About Us


There is a good chance you found us accidentally by using the word “taint” in your search (If you found us on purpose, you deserve our accolades). Of course, we don’t know what you were looking for, but you stumbled on a damn cool project. Look around; let us help send you on a musical journey. Here you will find a number of album reviews from the strange and extreme to the tame and mainstream. Our reviewers are a bunch of obsessive miscreants. Most of us are avid music collectors and have been involved in the music world for decades. A couple of us have been in or are still in bands.

There are no rules on Tickle Your Taint Blog. Our reviewers might make you laugh, or piss you off; both results are legitimate. One reviewer might write a glowing review of an album; another might tear it apart. We may have a new review every week, or we could end up with one every six months. This blog exists as a social experiment to build community among a diverse group of music maniacs – our reviewers and hopefully you.


Sunday, January 23, 2022

The Intergenerational Appeal of Meat Loaf

By Five-Inch Taint 


Musicians have the capacity to transcend themselves as individuals and provide connections between different generations. Here’s the rub: they’re still people. SoDak asked me to write a paragraph on Meat Loaf. No doubt, this is due to my awe-inspiring rendition of Bat out of Hell in the car as we traveled to see Iron Maiden in North Carolina a decade ago. As I have sat here over the past few days reflecting on Meat Loaf’s death, I have been tempted to write a scathing missive on the disinformation, anti-intellectualism, and reactionary tendencies of a man who doubted and questioned public health measures. While that is relevant to Michael Lee Aday, the individual, it provides us with scant insight into the larger force that is Meat Loaf.

To me, and I’m sure others of a similar age, Meat Loaf was both a cultural bridge to my parents as well as an icon of my own generation. Bat out of Hell was part of a soundtrack of many road trips driving down I-95. It wasn’t just the joy of belting out the lyrics of “You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth” with my parents and brother that helped us bond. It was also the cheeky moments of connection as I learned, at probably too early of an age, the metaphor of what rounding the bases meant. As my dad in particular listened to that part of the song, I could see him looking in the rearview mirror to see if I picked up on its hidden meaning. Once I was able to understand what Phil Rizzuto was really talking about on that song that metaphor became an insight into my dad’s sense of humor. By no means the most important connection, this Meat Loaf album was part of a rich tapestry of familial bonding.

Fast forward a few years to my first exposure to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. My mother introduced me to this movie in my early teens. In a film of iconic moments none was more iconic to me than Eddie, a madman, breaking out of his freezer on his motorcycle and busting into the song, “Hot Patootie-Bless My Soul.” The man exuded rock and roll. It took me a few viewings to realize that Eddie was Meat Loaf. The Rocky Horror Picture Show helped me see a twisted-side to my mom, which I have always appreciated.

Meat Loaf wasn’t just of my parent’s generation. Robert “Bob” Paulson, bitch-tits and all, was one of my favorites. In an anonymous mass, he stood out, and his name was Robert Paulson. At this point, Meat Loaf became mine, in a sense, free from any connection with my parents. 

There is something transcendent about Meat Loaf. To me, Meat Loaf is not an anti-vaxxer who most likely succumbed to his network of disinformation. He is a bridge, connecting generations; a cultural thread through the lives of many. 

Hot-Patootie, rest your soul, Meat Loaf.



Monday, January 17, 2022

Burke Shelley of Budgie (1950-2022)

 By SoDak


Like many teenagers in the United States in 1987, I was introduced to Budgie via Metallica’s The $5.98 E.P. – Garage Days Re-Revisited. My favorite song on this record was the cover of Budgie’s “Crash Course in Brain Surgery.” That summer, I kept trying to figure out who the fuck Budgie were. Their records were not readily available, especially in South Dakota. In fact, it was only in December 2020 that I was able to complete my Budgie collection. They recorded eleven studio records, seven of them were released in the 1970s. Their mix of hard rock, prog, and metal is quite unique. There are touches of Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, and Rush, but Budgie generally sounded raw and dangerous. Burke Shelley’s bass playing is excellent and anchors the songs. It is aggressive, serving as an important driving force. Fortunately, it always stands out in the mix. The rumble of his bass is a great contrast to his high-pitched vocals. One of my favorite Budgie songs remains “Breadfan” from Never Turn Your Back on a Friend



Sunday, January 16, 2022

Ronnie Spector (1943-2022)

