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.

Un dance party angoissant, mais un party quand même : la voix d’un la Fred Schneider fantomatique mène des guitares spastiques, des volutes synth-chédéliques et un tapochage de Neandertal à travers une dense ambiance de sélection naturelle. Des tounes qui crient vers les cavernes, préhistoriques et brutales, rendues intrigantes par des mélodies vivides et tordues qui rampent vers toi comme des peurs que tu t’inventes : je veux dire, tu vas pas avoir peur d’un CD, t’es plus fort que ça, mais ces gars-là PORTENT DES MASQUES.

Undulating acid bass thaws the permafrost of Brusque Twins’ latest EP. The icy hot duo last washed up on these shores with the standout banger of Visage Musique’s Vol. 1 comp, cropping up again here with four new hyperborean ballads. The operatic vocals of Hollie Hensman are the tell-tale heartbeat of this closet goth club, thumping away to the rhythm of the night.

Loneliness, despite its title, is an album with a warm heart of wires and at its core is the long-term musical friendship between Don Stagg and Eric Simpson. The duo formely recorded epic home-baked prog under the name VIIth Temple, releasing one hideously rare burnt-orange LP release soaked in gentle Moog, Mellotron and Giant. On Loneliness the pair traded in their plumes, velvet and epic jam band for thin ties and a cheap drum-machine. The LP still carries a whiff of patchouli, but the sound stings of solder and electricity, and inhabits a nascent zone somewhere between krautrock and new-wave. The vocals are all clustered on the a-side, starting with an ode to the inefficiency of the T.T.C. (some things never change!). The dystopian sci-fi themes are par for the League, a highlight is love ballad “Anna King” that sounds like it could be an outtake from Trans. The instrumentals on the b-side feel decidedly more Teutonic, and have a certain CBC charm that sounds like JP Decerf recording for Parry Music. The side even opens with a slinky stoned Pink Panther. About the loneliest thing about this album is the incredible cover photo. Don Stagg told me that he climbed up on a rooftop in St. James Town to take a photo for the sleeve when he came across a young man doing crack. The man was surprisingly obliging and Don snapped this evocative photo as night fell over the cold city. Take hold of this preserved slice of Ontario sprawl if ever you get the chance, it’ll probably surprise you to know how little has changed in all these years.

Asäel Robitaille drifted listeners into an earthbound psych-pop lull on The Lemon Tape, but on this solo expedition he fires up the thrusters into uncharted space. Time-shifting arpeggios and soft comets of synth create a vessel for his sidelong explorations, seamlessly flowing from one zone to the next. Montreal main-stay Félix Morel contributes a perfectly tripped collage for the foldout, part Mati Klarwein and part Barbarella. A+ all around.

First things first, indulge in some post-modern sociological complexities. But I guess all you really have to remember is that Chevalier Avant Garde deliver the utmost serious retro-futurist pop, edgy for reminding us we’re constantly nearing the advent of robot lust and digital mal de vivre. They’ve cloned themselves into a refined synthesis, like a fascinating concentrated soul pouring out of your speakers. No doubt, this would have definitely made the final cut had I made a best of 2011 list

Swaddling their inaugural cassette in a surgical glove cocoon, Montreal’s newest modular synth and electronics power duo scramble brains like Ramsay does eggs. The inspired mind-meld of Frank “Hobo” De Gallo and Jesse “Meat Parade” Osborne-Lanthier oozes from ear to ear with effervescent washes, high-pitched squeaks and interplanetary gabber in a post-space-rave chillout room. The totemic objects encased within offer a time capsule from the year 2046. O.R. They?

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.

A familiar scene: a young dreamer alone in his parent’s basement makes music to escape loneliness and boredom. Now, the unusual thing about this scene is that this basement is filled with state-of-the-art (for 1984) home-recording equipment and synthesizers and is located in rural Alberta surrounded by endless potato fields, miles from anything remotely metropolitan. For the young Tona Walt Ohama, the major portals to the world-at-large from his isolated farm were through television, radio and records. A well-rounded diet of classical, rock, prog and most importantly New Wavers like Gary Numan & John Foxx gave Ohama the vocabulary he needed to beam beautiful analog messages from his farm to the greater world. I Fear What I Might Hear, Ohama’s first album proper, is a masterpiece of modern folk-form, perfectly capturing the Canadian cultural climate of the early eighties and its effect on a sensitive young mind. I Fear is at once as introspective and pastoral as Nick Drake, but rather than evoking acoustic images of Camus and moody English moors it speaks of McLuhan and a plugged-in landscape that is equal parts muddy toil and media spoil. The LP works effectively as a cohesive document partly because the existential themes of isolation, identity and cultural decay are explored as lyrical subject-matter throughout, but also because the songs are all stitched together using a concrete pastiche of sounds that ranges from idyllic & rustic (animals & water) to industrial & urban (engines & TV). Truly, this is a prescient letter of distress and dislocation revealing the disappearance of a dichotomy, where it doesn’t matter where you live, Google will find you. Don’t be afraid though, it’s a great comfort to know that Ohama’s clear and visionary voice is out there in the Great Wide Aether.

For further insight into the great mind of Ohama, check out my extensive dialogue with Tona via Polyphasic Recordings.

From the manufactured landscape of Southern Ontario a new hybrid emerges. The Denim Reptile moves nimbly on warbling electronic feet across man made hills, but its tough exterior is defined by unabashed parking lot guitar solos. Donning an Iron Maiden T-shirt, the lizard king compresses roadhouse blues through a Windows 95 soundcard. A much needed flashback to basements of the early digital era.