Smoki Tygr (a.k.a. Smoky Tiger) was sent on a mission to follow the gospel of our holy prophets and save the rest of Manitoba, the prairies, and possibly North America. Meanwhile, he’s fighting with copyright laws for the good and entertainment of the common person, leading an ornery crowd in a sing-a-long and making them roll around in laughter, incapacitated. Finally, after a long bout of crime fighting, at some drinking establishment or art space, he sings our Canadiana lessons. Yes, ‘tis nothing but a peaceful day here in the greater Manitoba area, thanks to Smoki Tygr and his robotic companion.

Red Masstermind Choyce delivers a triple-gulp of pavement pizza with wildman drummer Edouard Laroque on this abdominal assault of improv-psych splatter. Whether tearing into chainsaw riffs or veering into a nomadic void, Satan’s van never stops a-rockin’. As a clincher, “Museum of Death” hands the megaphone to gonzo poet Richard Ritalin for a tale of ritual evil à la “The Gift.” Beurk!

Wipe that icy sweat off your brow and vogue like a vampire. Visage Musique’s late 2011 salvo sends out a coldwave of shimmering shivers with minimal emotion and maximum satisfaction, spanning the label’s extended family, WC fave Femminielli and a fresh cast of freaks. Black light aerobics and arena anthems pump it up like Pavel Bure while the witching hour survivors get their kicks. G to the RIP.

Wist Rec.’s clever Book Report series earns a crackling, bubbling 3” CD soundtrack from prairie elder label chief Gary Mentanko. The stately soundwaves coaxed through the ether of H.P. Lovecraft’s 1927 tome spew forth from the disk tray with m-Log outerspacials, disembodied radio plays and guttural gurgles from the belly of the bog. A cherished grip for literati and object fetishists alike.

Layers of distorted flux from the nether-zone of Ottawa’s poly-pop underground ooze within Boyhood’s unassuming mellow burner. These direct-to-disc weirdos sleaze back into an alternate 90s wu-mansion brimming with teen age riots and sour times. Drizzle these noggin’ nodders over fists riffling for the grip.

Shuffling and smiling through a moon-hung Ren. Faire when the dandelion wine has kicked in for the minstrels, electroacoustic jazzbo Lee Hutzulak dips into that crazy river. Tucked underneath his faded poncho, the twinkle-eyed lifeguard of Dixie’s Death Pool unleashes a squadron of steam punk arachnids to undertake his mystical bidding. Rev up your electric flute, grab a Mackie Blackjack and get jiggy.

Not all of us can take the trip that is the Assiniboine Music Armada, canoeing from Brandon to Winnipeg with psych-folk band Twin to communities through wilderness, but some can certainly admire the spirit, for those of us who believe in spirits anyhow. Phantom embodied, Greg Hanec’s tribute to the tour (performed and recorded at Twin’s return show to Winnipeg) plays like an NFB nature doc — expansive, quiet stretches, sounds of water splashing, and birds chirping — accompanied by Philia’s concentrated atonal arsenal. Elsewhere, he’s making music out of whatever he can get his hands on: cello samples, the open back of a piano, and his own field recordings of a bus door opening and closing. What’s at play is what usually isn’t played, and the subdued floats on down, up, and by.

Après trop de semaines de jingles des fêtes sans arrêt, Dan Foley perd la boule et régurgite son mal de cœur de son ton le plus morose. Un late night à fredonner tête à tête avec GarageBand, un malaise monotone qui fait frémir, tout comme les conversations ennuyantes avec grande-tante au cours des jours à venir. Joyeuses fêtes, les weirdos!

As a compilation of Storring’s electroacoustic variété, Rife hints at the hidden majesty lurking within his many mental membranes. The searing vision lies between the strung wisdom of his violin and the electroacoustic prowess harnessed by modern digitalia; dense ethnographic footprints imprinted within our curious minds. The heavy THX moves coalesce within beds of a private world processed for our unguided meditation. A valiant expression of creative experimentalism worth all the honours stowed upon him. Freeze-dried for a gripper’s safe keeping.

Surprise grip of the year. Softly diffusing from the northwestern margins of the Swan City (Grand Prairie), Matthew A. Wilkinson has upended Weird Canada HQ with his numinous folk incantations. Wordless murmurs melt into wasted drum circles, twinkling pianos and bent acoustic chant, as this boreal basement ritual summons malevolent deities of wavering gender. Songwriter, filmmaker and maybe even oracle, Wilkinson wields an unruly power. Lend him your ears.