By SoDak


The Ronettes exist among some of my earliest musical memories. As a child, every time “Be My Baby” or “Baby, I Love You” were played on the radio, I was captured by the melodies. I also felt calm. Ronnie Spector’s voice was warm and provided comfort. I loved how she sang “woah oh oh.” I still get shivers hearing these parts. The music made me joyful. In the summer, I would lay in the grass in the backyard, listening to a green, handheld transistor radio, hoping to hear gems by the Ronettes and others. Many years later, in 1986, Ronnie resurfaced in my musical world, via Eddie Money. Try as I may to resist liking the song “Take Me Home Tonight,” I fully surrendered, in part due to Ronnie’s captivating voice. Eddie new the power here. At the end of the chorus, he leads, “just like Ronnie sang,” and then magic happens, as she sings “be my little baby” adding her classic “woah oh oh.” I melt every time. I wish Ronnie had recorded more as a solo artist, as there are only a handful of records. Her 1999 EP, She Talks to Rainbows, produced by Joey Ramone, is an overlooked album. Ronnie’s voice is a bit worn, but it is still tender, rich, and powerful. My favorite track on this record is the title song, written by Joey. The clean guitar and Ronnie’s voice merge in a mesmerizing way, resulting in a beautifully haunting version of this song. 


Thursday, January 6, 2022

Scott’s Favorite Records in 2021

By Scott


Neil Young and Crazy Horse, Way Down in the Rust Bucket (2021). 

Their album Ragged Glory is one of my all-time favorites, so when I learned about this album—a live recording from 1990 that mostly draws on Ragged Glory—I knew it would end up on my year-end list. This is Neil Young and Crazy Horse in all their shaggy, stumbling glory, and while there’s nothing too surprising about this recording, it’s nice to hear the band stretching out on certain songs. 


Sixty Watt Shaman, Ultra Electric (1998). 

A great local record store, known for its enormous metal selection, closed down this year, and by the time I got there, the CD stock was pretty much picked over. But I did find this, the debut album from Sixty Watt Shaman, a band I’ve known about for a long time but never really got into. I’m sorry it took so long. (Honorable mention from my last trip to this store goes to the band Horseback, whose stuff—or at least the three very different-sounding albums I got—has been insistently growing on me.)


Fairport Convention, Liege & Lief (1969). 

I read Richard Thompson’s memoir, Beeswing, this year, and because it focuses on his early years playing guitar in Fairport Convention, it sent me back to their first five albums (he left the band for a solo career afterwards). Fairport Convention helped invent a type of folk rock that draws on the traditional music of the British Isles, and their sound reached its fullest expression on Liege & Lief, their fourth album. Some people might dismiss this as cheesy, Renaissance faire stuff, but, after reading Thompson’s account of how seriously they took their research and their musicianship, I found myself getting sucked in. 


Iron Maiden, Senjutsu (2021). 

There’s a direct line between Fairport Convention and the jaunty, folky rocker “The Writing on the Wall,” one of my favorite songs on Iron Maiden’s new album. This is the latest in a series of strong, late-career albums by Maiden—so maybe 2021 wasn’t all bad. They sound a little older, and maybe this could have been a tighter single album as opposed to a double album, but fuck it. The more Maiden the better. 


Katatonia, Brave Murder Day (1996). 

I’ve loved how Katatonia’s sound has evolved over the years, bringing in elements of prog and hard rock. But this year I returned to their second album, which has more of a stripped down, gloomy atmosphere, and more clearly fulfills their vision of blending melodic death metal with a band like the Cure. The fact that Opeth’s Mikael Akerfeldt handles the growling vocals here is an added bonus. 


Sting, The Bridge (2021). 

Attentive readers of this website will know that I am an unapologetic Sting fan, although not an uncritical one. But his best stuff is worth sticking up for, and I think this album is clearly his best straight-up solo release since 1996’s Mercury Falling. (I’m putting two more recent albums in a separate category: The Last Ship, which was the basis for a musical, and If on a Winter’s Night, which I’d describe as a pseudo-Christmas seasonal album.) I prefer Sting when he’s mellow and moody, and that vibe carries through most of this album. It won’t change any minds but, like Bruce Springsteen’s latest, Letter to You, it’s a solid entry in the catalog that feels slightly new but mostly familiar.

