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.

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.

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.

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.