Huge late-pass on this monster groove. Between the subtle hushes of “cocaine love” and damaged guitar slank of “Larmes de crocodile” resides the sequenced genius of Jef Barbara. The subtle streams of pop consciousness run rampant in Barbara’s work; somehow existing in a nether-genre equally perplexing as inastiable. Contamination‘s surreal jaunt through NRG minimalism will wreck the havoc of permanence as you clamour for softer heights amongst Montreal’s erotic synth explosion (complete with cameos from Femminielli and JLK).

This one’s a total “no duh.” The latest subsidiary of the Long, Long, Long hit factory sheds a few layers of skronk while firing jangular hooks down the assembly line. Space echoes shimmer in an ocean of detached emotion while the tag-team harmonies sound positively fab. Drifting from the Maritimes to Montreal, our heroes have picked up a ringer to man the traps and cast this brilliant kahuna into the wild. A+++.

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?

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.

Mentioned before are the utterances and inspirations one communicates through simple habitation of an isolated, brutalist centre like Edmonton. Pleasantly mercurial, Jom Comyn’s disparate croonerism makes us venture not waaaaaaay up, but way in; another rural-reared summation of despair, darkness, love and family. Sunstroke fuses steady melody (“Hatchet in the Garage”), sharp-toned proggy instrumentation (“Heatstroke”) and neighbourly back-up; all of course lathed with that familiar subtly of Jim Cuming’s monochromatic vocals. Wherever your tiny existence rests each night, remember to collect dust, soak up the eternal cold and take heed of your surroundings.

Huge late-pass on this beast of an LP from Edmonton ex-patriots Peace. Soaring wickedly within rippling bass-lines and jagged guitar wrenching, My Face bursts through every three-minute pop monopoly. Drawing their anthemic, addictive wave-wrought experience over enduring excursions into indie-rock jammery, My Face rips, shreds, and permanently damages every turntable lucky enough to jive with their vibrations. Pop Echo kept this one limited to 300, so grip fast while copies remain within the ether.

The title track from Dog Day’s latest release as a two-piece steps between the swirls of dreams and the maddening grip of stupid insomnia. The spiraling keyboards from the band’s previous incarnation are no longer present, and in their stead we have Seth’s guitars and Nancy’s drums beating out a crunchy refrain while their pure wondering kid-voices bemoan all the thoughts of money and friends and old lovers circling around and around, wearing grooves in the brain along with the ticking of the hours. “Belle” is a wilder, more anxious jam that chugs forward and whispers a story of psychedelic, beautifully skittish bird-love. In the last song, “Give Me the Light,” Nancy’s tiny voice hums while the guitars groove roughly and Seth sighs and grumbles a little until the chorus tears a little crack open and a slip of daytime appears. Oh Dog Day. These three perfect songs stay heavy while easing the weight and softening the furrows of the heart.

The boys from Brazil (ian Money) throw it all at the wall on their latest c32 dispatch, and — surprise, surprise — everything sticks. Like an overheated Pizza Pop™, This Is Not A Dream bursts at the seams with genre-blurring gunk rockers, bellyaching’ bummer folk and falsetto piss ‘n’ vinegar. Guitars warble and strum with hand-bleeding repetition, horns squeal like a second line and frontman Garrett Johnson hog hollers in a variety of voices. Wake up and grip with the sweaty-palmed quickness.

Jesus, I wish I liked whiskey. A slow glass of the smoky stuff, a rocking chair, and DoT’s Mizz Teviak wafting from the victrola: that’s how this summer’s sweltering twilights should look. Too bad I hate hard liquids, and this album isn’t on vinyl — it’s exactly the kind of dusky, slack-jointed folk that the occasional needle-pop could only accentuate. Without reaching outside of an acoustic palate, DoT does everything from syllable-splitting yarns to softly swirling paranoiac melodies to wurly kitsch. Compounded, these tracks will have you mesmerized on your porch, too heavy-lidded to slap the mosquitos eating your flesh. Bliss.

D’un côté, Bad Vibrations délaisse quelque peu le power-pop-punk tordu qui caractérisait son premier maxi pour s’exposer la flanelle sur un sentier cagneux de fuzz mélancolique, de tambours itératifs et de voix éthérées et dit « allo » au grunge c88-90 d’un air à la fois triste et fâché, parce que le grunge c’est compliqué. De l’autre, Bloodhouse se magne le punk, amincit son mur du son pour laisser passer plus de fun dans son psych-garage et incite sérieusement au tapage de pied jusqu’à ce que ça saigne, entre un John Dwyer d’avant et un de maintenant. Halifax l’a, l’affaire.