Tuesday, January 4, 2022

Revolutionaries in the Moonlight: A Future Tale

By SoDak and hinkleyhadavision


    The low autumn moon hung just over the ponderosa pines on the ridge, as mist filled the meadow below. Coyotes howled to the moon, to each other, to the world, while three silhouettes moved with skill and grace through the aspens on the meadow’s edge. These shadows knew each other’s thoughts and actions. Their footsteps were in sync. They would stop simultaneously and listen for any signs of danger, before proceeding. The forest was silent, so each step, the breaking of twigs, and their beathing seemed to echo, adding to the nervousness of these friends. They had already trekked many miles and had several more to go before they could head home. The ridges and valleys of this part of the Black Hills were quite foreign, given it was private property, owned by a mining corporation. They had heard of the expansion in resource extraction, going on since the Fall of 2030, that was polluting the streams and tearing down hillsides, so they studied topographic maps of this quadrant, learning the landmarks, roads, creeks, and distances between specific markers. 

    This forested island, this geological uplift in the Great Plains, had been their home since they were kids. Their stories revolved around adventures exploring the Black Hills. Together they followed the rise and fall of the hills, deepening their friendship and creating tales. Tree sap covered their clothes and ran through their veins. They were distraught by the increasing degradation of the place they loved, so they planned to act on this night. 

    They climbed the crest following the meadow. Looking back, they saw the lights of the uranium mine on the distant ridge. Wedging their bodies between the cracks in the limestone wall, they started their descent into the larger canyon. In escaping the glare of the hideous lights from the mine, they felt more comfortable. Their night vision returned, increasing their ability to negotiate their moves on the first cliff. 

    As they paused, looking for the best way down the next drop, Jerry broke the silence, “I can’t believe I let you goddamn hippies talk me into this shit.” He whispered, “My goddamn knees are killing me.” Sarcastically, Mike responded, “What are you now, 60? Shit you’ll be dead by morning. What do your knees matter now?” They snickered softly. Jerry grumbled some inaudible phrase, turned away from the other two and leaped off the cliff, landing on a small ledge below. He then quickly climbed down a precarious crack in the rocks. He was at the bottom of the cliff in seconds. 

    Brett shook his head, as his heart raced. “That crazy fucker will be dead by the morning if he is not more careful.”

    Mike, half laughing, noted, “After all of these years and all his bellyaching about his knees, he is still a crazy bastard. He blows me away. I can’t believe the shit he still does.”

    Slowly, Mike and Brett made their descent, helping each other locate foot and hand holds. Facing the cliff, they had better control over their movements and avoided having their backpacks get caught on any rocks. They could see Jerry sitting against the foot of the cliff, pretending that he was taking a nap.

    As the two cliff huggers, these human turtles, reached the bottom, Jerry smiled and mockingly asked, “What took you so long? I could have beat off and had a smoke in the time it takes you old men to climb down that small cliff.”

    Mike shook his head, smiled, and responded, “You crazy fuck, I love you.”

    Brett added, “You scare the hell out of me, but I am always impressed.”

    Jerry refrained from his usual comeback, laughed to himself, before commenting, “I think we’re almost outside of the boundary. If you hippies get off your asses, we might actually get out of here.”

    In silence, Jerry picked up his backpack and pushed on, skirting the grassy, rock-laden slope at the bottom of the cliff. At the property line, there was a barbed wire fence. Jerry placed a foot on the bottom wire and pulled up on the second line, allowing Mike and Brett to quickly pass through the opening. Brett paused, separating the wires, as Jerry ducked, stepping onto the other side. 

    Mike commented, “We should have brought wire cutters along.”

    Jerry grumbled, “Yeah, but that would have been more weight in our packs. No need for that on a mission like this. I’m already tired and we still have two miles, at least, to go.”

    Picking up a branch from the ground, Brett took a swing, sending the sign that read, “Private property of Uranium One/ARMZ. No trespassing,” flying into the brush. 

    As they approached the creek, they could hear the din of a helicopter. “Damn it,” Jerry muttered, “I was hoping we would be long gone before a copter was sent out.” 

    Brett noted, “They probably have heat sensors. Let’s see what we can do.”

    Together the three of them started into the water, making their way towards the bend in the creek, where the 200-foot cliff wall stood. Brett grabbed some horsetails from the shallows, thinking the hollow bodies of these green straw-like plants would be useful. As he handed Mike and Jerry the horsetail shafts, Jerry shook his head, “Nice idea, nature boy. I’d rather use the tubing from the water pack Mike has.” As Jerry spoke, Mike had already pulled the tubbing out, opened his knife and cut three lengths.

