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.

A familiar scene: a young dreamer alone in his parent’s basement makes music to escape loneliness and boredom. Now, the unusual thing about this scene is that this basement is filled with state-of-the-art (for 1984) home-recording equipment and synthesizers and is located in rural Alberta surrounded by endless potato fields, miles from anything remotely metropolitan. For the young Tona Walt Ohama, the major portals to the world-at-large from his isolated farm were through television, radio and records. A well-rounded diet of classical, rock, prog and most importantly New Wavers like Gary Numan & John Foxx gave Ohama the vocabulary he needed to beam beautiful analog messages from his farm to the greater world. I Fear What I Might Hear, Ohama’s first album proper, is a masterpiece of modern folk-form, perfectly capturing the Canadian cultural climate of the early eighties and its effect on a sensitive young mind. I Fear is at once as introspective and pastoral as Nick Drake, but rather than evoking acoustic images of Camus and moody English moors it speaks of McLuhan and a plugged-in landscape that is equal parts muddy toil and media spoil. The LP works effectively as a cohesive document partly because the existential themes of isolation, identity and cultural decay are explored as lyrical subject-matter throughout, but also because the songs are all stitched together using a concrete pastiche of sounds that ranges from idyllic & rustic (animals & water) to industrial & urban (engines & TV). Truly, this is a prescient letter of distress and dislocation revealing the disappearance of a dichotomy, where it doesn’t matter where you live, Google will find you. Don’t be afraid though, it’s a great comfort to know that Ohama’s clear and visionary voice is out there in the Great Wide Aether.

For further insight into the great mind of Ohama, check out my extensive dialogue with Tona via Polyphasic Recordings.

File Under: Angelo Badalamelty. Stealthily trailing his previous tone-float into the celestial spring, Phil Dickau reemerges with the ill-omened warble jams of Taiwan. Hidden deep in the mustiest corners of the Black Lodge, he re-imagines Twin Peaks’ timeless soundworld as a nightmaric smooth jazz Buddha Box. Groove to the sound of your mind liquefied.

This time-warped transmission from the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society drifts the listener deep into transoceanic distress. Sampledelic hydro vibes drenched in tape-warbled basement prog make for heavy loner moves in a cf. 2011 artifact of modern fringe. Solange’s radiophonic workshop spins skyward as a cast of disembodied voices spin the wheels of confusion. Grip?

Deep within Canada’s tundradic core lies a lush gully of acoustic majesty. As these warm vibrations pierce the embittered cold, their very migration needs a soundtrack; hymns to carry us while our ancient graves turn barren lives to eternal dust. While the sky turns Paris Green and our eyes drift softly into slumber, Jessica’s hymns persuade; Brother Loyola‘s warmth and gorgeous mellow shall swallow us in a liquid sun of minor-key mourning. The cover says it all: grip.

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.

Revelling in the unabashed pleasures of record collection rock, alt-weekly barnstormer and vinyl slinging stalwart Devin Friesen has hit a stride with his effects-laden solo flight. Looper Pedal Blues is one of two new cassettes from Friesen’s own Gerogerigegege-inspired imprint, pairing epic instrumental fuzz-outs and guitar-damaged confessionals abuzz with post-SY hookery. We love the jams and the jams run free.

Billowing clouds of Bob Hope waft from the airbrushed van of these riff-razing moccasin rockers and their illicit Iommion smoke ring. Choke Hits’ marathon blazers outpace even Electric Wizard yet maintain enough movement throughout to avoid basement couch burnout. Amidst the ashen embers of gnarled guitar damage, hi-hats crackle and tom rolls pop, as far off (and out) electronics hover like UFOs in the hazy heavens over Roswell. Call it The Chronic 2011.

Edmonton’s high drama manic panic punks are alive and kicking at the pricks on this Camaro red two-song flexi. Spasmodic bursts of windmill riffitude, boneheaded breakdowns and absurdist drill sergeant gang chants in a minute or less are all you’re going to get on this collectible sneak peek at the upcoming “long” player, and you’ll spoon it down with a grin. “This must be what it’s like playing chess with your mom / This must be what it’s like playing dress-up with your dad.” Bayonets!!! are proud parents of a Drop D student.

Like a phoenix emerging from its gilded egg of myrhh to set off a cave rave at the gates of Heliopolis, perpetual Weird Canada posterchildren GOBBLE GOBBLE have soared into the next level of hyper-pop consciousness, rechristened BORN GOLD. Yet Bodysongs is no Day-Glo abortion of the past, but rather a hydra-headed celebration of where these bodacious boys have been and where they’re heading next. Well-worn singles like “Lawn Knives,” “Wrinklecarver” and “Boring Horror” bump and grind against live staple “Eat Sun, Son” and the rebooted emo-Rihanna banger “Alabaster Bodyworlds”. Above all, the twitchy steel drum synths of “Decimate Everything” blast a laser beam into the future, proving these MUTEK/Ghost Throats hybrid humanoids still have plenty of tricks up their skirts.