Un dance party angoissant, mais un party quand même : la voix d’un la Fred Schneider fantomatique mène des guitares spastiques, des volutes synth-chédéliques et un tapochage de Neandertal à travers une dense ambiance de sélection naturelle. Des tounes qui crient vers les cavernes, préhistoriques et brutales, rendues intrigantes par des mélodies vivides et tordues qui rampent vers toi comme des peurs que tu t’inventes : je veux dire, tu vas pas avoir peur d’un CD, t’es plus fort que ça, mais ces gars-là PORTENT DES MASQUES.

Somewhere between a Canadiana Jandek, or a tone-deaf Neil Young, prairie-born Dave Smith drops a few of his strongest Going Down the Road-styled slices. Smith’s jams are often nothing more than tape buzz and harmonica-folk devolving into windy noise but with enough personality to shame Shotgun Jimmie into submission. Man of the land.

From the bubblegum pink loins of London comes this surprising little mix of some of Canada’s funniest, danciest, darkest and weirdest tracks. It begins gruff ‘n’ ruff with the Marlborough mumblings of Rip Tricker, living up to his name with a poetically curt account of last Christmas morning, waking up drunk in the bathroom with flashes of “last night” fleeting in and out of his damaged recollections. Sean Savage lubes the deal with his whispered pining and subtle-beyond-any-understanding “Chin Chin” to push you deeper into the wash of Water St. Projects’ uplifting cry for “HELP!” The order takes a turn for the curse with Eros Myth’s album/val-kill “Chessed Quest”, a gamer’s anthem. Just as you reach for your VHS copy of The Wizard (complete with Power Glove, “it’s so bad”), a burlap bag is thrown over your head and you are dragged though the cybersphere hearing blips of darkness on the rise when you find yourself on Man Made Hill’s “Sports Craft.” D-Sauce and Electric Stan make old seem very, very new with a borrowed bass line and recognizable riff that will make you want to join the Navy and lube your man up with buttah. The list honestly goes on and I could pun myself stupid but some WC favourites find themselves right at home amidst Londoners like Itsagamble, Flora, The Indigenous Nudes, Holden Main, TOPPS, New Zebra Kid, Ian Doig-Phaneuf, I Smell Blood, The Shanty Tramps, Thesis Sahib, Riderless, S.M., You’ll Never Get To Heaven and The Coconuts. This mix was put together to showcase our Forest City’s movement away from Forced Shitty. A new dawn is rising in London with tastes for almost any pallet. Enjoy all 31 tracks individually (even though it was created really as one play list tenderly groomed by Bot Dog of Hot Dog) and give yourself a reason to come here next time you’re looking for a *wink* good time.

Undulating acid bass thaws the permafrost of Brusque Twins’ latest EP. The icy hot duo last washed up on these shores with the standout banger of Visage Musique’s Vol. 1 comp, cropping up again here with four new hyperborean ballads. The operatic vocals of Hollie Hensman are the tell-tale heartbeat of this closet goth club, thumping away to the rhythm of the night.

Crabe have unleashed a totally blasted and inexplicable artifact from the Montreal underground. Forging undefined links between Archimedean power pop and wasted Ramones covers, their unreadably-titled CDR gives the briefest glimpse into basemental prog conjured by the dialectically adventurous. Quintessentially bizarre. We’re not even sure if this is grippable.

Heady, meditative northern-folk excursions bind Ollie North’s sophomore EP to a deeper, holographic mood. Strange visions extol the steel-picked perturbations as distorted vocals quiver between grooves of acoustic mellow. A strange and welcomed occurrence within the haloed streams of the folk ritual.

A power trio which sways from down-tempo doom to British Heavy Metal, and their drummer’s tape manipulations are the glue that holds it all together? If the tectonic shifts don’t diminish you with a blink, nervous hums will creep up through Crabskull’s eerie non-sequiturs and form pustules on any clean mind — infectious stoner metal in its newest mutation, perversion, persuasion, enticing all to bang head, bang head, bang head.

With insatiable pop addiction, Expwy forge wondrous anomalies between classic riffery and a future primitive brimming with mutant fuzz and choralic melancholy. Bag of Waters enslaves with every sonic ritual, finding wikked balance between jangled nuance and blasted harmonies; without warning, it’ll radiate cultic catchiness to every stalwart remover within the spectral radius of your dual blaster. Its ambitious existence remains a beacon to the brilliant creative energies exploding within our tundradic paradise. Totally and unabashedly awesome.

With just enough slacker isolation to eschew the waning spring, Beach Velvet’s warbled shimmer slips unseen into the eternal heat of summer noons. It’s an easy sound that hits all the right vibes and osmose into your mind to the rhythm of swirling jangle and warm riffs. Relish in the simplicity of tape jammers and log cabin chillin’, mentally free-basing off these tape waves.

The scorched ferocity barely tethers Burnt Monument‘s searing atonal bliss to our malignant reality. Revelling within the distorted chaos of a guitar-driven daily dance, Burro decimate every squalid soundscape in their pursuit of tautolic wretchery. It’s the ultimate display of damaged purity; a cacophony of annihilation; a treatise on the fundamental nature of obliteration. Ultimate Shred™.