    The water was frigid, as they swam for the blackness under the overhang of the cliff. They reached the wall and prepared for the next step. As the thundering in the sky echoed in their ears, they nodded to each other and submerged themselves, breathing through the rubber tubes. Each of them held onto cracks in the cliff just below the surface. With eyes closed, the three human barnacles stayed under water, as their bodies absorbed the coldness of the creek. 

    Mike was the first to open his eyes. He slowly raised his head from the water. Not seeing spotlights in the sky or lights in the trees across the creek, he reached down and tapped Brett’s arm to let him know it was clear. As he turned towards Jerry, he hesitated, thinking he should put his finger over the hole of the tubing that Jerry was using—just as a joke. Knowing the importance of silence, Mike gently tapped Jerry’s shoulder. With their heads above water, they remained, as ice cubes, floating in silence, waiting, watching the sky and land before them, trying to listen for any noise, to notice any movement, to perceive any search lights in the distance. Despite clenched jaws, their teeth began to chatter. From time to time, each of them would drift off to thoughts of their childhood where their friendships began.

    After thirty minutes, there was only a slow pulse in their blue bodies. They no longer heard the helicopter and had not seen any movement among the trees. They decided they better escape these waters and this night, to evade the light of day, when the pigs in the air would be flying in copters, searching for saboteurs in the woods surrounding company land. With trembling hands, they pulled themselves along the cliff wall, until reaching a point where they could climb to land. To no avail, they tried to ring out their clothes while wearing them.  Shrugging shoulders, wrapping arms around their own bodies, the three of them moved on, trying not to step on any branches. The next twenty-five minutes were cold and silent. Each replayed the events of the night, relishing the hike into these forbidden properties, moving in the shadows of the beast, and cherishing the work they had done. This was exactly what they wanted and needed to do on this night. They wouldn’t want to be with anyone else at this moment. As they escaped, they cooperated, protecting each other, gliding through the trees. Their movements resembled a revolutionary dance. Their silent steps and breathing became one, as they moved through the grassy meadows. None of them would ever speak of this night. These happenings, these actions, these moments in their lives were simply experiences for their own knowledge. No one else needed to know.

    In a small clearing surrounded by spruce and aspen, they briefly rested on a downed tree. There was a hint of light slowly creeping across the cold morning sky. A couple birds started to sing. As Venus rose, a lone coyote call was heard. The three of them pulled the camouflage cover from the old Bronco that was parked in the aspen. Stripping off their wet clothes and wrapping themselves in wool army blankets, the friends climbed into the truck. Jerry rummaged through a toolbox, searching for his lighter and cigarettes. They put on sweatshirts, trying to warm up their torsos. They laughed thinking of stories to tell the highway patrol if they were pulled over. Given that they were half-naked, a love triangle would be the most obvious. Jerry sighed, as he lit the cigarette, started the vehicle, and said, “I love you fuckers.” As the truck moved forward, Brett ejected the New Model Army tape and put in Waylon Jennings. They sang along as Jerry took the dirt roads back to town, avoiding the main highway and check points. 

Monday, January 3, 2022

Hinkleyhadavision’s Funeral Songs

By Hinkleyhadavision


Below are some songs for my funeral. 


SteelDrivers, “Where Rainbows Never Die.”


To remind folks to hold onto their loved ones because time is short:

Iron and Wine, “Naked as We Came.”  

Jason Isabell, “If We Were Vampires.” 


To remember the fucking beauty: 

Steve Earle, “Me and the Eagle.”


To remind folks the struggle for a better world never ends: 

New Model Army, “Higher Wall.” 

Joseph, “Burn the White Flag” (NPR Tiny Desk Version). 


Because there is no god:

Me, “Bury Me with No Prayers.” 

It may seem pretentious to put in your own song on the list for your funeral, but I wrote this song for this reason: to make sure there would be no prayers at my funeral.


Sunday, January 2, 2022

Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B’s 2021 Musical Obsessions and Then Some

By Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B

When it is time to put together my end of the year music list, I consider a few different things. My list consists of 85 percent musical obsessions. The remainder of the list, the missing 15 percent, is records that surprised me or records I liked, did not obsess over, but think others need to know about.

