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.

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.

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.

Ditching the saddleback for a deep-dive into sun-soaked desert jammery, Slim’s wasted wycked warble embodies a new, singular harmony. He’s been re-envisioned within a blizzard of smoked-out synthetics and organ-swung arpeggio; a centrifuge of lysergic balladry and kinetic insanity. Timeless burners for the possessed mind. Conjured via Calico Corp., Slim’s exotic new imprint of “unique articles, starkly designed.”

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.

Actual Water have been spitting out some freaky-deaky and/or brilliant low run tapes and lathes over the past few years. Now they’re finally gearing up for their first full-length LP, which comes out next month on Unfamiliar. I’m happy to report that the promo-video/single has just dropped and the weird ones have caught it. The group is working some happy, Flying Nun thing that’s a nice change of weather from all the goth-waves washing up our shores. Please don’t let me be misunderstood. I love all the depressing blizzard-queen/rave-witch stuff, but it’s great to take a short break from it as the weather starts to get colder. That’s how I’m feeling anyway.

I’ve always liked director Danielle Nemet’s photo-blog, Sombre Reptiles, so it’s nice her footage puts you in the same warm-world as the snapshots. Kinda had my fingers crossed the singer would bust out rapping by the end but he never did. It’s still the most fun video I’ve seen in a long time. Thanks Actual Water!

Specters of surf-beat and apparitions of the brothers Reid linger between supercharged shards of feedback from this brazen Toronto trio. Hollandaze channels decade-faded six-string anthemia smoke-ringed into the present like a resinous blast of chromium dioxide. The holy triumvirate of Buzz, Daps and Pleasence group grope the O boys to present this late ’11 stunner in all three formats a gripper could desire. Our only question: who’s dropping this shit on eight-track?

Janela burns eternal; an outlier within the data-set of cosmic dance musik. Layers of its breath carry our spirits, buoyed by waves of emotional grace. Each listening a ceremony; a christening for THOMAS’ ascension. Every song a Eucharist; a celebration for the last feast of genre. And each movement brimming with quanta of popular majesty, shimmering in sync by the union of the jazz. It is heaven. It is joy. It is love. Janela is our last supper. And our revelation. Join hands, minds, and hearts with your neighbour as our spirits dance with ecclesiastical smoothness into the heavens of rhythm and bass.