CAPTAIN BEEFHEART 1941-2010

Fresh scattershot time signatures, bellowed gutter surrealism, real wise, real wild. Tough old boot with a softer side, let's get down to it-these records are capable of expanding and simultaneously exploding your mind; Trout Mask Replica, Lick My Decals Off, Baby, Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller), Doc At The Radar Station.

MATS GUSTAFSSON

To say Needs! is an album from a well-regarded improv/jazz saxophonist won't do it justice. More like interconnection between radio dial, feedback hissing from the ashes, tapping the abstract, a shattered ritual, shaving off conventions of harmony. Gustafsson spurts and malts through an onslaught of morphed souls. It is unsettling, how he bumbles upon makeshift compositions, and that stuttering primitivism challenges apprehension, sinks in with fleshy bite.

ATLAS SOUND AND KANYE WEST

Quick observations, totally unrelated, on music ranging from the humble to the extravagant. Atlas Sound wheeze in ramshackle blues, though I prefer it when he whirls into the hypnotic, as he does, occasionally, on this lo-fi trip. Trying to avoid Kanye West is hard work and I don't want to dish the praise, he might get big-headed. But I'm still loving 808s & Heartbreak, so self-obsessed, why is it so moving? Anyhow, monumental ship arrives, fireworks shoot, super-store cash registers open. Brash stuff, and here goes, alright then, sometimes-Monster, Runaway-undeniably astonishing.

UNCLE BOONMEE WHO CAN RECALL HIS PAST LIVES

The second breathtaking film of the year. In truth, despite winning Cannes last spring, it's a seamless continuation of Tropical Malady and Syndromes and a Century. These are works gifted to us from the gentlest shaman. What a pleasure, for those watching in the enlightened darkness, to luxuriate in his strange, spiritual and puzzlingly comic other-worlds. The red-eyed forest beings, the fish and the princess, the sweet out-of-body ghosts. A fantastical impression of reality. Take me back there, to that inspired, imaginative space, where the incredible is wistfully promised with seeping premonition.

SALEM

Comments 1.

Why ya not reviewed Salem? That album been banging for centuries. You gotta problem with frigging vitality? No-budget brutality, slow-core rapping, the heart of damaged USA. There's trauma in Ibiza, needs sorting. Dude, we're sorry, with deep sorrow, we asked you to give up your services, the desk has been cleared. They are for real, no hype included. Courtney Love took twit-pics with 'em, damn, she should hire 'em. We will always love you, Four Dreamer, go take that hike, you reek of formality.

The discarded were threatening a-bruising, the beast lay down his head, overlaid by sugar dollars and grim inscription. Jilted by the flame of a fringed fur coat, he was grinding to a deliberate amateurism, keeping cold, banished from the avenues, listening to some deranged whoosh, helicopters chopping in the park, weren't it the biz? Tardy boxer, punching walls, knuckle marks. Girl moves to Upside Down, record skipping on turntable, she shouldn't dance like that, not with her face falling off, jumping on cars, weird men in a bacon-rigged diner, rude and irrelevant. Katherine appeared, startled blue eyes, blonde hair, blessing him through corridors of smashing sun, dipping windows, his black hair, twirled a lock, he kissed her red, awkward mouth, an acknowledgement of love. Rescue from the volcano.

Over and out, fumble dumbo J C.

KEITH RICHARDS

Nice one, riff master. A tough and entertaining memoir. Page by page, at every turn, Richards comes across as honest, scary, affectionate and witty. The '60s are portrayed without sentimentality as a time of integral social change, fighting against established order. The '70s languish in junkie superstardom, gripping, gruelling chapters that refuse to glamourise the truth and often shock the reader with a dead-eyed paranoia. Jagger and Pallenberg dart in and out of the narrative, as dynamic and compelling as the main character himself, brilliant friction. Then there's some haphazard accounts of how those amazing songs came to light, luck and chaos it seems. Exciting, jaw-droppingly direct and hilarious, Life is a ferocious book, it burns with the wisdom of an original non-conformist.