I will start with items that surprised me. First, and most significantly, I like some polka. I grew up listening to polka music. My father listened to it constantly, and I had a rough-neck Uncle who played accordion in a polka band. There was also the forced weekly watching of the Lawrence Welk show. As a rebellious teenager, I went as far away from polka as possible, and towards Satan and heavy metal music. A couple of years ago, I found a banjo player named Leroy Larson with polka leanings. In 2021, I stumbled across Les Schult, who is backed up by the Country Dutchmen. The Dutchmen on It’s Gasohol Polka Time play an unpolished and fun-as-fuck brand of polka. There are waltzes galore with obligatory drinking songs and some half-assed political songs about gasohol, also known as ethanol. Back in the late 1970s and early 80s people were somewhat excited about that carburetor-fouling shit known as gasohol.

The other item that surprised me was how much I enjoyed revisiting Black Sabbath’s Technical Ecstasy (1976). I hated this album when I first heard it in the 1980s. I thought it was Sabbath’s sell-out album. For thirty years, I deprived myself of this fine record. My younger self was an idiot.

The Obsessions:

Biblical. 

Sometime early in 2021, I found the band Biblical. Within a couple weeks of hearing their album The City That Always Sleeps (2017), I had purchased everything they had available, which was an additional EP and single. With a name like Biblical, you would expect them to be a metal band. There are some metal aspects, but there are many more psychedelic and rock elements, and even a touch of shoegaze.


Buck Owens. 

I listened to around fifteen Buck Owens records in 2021. Prior to the past few years, I foolishly thought country music was defined by Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, and Waylon Jennings. I was aware of other artists, but I didn’t understand their place in the genre. Buck Owens is now the king of country to this writer. Following close behind Owens is the guy you can read about in the next paragraph.


George Jones. 

Holy shit, Jones had a great voice. I spun more than twenty George Jones albums last year, and none of them suck. Few artists are capable of this kind of output without a few stinkers. There are many more Jones records that are not in my collection, and some of them might be weak. I will find out because I am going to keep looking for Jones material.


Fast and Bulbous, Pork Chop Blue Around the Rind (2005). 

Within the first minute of listening to this album, my reaction was “what the fuck am I listening to?” These people are all over the place. They mix many different styles, for example marching band music with traditional jazz. There are many other odd flavors. This blending of styles can occur minutes apart, seconds apart, or all at once. The first song on the record has blues guitar licks playing across jazzy horns. There is another song that has a quick metal chugga chugga guitar riff thrown in. It’s weird stuff, but only if you listen close, because the oddness works to create a very pleasant and listenable whole.


Ether Feather, Devil-Shadowless-Hand (2019). 

Ether Feather’s (EF) drummer, Dylan Sand, is in another band I enjoy. I was curious what else Dylan had recorded, and I found EF. This is a bluesy metal album. EF plays a style of metal that has a slight nod to Black Sabbath, but they are not cloning the mighty Sabbath. While listening to the album, I hear some Ghost like melodies—before they turned to shit—a bit of Sabbath, and a definite Rush vibe.


Super Sister, Present from Nancy (1970) and Pudding and Gisteren (1972). 

I found a wonderful record seller named Doug Larsen of Doug Larsen Imports. Doug chases down and stocks hard-to-find lost classics, mostly psychedelic and progressive rock albums. I purchased several boxsets from Doug in 2021. One of them was by a prog band called Super Sister. I could be wrong, I frequently am, but I believe this boxset contains Sister’s only recordings. If you are one of those people who doesn’t like prog, because Yes is boring, then you might want to listen to this band. I don’t mean to hint that they are nothing like Yes. They are. I also don’t mean to hint that they are superior to Yes. They are not. But, Super Sister has a flare and a sense of humor about their art that is missing from a lot of prog music.


Buon Vecchio Charlie, Buon Vecchio Charlie (1971). 

If you look hard enough, you can find lists of great prog music from music magazines around the globe. I spent an evening looking at these lists. One European magazine listed BVC’s self-titled record as the greatest prog album ever released. Another had it in the top ten. It’s a great record, but the best ever? Nope. It’s not even the best prog album on this writer’s list. Jazz Q and Super Sister supersede it in the prog genre. But, no other band on my 2021 list has the musicianship of BVC. It’s a great album, but some of the songs are much too slow moving. Fortunately, there are plenty of fast parts that make it a worthwhile record.


Anthony Pirog, Pocket Poem (2020). 

