing compassion.

Saturday Looks Good To Me - One Kiss Ends It All

Savvy-sixties twisters soldering frolicking logic onto starry-eyed sighs covered with Tin Pan marzipan from sock-hop polyglots, SLGTM’s bouncy space-age jangle churn hurdy-gurdy gurgles into swinging mini-symphonies. Upbeat brass bask in rascally sweetheart harmonies crafting magical nostalgia from groovy tape-loops, lo-fi girl-groups and teenage blind-dates for giddy indie-pop binges as, “Kiss,” pitches summer-time rewinds floated in candy-coated reverb inhabiting paisley-flavored suburbs.

Dead Gaze - Dead Gaze

Rugged, chugging psychedelics bomb heavily-textured conjecture in sluggish punches, congealing zeal and syrupy diversions, while, “Gaze,” glazes playful, contagious tunes into potent, roasted alt-rock commotion. Ear-drum pummeling conundrums, DG’s over-loaded proposals move through gooey, tripped-out conniptions that slither in thick riffs pickling spackled action, swimming in subterranean radiance whose discordant contortions revel in devilish indulgence and shine in voluptuous corruption.

Alice Russell - To Dust

Blissfully irresistible, Russell’s unruffled soul-sister muscle flexes arresting home-wrecker directness and brassy Motown sass in bristling polyrhythmic precision. Britain’s bossy blonde’s frisky delivery, peek-a-boo grooves and beat-driven shimmies fuse funky feminist chemistry into foxy gospel, glossy pop and supersonic doo-wop. No-nonsense admonishments beneath post-modern sentiments, the seductive, percussive, “Dust,” struts sizzling syncopation around fiery high-heel hustles and cool rerouted voodoo.

Ola Podrida - Ghosts Go Blind

Gliding in driving narratives whose open-book outlooks mix respect with regret and wisdom within suspicions, front-man David Wingo’s soundtrack background bestows the band’s cascading acoustics and surging dynamics a hard-won charm of passive tragedies cast from transient romantics and kind-hearted martyrs. Noble electric-folk supported by spiraling highway poetry, “Blind,” unwinds in shadowy wind-swept tempests. OP plays Madison’s Frequency May 12th.

Cloud Boat - Book of Hours

Eerily weary, CB’s weighty, sedated galley-ship trip-hop hovers in distinctly insistent minimalism and expansive phantom ambience. Frail and ephemeral, anguished beauty confronts gentle intensity floating past wilting strokes from careful guitars; monastery murmurs unburden solemn golems simmered in cavernous synths and flickering beats as, “Hours,” tick away in tender effervescence and pensive empathy, nursing sacred aches from dark, unsettled hearts.

Steve Gunn - Time Off

Crafted from rustic muscle, tactical mastery and global mojo, “Time,” meanders in hypnotic chops, wiry guile and hippie serendipity; savvy tapestries weaving taunt knots within placid gymnastics. A disarming shaman with stoic vocals drawing mystical riffs from his acoustic guitar, Gunn’s pliable spirals funnel bluesy voodoo into psychotropic folk to coax intricate, intimate jams from his band’s roomy, intuitive ruminations.

Alison Moyet - the minutes

In a purring, scurrying field of dramatic shifts and electronic rifts, Moyet’s rich velvety voice guides and confides, balancing electro-baroque ballads beside power-pop moxie whose lush reductions zip in swift deliverance tastefully layered with fist-clenching tensions and emotional resolve. Forsaking and berating, the posh, polished, “minutes,” races to bewitching finishes; bold, soulful control unfolding in defiant alliance and inquisitive dignity.

All Tiny Creatures - Dark Clock

Synaptic bubble-wrap trapped in chattering catacombs, feather-weight cages and overlapping mattresses of calculating palpations, “Clock,” unlocks honeyed prog-pop harmonics fueled by shiny cyber-vibes deploying midi-fidgety sequences from paisley-flavored generators. Tantalizing mechanical fantasies sheathed in chrome and slathered in foam, the angelic, relentlessly kinetic ATC’s coy android chorals swirl and unfurl in pumped-up pomp; ravishing pastoral pageantry blanketed in space-age grace.

Free Time - Free Time

Feigned restraint swaddled in soft-spoken verse squirms beneath FT’s narcotic combination of Kiwi-twee and New York torque. Couched in leisurely sweetness, capsized happiness and upbeat appeasements, “Free,” stands knee-deep in riff-driven fits as solid, melodic swan-songs washed in bristling wishes, modest apologies and breezy seaside jangle form thorny six-string storms churned in playful pop-rock submissions spiked with flinty home-sick indecision.

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