Convenience stores emit sounds so high pitched that adults can’t hear to ward off young people from loitering (what we used to call “hanging out”). Reverse this hypothesis and lo, a sound that shakes soil and loam to drag up undergrounders from the deep who can dance with their eyes closed. Metal gates creak open in Sodom to welcome those shunned from the sidewalks and we fall, tripping over cracks. This overtly rude foursome can’t help but glue together weirdos and fun-boys, calling the rest of us a bunch of Taquito-eating old folks. If you think you’ve got it on the wrong speed, it’s right.

Toronto’s finest trash heap trio returns with another quick fix for the pigfuck junkies. The gnarled guitar riffs squeal like an alley cat stretched through a meat grinder, while the fat-stripped rhythm section hits harder than Soda Popinski. Essential 2012 gripitude from the ever-swelling catalogue of Pleasence.

With just enough slacker isolation to eschew the waning spring, Beach Velvet’s warbled shimmer slips unseen into the eternal heat of summer noons. It’s an easy sound that hits all the right vibes and osmose into your mind to the rhythm of swirling jangle and warm riffs. Relish in the simplicity of tape jammers and log cabin chillin’, mentally free-basing off these tape waves.

Between the blanketed 90s vibez lurks a definitive mellow eschewed by these Toronto mysteries. Layered guitars glide along powdery tracks paved by staccato bass and infinite drum machinery, making it too easy to whirl endlessly within their chorus of liquid vox. Quite frankly, the dub see has never been softer.

What’s the matter, cuz? Bf/gf gone due to drugs? Well, MJSMJ’s here to give you auditory hugs, in the form of earnest 4-track fuzz. When you’re down and when you’re blue, this lo-fi harmony bliss would be your blesséd tissue. Or let your hair down, shuffle off your mortal frozen mind, and rock out with your junk out (Of control, but still in your shorts—despite best efforts of your unholy cohorts). Unlike those jerks, MJSMJ genuinely has your emotional liberation at heart — from now until that Dylan Thomas-referencing light departs.

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?

Une comète qui a fui la grand ville (Montréal) pour échapper au malheur, Les Nitrates de Madame Mimieux (R.I.P. 2011-2011) se sont retrouvées à Sutton dans les Cantons de l’est et, en retrait, ont tranquillement travaillé sur un premier opus de slacker folk-pop fusant de vieux synthés, aussi vaste et charnu que leur région d’adoption, et autant capable d’envolées rédemptrices, vives et libérées que d’ambiances douces ou préoccupées. Musique de pluie avec une ferme intention de te prendre par la main, variable comme les saisons sans jamais être complètement sombre, comme si Sonic seasonings de Walter Wendy Carlos étaient interprété par Chad VanGaalen ou Avec pas d’casque avec quelques moments de fuzz 90s.

Once again, Pink Noise mastermind Mark Sauner sounds like a laid-back, drug dealing, cartoon street hustler leaning against a brick wall trying to sweet-talk you. Are you going to get inside his black Cadillac and go for a cruise? I warn you he’s headed for a futuristic district. The windows to this man’s soul may be tinted, but it’s a luxury ride to the finish line. This is mutant-making music. These anthems would provide the suitable soundtrack for a dystopian inner-city youth centre with a poisoned water supply. The Pink Noise is truly a national treasure and sorely under recognized for its achievements in the field of sleaze.

[Ed’s note: Yes, we already posted about this album in its original format. This is its fourth pressing and first on wax from the good folks at Pleasence, and it sounds sleazier than ever…]

Slack-pop philosopher Matt Swann stays true to his school. On the full-length follow-up to last year’s sweet little split with fellow ramshackle charmers Lab Coast, the Ghost with the most emerges from Plato’s basement with another resonant collection of melodic melancholia. Recorded and mixed with the deft touch of Chad VanGaalen, the swirl of overdriven anti-solos, vintage organ squelch and mesmeric harmonies from the golden pipes of Laura Leif shine brighter than ever. Timeless tunes for modern lovers.

Two sides of basemental groove thread Pleasence Records‘ latest three-three-one-three oblation. Young Truck assaults with vibronic angular disco, littering their rhythmic chaos with atonal shreddery and mystic digitalis. On the flip, wigs get a second pealing after dual doses of Man Made Hill’s tweaked bone. Hypothetical damage and degenerate groove spring Disco Prison into an ultraverse of mutant Prince and casio-Konrad. Heavy grippage.