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?

Recorded in Calvin Johnson’s Dub Narcotic Studio in Olympia, WA, Canada’s most progressively potent gang of art-damaged grumps have created what could be their masterwork. After years of touring Rollins style and unleashing countless slabs upon the mound, AIDS Wolf have pared it down to the bare wires pulsing and robbing us of the horizon. Chloe Lum’s vocals are louder than ever, yet processed in robotic jabs to the eardrums, playful, violent, while Alex Moskos floats and meanders through a valley of oozing moans, all on top of the unrelenting smash provided by Yannick Desranleau. Every time they get into the studio they take it out to the left field for another round of “how insane am I/how insane is the world”, barefoot and lost. Finding new meanings inside the sullen husks of human interaction, focused on the future and destroying the past relatives we had known. Repetition. Repeater. Realized. Where do we go from here?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.