From the fiefdom blues of Aaron Levin:

One hundred and twenty six seconds of unquantified popular glory; slipstream crossover from piercing ‘verbs to jarring hooks of addictive reflection. A glorious clamour of sinusoids congruent to Vancouver’s stochastic scene. Entropic forces conjuring dormant creative springs thanks to the Kingfisher Bluez Single-Sided 7″ series. Vancouver DIY. Gr1p.

From the wizardly wisdom of Gabriel Jasmin:

Times change. Since the last time I wrote something here, Peter Sagar of Sans AIDS relocated to Montreal and rechristened his project Homeshake. And the sound sort of went from chill-but-angsty to sooo very chill and Zen and cool. Perhaps that’s Peter getting older and wiser, but I think in reality it’s just what happens when you hang around this guy for too long. Anyway, Fixture Records offers us this amazing tape 100% packed with jams and a few cut-up sound effects, too. Do yourself a favour and dig in.

From the withering trenchcoat of Mark Teo:

Dan Geddes is a force, plain and simple. And despite the heaps of hella-high-praise references Peace receives — to Neu!, or Orange Juice, or Edwyn Collins, or whatever — there’s no substitute for experiencing their work via headphones. Peace shines not in virtuosity or violence (despite their ties to Vancouver’s explosive Emergency Room scene), but in their command of tone: The World Is Too Much With Us swaps the verbosity of Peace’s earlier work in favour of emotional dexterity, ranging from bombastic romancers (“Your Hand in Mine”), to menacing creepers (“Free Time”), to gleefully detached absurdist romps (“Kissed Dust”). It’s subtle, eloquent and direct — all of which is why I’m so obsessed.

From the powdered blue suit of Jared Majeski:

Don’t be fooled by what you’ve heard: Renny Wilson’s newly-Minted Sugarglider is much more than Vaseline-filtered disco daze. Sure, you feel the smoothness, the drip, the ecstasy; the hand-plucked basslines tickle your dancin’ regions. But there is so, so much more goodness here. From the opening sax whisper to the quaint Canterburian exeunt, Wilson slip n slides between primal Euro synth, art project lounge lizards and into the glimmery dancefloor stars twinkling with sequin-ensconced mirror singers. He’s a young man going it alone, splitting subatomic particles of inspirations, conquests and rejections of the dance floor doyenne. Thrown through the druggy, sweaty nebula of the somnolent House that Jack built, you won’t feel nothing, and you’ll feel all things that are good. Grip now, and try spinning this on 45 rpm for a whole new exxxperience.

From the bog scourge of Bryce Warnes:

Get Out is the self-described “downer literary pop” offshoot of Kingston hypno-noise crew False Face. In his sung-spoken missives, our psychopomp/vocalist alludes to Plato’s Cave, flexes his muscles in the mirror, morphs into a glacier, and name-drops E.J. Pratt’s ghost. With Culture of Defeat‘s eight songs alternating between march-along pop jams and tremulous introspection, this schlub-rock chapbook achieves a limping, sleep-cycle rhythm. Sound poetry for the footsore flâneur.

From the slurpee caliber of James Goddard:

Luke Harun is one of the hardest-working musicians in a city of hard-working musicians. Most weekends you’ll catch him holding it down with Nubians or Dream Girls or occasionally The Brabazons. Somehow alongside all of those commitments this past year he has found the time to drop a relentless string of residential-dwelling lo-fi pop gems as Baked Goods. Basement Glam sees him moving through the house from the bedroom to the titular basement. The songs taken together give him the room to bust out a fully articulated aesthetic vision. This cassette is ten tracks of the crunchy, ear-tickling, slurpee-calibre goodness that constitutes a suburban summer dream.

From the makeout videotape of Max Cotter:

Mac DeMarco returns with sleep-deprived, drug-induced melancholic meandering, rambling and noodling through an organic dreamscape. Once again, his exposure and effortless antics run on booze and budget smokes but this time polished with a little more introspective pondering. Sincere or sardonic? Either way, Mac’s melodies hang from the heartstrings in a state of lo-fi lackadaisical immaculacy.

From the discontinuous charade of Max Cotter:

Narrative machismo pop madness, horribly disfigured in a strange-yet-bewitching time machine accident. Slim Twig collides with a mine of baroque psychedelia and art-rock in the haywire patch bay of a lopsided, dusty old synth, misplaced in an opera hall’s dilapidated orchestra pit. Haunting warps and warbles meld in an innocent-seeming act of sinister hypnotism. Dense and intense.

From the nether-mood of Aaron Levin:

Montreal’s tropical haze is deepening into a thick, morning dew of bleary-eyed cruise control. Freelove Fenner’s treatise on angular beach rock is a colloquy to the interconnectedness of lysergic pop moves; hip-swayed freedom laced with sandy yayo and lisps wet with Carlos Rossi. An album set for the nether-moods of freebased menageries. Grip status: affirmative.

From the gas-soaked torch of Christopher Laramee:

Having evolved from the one-man band of Pete Grier into a four-piece, Caves gets pastoral quick on this full-length. Think Flying Saucer Attack’s rural drip-gaze nuzzling up to Yo La Tengo’s midnight skyline drone anthems. “Concrete Teeth” drowns in its own gooey dub treatments, indistinct vocal lines swirling into the keyboard and guitar loops whilst achieving full infinity with a shrug. The overall effect of this laid-back listen is a wonderful assimilation rather than a hobbled clobber over the skull. Pleasant, distant and kinda threatening like driving around the suburbs at dusk. Some fine bleed for the last drink before bed. Geez, now I’m thirsty!