Swaddling their inaugural cassette in a surgical glove cocoon, Montreal’s newest modular synth and electronics power duo scramble brains like Ramsay does eggs. The inspired mind-meld of Frank “Hobo” De Gallo and Jesse “Meat Parade” Osborne-Lanthier oozes from ear to ear with effervescent washes, high-pitched squeaks and interplanetary gabber in a post-space-rave chillout room. The totemic objects encased within offer a time capsule from the year 2046. O.R. They?

Skulking through distilled collages of glassy dreams are two lovers basking in high/low downstroke flanges and the beguiling hypnoses of analog motorik. Re-envisioning the heavier aural tropes of past projects, they tear down an oft-aped distinction to construct unencumbered bricks-and-mortar post-punk. Rhythm of Cruelty is a beautiful trashy-dash of battleship grey upon a black and white world.

If small town fairs were hip to the culture of cheap thrills and cheese appeal that speaks to my inner child, I’d hear Flamingo on the tinny speakers beside my head while I wait in line for elephant ears and ride vouchers. Sean Savage is calmer and quieter here than I’ve known him to be. These are vaguely erotic hand-holding and ferris-wheel-secret-telling songs. I want to win the big bear prize for my gal and make promises to her while the sun sets. Lovely meets funny as Sean trills, woos and oohs you.

Canada’s cantankerous centrifuge (read: Thunder Bay) births another industrial mammoth. Rolling in throws of topological warble and droning magnificence, Au Vol soaks the diligent mind in patterns of pseudorandom bliss. Apothecary is not without its minimal ambience, bringing a truer vision into the audio dialog coursing through the Canadian Shield.

From the manufactured landscape of Southern Ontario a new hybrid emerges. The Denim Reptile moves nimbly on warbling electronic feet across man made hills, but its tough exterior is defined by unabashed parking lot guitar solos. Donning an Iron Maiden T-shirt, the lizard king compresses roadhouse blues through a Windows 95 soundcard. A much needed flashback to basements of the early digital era.

Lantern’s burning proto-punk and wah-wah workouts provide a much needed headbang session to strengthen those aging neck tendons. Their cover of this trashcan anthem further proves the cutting-edge theory that silverface fuzz blows away synth-banjo, any day. Meanwhile, The Ether’s destructo-wave ripples into black holes, a dense mass constantly on the verge of implosion. Here and there, a sparse guitar lead escapes the confines, a split-second before the void pulls you back head first into its crushing fury. Must grip!

Free-floating memories of Sunday morning devotionals merge with the holy ghost of Ann Peebles on this earth-rattling rave-up in the name of. Fresh to def with instantaneous heft and a front-to-back set of unshakeable tunes, Chrissy Reichert’s pitch (and paradigm) shifted bangers twist up Tranzac avant-squawk with dusted brother ‘No C’ Zukerman, including feline sound effects guaranteed to freak out your cats. Tenderness could be 2012’s sonic salvation. Get ur grip on.

Sounds of chimes, gongs, angelic voices male and female. An unseen hand pulls back a curtain, exposing a room filled with beaded sights and melting lights, incense stenches and the smells of foods fit for gods. The sound’s engaging the movement of all in attendance, who are involved in the humanitarian orchestra of peaceful sound happening right now, for the sacrifice of the burdens put on us. Heightened by the senses, organized folk freedom makes you feel aware of emotions you seemed to have forgotten. Someone hands you some reefer, another points out an acoustic guitar sitting alone with no one to strum it, and before you know it you’re part of a living landscape of tantric Babylonian psychedelic meditation. A warm beating heart of an ensemble led by the skilled Doc Dunn in a cold cage of a city. Feel these babies breathe, Side A from a living room, Side B including an audience. Put down that plastic fork you’re holding, its comfort food will never satisfy you again. Come heal your soul in these pure vibrations.

The simplest sandwich can be a delicacy in the right hands. So it is with Prime Cuts. Synthesist Nick’s aqueous tones conjure up Mile End Machu Picchus while drummer Riley masters the art of percussion-as-hook, stretching across the sky with single bars of rhythm from your favorite Sub-Saharan freedom fighter cassette. But what really grabs the heart are the chanted Zen laments for undergrad living: “Nothing is working/I wish I were surfing/Lonely in college.”

Imagine following that silly rabbit down a hole and never finding the bottom. A soundtrack to your descent may sound frightening but in fact, after about two minutes of free falling, a sense of peace licks your brain and you forget what it feels like to keep two feet on the ground. Shaker Hymns whoop and flip chords to penetrate typical guitar riffs for the ultimate in desert spy movie darkness. A voice squelches from behind a dune but the bass ‘n’ drums are your canteen of agua. Lifesavers in a strange place that leave you afraid but intrigued. A plane in the sky writes a message that reads: “keep going”.