Fuck me! I just started settling into some dreamy Eric Johnson-type guitar virtuosity, and some metal riffs erupt to knock me out of my Lazyboy. The jazz drumming sets a mood along with some more Eric Johnson guitars, but there is a menacing bass tone, that won’t quite let me relax. Ah, now there is some nice solo acoustic picking, when will the torrent begin? It might be a song or two away, but eventually there will be another build-up of tension, a crescendo, and a release.


Jazz Q, Martin Kratochvil & Jazz Q (2007). 

I raved about Jazz Q on a past year-end list, so I won’t go into great detail. I will reiterate what I think I said before, Jazz Q is the greatest progressive rock band ever to exist anywhere and at any time. This is another box set purchased from Doug Larsen. It contains eight CDs of pure genius.


Marty Stuart and His Fabulous Superlatives, Way Out West (2017). 

Every now and then a country artist will grab me by the balls and hang on for months or years. The last time a modern country artist grabbed my droopy middle-age balls like this was when I was introduced to Jimmy Dale Gilmore more than a decade ago. Stuart is a master musician and a genius songwriter. I love that he shows his musicianship in some songs and gives us that very satisfying Johnny Cash rawness and simplicity in other songs. Great stuff!


Exodus, Persona Non Grata (2021). 

I love Exodus. I frequently brag about meeting the band and hanging out with them on their tour bus. If you have heard this story already, skip ahead a few lines. Jack Gibson is in a country band called Coffin Hunter. A friend’s spouse is Coffin Hunter’s tour manager. When Exodus played Portland, she scored us three backstage passes. I passed a very pleasant hour joking around with Rob Dukes, Gary Holt, and Jack Gibson. So I not only love Exodus for their music and the part they played in helping me find an identity back in the 1980s, but I love them because they are wonderful people. I was excited to see the album arrive. I was even more excited to hear Holt’s solos on the record. He keeps getting better and better. Persona Non Grata is a great album. For me it is second only to 1987’s Pleasures of the Flesh in the Exodus catalog.


Unleashed, No Sign of Life (2021).

Rounding out my list for 2021 is an album I received in the mail a few days before writing this list. I debated leaving it off since I haven’t spent much time with it yet. But it is so good, that it has to be included. Unleashed has been around for a long time, but they are new to me. Anyone who knows me knows that I am two things when it comes to music. First, I am open to nearly all genres and bands. Second, and contrary to the first point, I can’t stomach sell-out metal. You hear me Baroness? I am talking about you Mastodon. Mind you, I understand the necessity of these wankers moving toward pop, but fuck them. From this rant, you should gather that Unleashed is not metal for people who don’t like metal. Fuck no! Unleashed thrash. Fans of 1980s thrash and bands like Melechesh and Evile might want to give Unleashed a listen. If you fucking hate what Mastodon has become, don’t worry, there are still bands out there that play metal, bands like Unleashed.


TheNeonRooster’s 21 Favorite Records of 2021

By TheNeonRooster


1. Shannon & the Clams, Year of the Spider (indie rock/doo wop).

2. Amyl & the Sniffers, Comfort to Me (Aussie punk).

3. Spirit Mother, Live in the Mojave Desert, Vol. 3/Cadets (heavy psych rock).

4. Sorry, Twixtuststain EP (trip hop/indie rock).

5. Carcass, Torn Arteries (melodic death metal).

6. Goat Girl, On All Fours (indie/post punk).

7. Du Blonde, Homecoming (indie/pop punk).

8. Aurora, Soulless Creatures EP (synth pop).

9. Asphyx, Necroceros (death/doom metal).

10. La Femme, Paradigmes (French synth pop).

11. The Ruins of Beverast, The Thule Grimoires (atmospheric black/doom metal).

12. Elle & The Echo, The Unknown (alt country).

13. IDLES, Crawler (post punk/post hardcore).

14. Gatecreeper, An Unexpected Reality (grindy, thrashy death/doom).

15. Etxegiña, Herederos del Silencio (Basque black metal).

16. Courtney Barnett, Things Take Time, Take Time (Aussie folky indie rock).

17. Genesis Owusu, Smiling With No Teeth (hip hop/funk/punk).

18. Converge & Chelsea Wolfe, Bloodmoon: I (atmospheric post hardcore).

19. Hooded Menace, The Tritonous Bell (death/classic metal).

20. Dry Cleaning, New Long Leg (spoken word/post punk).

21. Godspeed You! Black Emperor, G_d’s Pee AT STATE’S END! (instrumental post rock).