BRIAN ENO

This is what you'd expect, beatific. Another moon landing. Fatalistic background music. Okay, neurotic drum assemblage. Borne unto the brain, a swish of rainy poison. UK garage fluxed, Nerve Vet? Tracks stopping before they start on the get-go. Swig of French wine. Cut-ups of evolution. Guitars mesh, high-end over solar. Too tasteful, not No Pussyfooting, The Drop. Theme music to menace. Juddering sound apocalypse. African village with nettles. The guitar playing is too expensive, rote. Prayer for resolution. Yeah, watch your back, things are not quite what they seem, clean disruption. Monkey in the outer, look at them stars, they are shining, breathing and shuddering with condolence. Church bells toll, wide. It's only a performance. Nylon strings protruding synthetics. How many detectives, how many were there? Cumbersome mist, continual washing. Specs of blood in a transparent basin.

JOSEPHINE FOSTER

For the last few years Josephine Foster has resembled a musical archaeologist, digging in to disjointed renditions of classical German song-art, adapting Emily Dickinson's pure, sensory poetry and now, unearthing Federico Garcia Lorca's unassuming radicalism. Should that sound academic, opener Los Cuatro Muleros dispels such worry. It's a lively prelude, the players taking place, for the tale shalt be told. Anda Jaleo captures the playfully serious tone of flamenco perfectly. There isn't much need for translation, as good spirits reside, Foster radiating an uncontrived eccentricity as she clicks her castanets and stomps her feet in time. By the end, she sings to herself, alone, wavering and murmuring, the party was old-fashioned, but it still echoes in memory, on the close of summer.

ARI UP 1962-2010

Unconventional, energetic and charismatic, disobeying the rules as if it were all second nature-Shoplifting, Typical Girls, I Heard It Through The Grapevine, In The Beginning There Was Rhythm.

AVEY TARE

Late 2003. Animal Collective played at a small cafe. Avey Tare screamed, shouted and cried through a vast spectrum of pedals and electronic distortion. Panda Bear thrashed his drum kit with an astonishing fury. It was an exhilarating, tribal jam, with the bombed force of an ancient Amon Duul record. The audience couldn't get enough. Closing time. Avey was selling merch with a big smile, a natural showman, Panda sat by the side of the stage, inspecting wires, a serene roadie. They were likable, supremely unpretentious. It was an era when me and my friends would be checking out the brutalising noise of Wolf Eyes one night and maybe, Joanna Newsom the next. Animal Collective communicated through both worlds, as there was always plenty of melody underneath their storms of discord.

Early 2009. Animal Collective played at a relatively large venue. A strobe show. Some sort of rave for an audience with tar on their shoes. I felt so far away and disconnected. Everything had changed. Panda Bear's Person Pitch and Merriweather Post Pavilion are, of course, miraculous adventures, listening to them makes you happy to be alive. They'll stand up for years to come, pivotal and enormously influential for a little majority. That crew waits for Person Pitch 2 with baited breath and Tomboy probably won't disappoint. Not easily dissuaded, his co-worker has made a very private, spook-house record in the interim that harks back to their earlier, looser foundations. Down There shakes with splatter, suggestive in it's creeping fragmentation, lurching impenetrably to a damp, camouflaged woodland. He drizzles faded obscurity over rhythms clapped out by whiplash, pained harmonies foreboding the worst and dilapidated synth dirt feeding on the remains. Those rascal zombies, they are all hot and bothered from hunger. Forget milestones, this invitation chimes through cement.

SUFJAN STEVENS PART TWO

Well, an extraordinary album by a melodic genius? No, not quite. 'The Age Of Adz' is insane. But 'I Walked' and 'Too Much' are outstanding, genuinely innovative pop songs, managing to be emotionally involving while splicing up choppy beats and guiding complex, swooning swells of sound to a conflicted mass. Afterwards we're in at the deep end. The rest is brave, daringly off-kilter, grandiose and sometimes exhausting. His voice can feel constrained under the weight of self-invented, revolving Celtic-prog-soul-gospel hybrids. Crammed production skills frequently overshadow his potentially remarkable songwriting. At opposite ends, 'Futile Devices' is delicacy itself, 'Impossible Soul,' however, chants out an astral-Armageddon hymn on Sesame Street. Warning; Auto-Tune slapstick also occurs. From this gleefully mad, chirpy alienation there emerges a sweet folk coda. Verging on the totally overblown, always wilfully peculiar, it'll take time to savour all this restless vigour, riotous devotion and baffling intensity. The key might be that it's all an elaborate fantasy. I was uncertain initially, about the whole enterprise, but now I'm finding it sort of inspired. No brainwashing took place, just a realisation; he's actually mapping out new territories for himself, and if there are faults, well, so be it, because how many contemporary musical artists, in the context of songform, are taking these kind of risks?

