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.”

Today’s harem of mind-expanding disciples has once again enslaved the flaxen western pastures with expansive aural trudge. Toon Town is home to psych giants Shooting Guns, and with Born To Deal in Magic: 1952-1976, they preach their apocalyptic revival to the unwashed masses — leaving a few carcasses along the way. We’re past the antiquation of combines, crop dusters and funny towns; enter the time of the hyper-evolved mountain man making even more mountainous sounds. With song titles like “Public Taser”, “Last Great Depression” and “Stay Awake Forever”, you can truly feel the devilish lament in the hearts and bones of this five-piece. With more releases in the near horizon, that sweet, groovy haze will just get that much sweeter. Good thing these guys bring their lunch pails to work.

Craft Singles chief exec Andy March puts his best flower power foot forward on this scorched denim vest jambone. Anglofied undulations linger in the myst of heart-shaped hooks and the algebraic pterodactyl armed stick work of a Haligonian stalwart, which is all just an ostentatious way of saying that these songs totally rock.

Saskatchewan’s bosonic youth continue their fluorescent acceleration into celestial pop abandon. Dirty boots tumble in an Electrolux spin cycle of voltaic hiccups and stadium-sized axe swings, swirling atop candy-coloured halos to illuminate the cranium of feral brainchild Ryan Davidson. Church of the Kaos Pad cult is in session, so leave your reductions at the gate and get cleansed.

Billowing clouds of Bob Hope waft from the airbrushed van of these riff-razing moccasin rockers and their illicit Iommion smoke ring. Choke Hits’ marathon blazers outpace even Electric Wizard yet maintain enough movement throughout to avoid basement couch burnout. Amidst the ashen embers of gnarled guitar damage, hi-hats crackle and tom rolls pop, as far off (and out) electronics hover like UFOs in the hazy heavens over Roswell. Call it The Chronic 2011.

Two brotherly blazing long-form jams. Sinkhole Storm and Sandwich finds trashcan twang and dirty tremolo swells surfing atop monster waves of endless pulsing momentum. Amps cranked so far beyond breaking point, it’s a miracle such scorching tones didn’t eat right through the four-track tape. “Hotel For Gods” cools off from the acid heat wave with a steady, heady mixture of opaque synth and guitar ripples. A lasting, slow burning summer haze, and real tonal sludge.

Moving past his Casio-panoramic persona like a snake shedding its skin, the rhythmic heartbeat of Hot & Cold drifts into a holier plane with his latest CD-R. Re-animating Bo and maybe even Booker, Corrugated City brings blues and spiritual idioms into a haunted future-past of drum machines, fuzz organ and squealing six-string freak-outs. Who do you love?

Francesco and Jane’s signature damaged tones and heady psychedelic vibes are the perfect soundtrack to the rabbit hole. Stoned time warps and tribal drumming aim straight at your third eye and score – it’s direct communication deeply achieved through a murky, passively haunting wall of psych-noise. Can’t ask for much more, it’s their best one yet, and possibly one of my favorite tapes.

Mammoth Cave’s tribute to my recently adopted province and the third entry in its Bloodstains series is a rapid-fire bombardment of ON’s finest hook-smugglers. Like speed dating at Gaga Weekend. it’s a blur of faces young and old that spins by before you can decide if they’re a creeper or a keeper. From the scummy sugar rush of Strange Attractors to White Wires’ pogo-punk and the starry eyed twee of Peach Kelli Pop, side A spills over with jams. The flip sees Young Guv channel his inner Ric Ocasek, Slim Twig sprout up twice with shred-heavy side-project Tropics, and the unreleased cut from Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet jolt from idyllic to jugular-ripping. Of course, Tonetta steals the show with effortless elevator sleaze, urging Toronto residents to “clean it up, yeah, all the shit.” Wooly bully bang for the buck grip.