From the heatpeepers of Alexander Moskos:

Roollin’ uptee with Guy Les Lunettes (aka Michael Caffrey) and Beach Seat Black (aka Doominiq Alexander) aka the ROYAL HUZZLE CYPHER = PURPLE CAPE + HUSH PUPPIES x SLIME GREEN LACES + DOOM’s COTTON PORTI-TENT and MAROONBERRY BERET, though, laying in the cut tight, inside VADER aka Caffer’s 740 Swede Maheen Brick and natch’l blues DOOM is hipping the older gods (who need some hipping de temps en temps) on early NEW ROMANCE, even some proto-Ital-NEW ROMANCE (City, dude, try Googling that s/t lp -Dom) as well as some UK-Eighty-whatevers ish that sounds like basement ‘tronics with USA-70 loner-folk vox o’ertoops. Fit right into my new curiosity-style; Shaps be waking the grumps cuz the Wizard of Kozz is zonetoning early Simple Minds with only thin-walled St. Henri shipwright construction separating his nug and Jim Kerr’s not-so-ruff-hewn croon out the broown Tecnics, late.

If you’ve ever hit the weirdcan BBS message board archives you know I’ve lit Christmas with Wolfcow before, playbs. “No sheet, meeester”. So stoked was the kozzmoobowl when Greydyn reminded her that Tones had sold him a sweet German tropi-sco side, summertime, debt unpaid, now paid, the greenside of which went to Snaps, the 3” of NEW CANADIAN OLD ROMANCE went directly into me Wolf Coow section. Because romance ripens, rather have it grown and warmed than young-blood cooled. Wolfcow is romantic like Sibelius (the Finnish composer not the software) is Romantic, not in some uptoon-yoothman-croon-wrapped-in microkoorg-hooz-that-sounds-like-a-hoockey-bag-spray-painted-black-filled-with-black-hand-sanitizer sense.

These are no mere mild wonders; the songs here are stunners, or no, more like putting on stunners you bought for five zones in Kensington Market in order to shade your little ninja eyes from the huge shards of hot light that reflects off the salmon pink Royal Bank Tower at Bay and King, whose source is the two suns setting out across great Lake Ontario, glowing nuclear red on The Hammer, late-day pink on Goderich, motarded fuchsia on Oshawa, a glorious blown out gold on Caledon and, natürlich, or should I say natürlicht, an almost neon hue, nearly topaz in the far corners of the sky but decidedly hot amber and PURPLE on the GO Bus traced streets of Newmarket…And the crew salaciously awaits Wolfcow wax. Who’s stepping up? Greydyn’s hot light genius can’t be crammed onto 3” forever.

Your Pal,

Tones

Ps: Contains guest vocalists. In the case of these cuts below, Dave Evans of the Soopcans and on the lush crooz-lit “Bad To The Rhinestone”, some randoo named Jon.

Pps: Mid-period CANTORRecs WCBBSMB record porn is SFW unless Fern Ledouce in the cubes next to you is deeply offended by Ikea shelves adorned with Albertan Folk-lones… find yourself in conflict resolution, Fern spinning his pen Chinese-math student style, the mediator rippin’ a Tims, you resolute with a MacDos free grip feelin the only way out is to ADMIT to your addiction, hell, when you log in as USERNAME: HEATPEEPER the desktop image is a seductively cropped close-up of a Swede Pressing of Bo Hansson’s “El-ahrairah” lp.

From the nic-fit of Bryce Warnes:

No lies: the first physical testament from all-female trio Lié is a slab of midwinter permafrost. The temperature in Vancouver rarely drops below freezing; Lié compensate with blackened punk aggression and icy gothic elegance. “Fossoyeur”‘s bassline grabs your pelvic bones and shakes them to a rhythm banged out by shovels on casket lids. And if the Delphic Oracle broke curfew, started painting her nails black and formed a band, she would sing lead on “Muse.” It all ends with the nicotine-jittery “Pressure” followed by “Overtime”‘s feedback loop of paranoia. Word is that the Vancouver edition of this tape is sold out, so if you want a meatspace copy you’ll have to order it from Lié’s US label. But it’s totally worth it for a trip into the heart of the darkness this trio conjures. Beware of black ice.

From the sunflare stare of Jesse Locke:

Christian Richer’s inaugural sunshine-pop solo statement has been years in the making, lingering between labels, cooling on a windowsill, and patiently waiting for this scribe to find the right words. With the feather-light fingertips of a wizened sage, he hovers from the library to Canterbury with nary a care. Now that the Haiduks have multiplied into High Dukes, this caravan can pick up speed once again.

From the heartworn highway of Harriet Wild:

These are blues for halcyon days, sky-blues and sea-blues that rent apart a grey status quo, revealing and revelling in melodic twangs and prairie noodling not dissimilar to Arthur Russell’s folksier offerings. Jullum’s guitar meanders, pulsates and jitters along a heartworn highway, filtered through feathered drumlines, 12-bar blues sewn to husky Norwegian annunciations. Pastoral pop contemporaries notwithstanding, Jullum is countrified without being Kentucky-fried.

