From the Queen West corridor comes a jolt of synthesized punk fit to soundtrack your next trip into the Sprawl. Eardrum scraping drum machine snaps provide the accompaniment to guitars, bubbling electronic tones and swathes of fuzz-riddled bass. The skull-and-palm-trees cover finds its expression in vocals that dart from yelps to booming horror soundtrack chants, but Cellphone is also simply the sound of overheated asphalt.

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.

Taking their blown-out, wasted pop moves to a new level of blasted riff denial, the darlings of Lethbridge unleash another hyperbolic garage-psych monster within the Canadian ether. Spaced Out soars with wings of farfisa and splattered psychedelics, channeling enough Fred Cole and Ariel Pink to catalyze the ridiculous catch laying in concentrate within their reverberated debut. Finally, an album with enough pop-raunch to satisfy the rolling, sexual hills surrounding southern Alberta’s bleakest plateau. Grip++.

The scorched ferocity barely tethers Burnt Monument‘s searing atonal bliss to our malignant reality. Revelling within the distorted chaos of a guitar-driven daily dance, Burro decimate every squalid soundscape in their pursuit of tautolic wretchery. It’s the ultimate display of damaged purity; a cacophony of annihilation; a treatise on the fundamental nature of obliteration. Ultimate Shred™.

Cheaper than a leather jacket but equally effective at scaring your parents, Lantern’s new single takes them to new levels of speaker-blowing oblivion. “I Don’t Know” resurfaces from this summer’s tape on Night People, jabbed with adrenaline by drummer Sophie White’s Maclise-via-hambone beat. But B-side “Out of Our Heads” is the true highlight—nearly five minutes of relentless bass-as-extra-tom-tom, high pitched smears of sneers, and a final solo of celestial murk. For Cuban heels only.

Avec son évangile Casio punky et sa guitare-jouet au fuzz ping-pong, P/DO P/DRO célèbre la créativité encadrée de la tendre enfance dans une réinterprétation souillée de savoir-faire faussement puéril que les plus grands peuvent canaliser comme un souvenir d’enfant sauvage pour un premier album numérique dont les four plus grands succès potentiels ont été pressés sur cire. C’est de la post-danse sociale riche d’un crémage de ponctuation synthétique bip-boup-bip qui fait frétiller, un bouillon de poulet pour une bacchanale de demi-mesure, crooné sur la fine ligne du bon goût et de l’étiquette.

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.

Following a far too lengthy hiatus, the triumphant return of Grand Trine has been a glorious thing to witness. The world needs these leather jacket daddies (and mommies) and their tender tough love to remind us that rock ‘n’ roll still has teeth. Hitting the strip with a brand new line-up and a batch of neck-twisting noir-guitar tunes, these hellbound banditos ride into the witching hour and leave you coughing on fumes.

Eleven minutes of snarling, grease-dripping no-tonal swipe ‘n’ bash is all these charming party pukes need to leave an impression. Any longer and the crust would be as burnt as their guitar riffs. Utilizing the smallest amount of ingredients possible, this Toronto trio pogos into your living room and won’t leave until the lights come on. Nothing compares to the brain-bashing live show, but this hot little disc comes pretty damn close. INYRGRIP.

Music to weld to. I can accomplish many things whilst listening to Trois, such as rebuilding a motor, base-jumping or scrambling the shit outta eggs. Let ManyMental Mistakes take you over the edge of reason. Come screaming down from Mount Royal and fear no wrath, for you are a titan of the urban jungle with a battle-axe to shred and bleed onto. If MMM is your conscience, listen and run, jump, stab, flail, surf and Kill Kill Kill. Faster, Pussycat! You can’t outrun the devil forever but you can beat him at his own game.