From the methadone serenity of Trevor Blumas:

I’m unsure whether the dudes in Fresh Snow conceived of an over-arching narrative for their debut album, but I certainly read it that way. Cassette-exclusive opener “French Horse Hall of Fame” lets you know immediately what kind of wild ride you’ll be embarking on. Upon my first listen, I suddenly felt a sensation similar to that moment in the dentist chair, when the wonderfully numbing drugs begin to take over your body and the instruments of destruction start to mangle your teeth like a demolition site. The blissful screaming of the feedback symphony, which unrelentingly churns like an infinitely hollow stomach, only dissipated at moments to allow some genuinely groovy rhythms to carry me into a buzzsaw of enlightenment. I found myself in Nirvana, and it actually happened to look a lot like ’70s era Berlin. Methadone serenity at times, stick-up at Checkpoint Charlie the rest.

From the knotted thoughts of Adam Bradley:

Over the four years I spent in St. John’s plodding through my degree, I rarely went to shows or involved myself directly with the local music scene. While Newfoundland’s capital city is flush with talent and a hearty love of music, I never really found myself drawn to the dominant themes of hard rock, trad and hardcore, among other styles that then held sway. However, Bryan Melanson’s self-titled 2007 release as Errand Boy rose meekly yet bravely to my attention like a shy kid’s hand at the back of a classroom.

This music is boldly vulnerable but retains a sense of wonder, scoring the knotted thoughts of someone ambling over rocky Newfoundland hills hungover, full of regret and fascination jointly. The tones and tone can at any time resemble the jangly guitar work of Do Make Say Think or fade to the patient, crunchy ambience of Múm. Spastic drum loops barrel under many tracks, and in place of vocals, Melanson makes liberal use of sampled dialogue to build themes from disparate elements, following the breadcrumbs of Illinois’ emo breakcore forbear and quoted influence, Stunt Rock. On this record, impression gives way to pop mutation, and sees Errand Boy’s calculation of so many forms draw together as a shimmering, emotive, mechanical mixture.

Adam Bradley is a concert programmer for Wavelength Music Arts Projects and production manager at The Music Gallery. He designs hand drawn show posters and, among other publications, has contributed to Exclaim! and Offerings.

From the score sheet of Johnnie Regalado:

You’ll find one in every town. That rock and roll workhorse that plays so goddamn hard you want to keep it a secret. That band you never want to stop or leave. In Victoria, that band is called Slam Dunk. On their sophomore album Welcome to Miami, Slam Dunk deliver rollicking pop songs about the shortage of scabies cream in pharmacies, their good friends’ very average grades, and just about every other demented whim they’ve ever had a good laugh over. This album is a compilation of all those beautiful things that crowds of sweaty drunks are ready to pump their fists to. Strip away the silliness and you’re left with a tight and technical perfection of pop rock that’s sure to leave you with a sore neck from excessive thrashing. This album isn’t just a two-pointer. It’s an all-out, 360, through the legs NBA jam of unprecedented awesomeness.

From the burnt boreal of Andrew JBS Clark:

Adder stole the Golden Axe and that shit ain’t right. First he defeated the one-million-guitar live monstrosity of Lunchmeat and now he’s formed the perfect economy of evil with Prosimii. Delivered in loomingly fun drunken smears, Supreme Truth finds our heroes Adam Boyle and Kevin Barnhorst putting their heads down to try and dull Adder’s razor sharp hooks by covering them with pounding thunder and open handed fretboard abuse. Just listen to their unhinged back-up vocals at the end of “Borg” to know they’re doing their best. Alas, even when buried in no-fi tape-hiss, the boys cannot stop Adder from landing his two-minute helicopter-songs on the poor unsuspecting village people.

From the mental mosaic of James Lindsay:

Like a bike ride through downtown in August, JFM’s s/t LP is a safari of sounds and styles. These moments only stay with you long enough to make their point, as if they were wafting from the windows of cars and clubs, bars and backyard parties, before you pedal past and the next one gets a hold of your head. Less spasmodic and more sample-based than Black Dice but coming from a similar urban zoo, Jesse Frank Matthews is a radio anthropologist as collage artist, collecting critical bits to make a mosaic in your mind that feels at once nostalgic and immediate, metropolitan and organic.

From the terminal suburbia of Pavan Brar:

Home Alone’s Teddybears & Weed moves with a hazy fluidity through the cycles of sleep. Soundwaves map out like shifting EEG patterns throughout the tape’s progression, each song emanating a synesthesiastic glow as every neural pulse reverberates with warm splashes of vibrant colors. Shoegazery and dream-pop tendencies collide and construct soundscapes of obscured vocals and delicate melodic riffs. A soundtrack equally suitable for sleeping in, or deprivation thereof.