NEIL YOUNG

Two years ago I went to see Neil Young in concert. It was one of the best live shows I've ever experienced. The first set was solo acoustic, haunted, an eerie recollection. The second wild, electric, churning on and on until he'd reached salvation. An unfortunate incident happened. In front of us were a famous model and a couple of rock stars. These posh girls sniffed them out, and got up to dance, badly, in front of our view. I couldn't see anything of Neil, just these two shallow wannabes. Heartbreaking. Then an older fellow beside me piped up. 'Hey, Atomic Mutton. Sit the fuck down.' They did as they were told and magic was resumed.

To his loyal followers, Neil Young rules as a proud warrior. Cutting through the crap, relying on instinct, never compromising to expectation. His last two great records were Sleeps With Angels and Broken Arrow, twinned sprawls of swollen romanticism and gloomy undertow. Since then, you know, there's been a lot of ramble. So will the prince of ambient swamp bring him back, unadorned? Smell the coffee pal, Le Noise is an open freeway, a man travelling, searching for evidence of goodness amongst all the disaster that surrounds him. Holding onto some dignified spirit, a resemblance of a non-forgotten dream. Blues shot down in fx, faith still bleeding, defiant but cursed by memory. Hitchhiker explains Like An Inca, a hurt, tarnished statement from days that were hopefully buried and then came back uninvited. What falls is sepia, catching sudden illuminations blazing, caressing and vanishing into air. Desolation brings fruit, outta the decay, lost in drifting ruin, he returns and returns until he next takes flight. If you haven't figured it out by now, he's made a record that demands constant interrogation and belief.

DEERHUNTER

A snowy television set played German cinema with French subtitles. He switched channels. Alicia Keys sang, she'd been dubbed. Donald Sutherland spoke, he'd been dubbed. Alex lay back and stared at some quiet coloured tiles on the bathroom wall. Water rippled under the charred gold of the bridge. A jogger was circling the hotel, toxic footsteps trailing behind. Rats ate scraps of leftovers, chewing discreetly by the empty restaurant.

Alex had to get up early in the morning, 5 am, for family work. Yet he didn't feel tired, just slightly bored and discontent. There was no mini-bar to raid, no room service to call. He lit a cigarette, put on the Deerhunter CD that a girl back home had given him. It was the same as before. The solitary, ethereal glide of their pretty songs, reaching out from the internal womb to a soaring ecstatic space. He guessed Desire Lines was his favourite; Strokes-like chugging guitars and floating, blurred sighs. Or was it Helicopter, glowing with a luminous if claustrophobic passion. A state of continual longing. And who in the hell had brought along that greasy sax break to the party? Wait. Did he hear someone scratch and knock on the door? No, he'd let his imagination run fast, it was time for slow motion. He brushed his teeth and looked up at the moon for awhile.

CLAUDE CHABROL 1930-2010

Sly, wicked films examining class anxiety and the destabilisation of personal identity, directed with a chic, chilly relish for artifice. Amusing and alarming-Les Biches, La Rupture, Le Boucher and Le Ceremonie.

STEREOLAB

The signs and signals aren't promising. An album recorded three years ago and delayed until now by a group who have subsequently split up. The year of 2002 wasn't kind to Stereolab. The very sad death of Mary Hansen and the break up of Laetitia Sadier and Tim Gane's relationship cast a somber shadow, and in the aftermath a certain freshness faded. Margarine Eclipse seemed a fitting farewell, being both sleek and vulnerable, tuning into a wistful, vintage new world. No classic, instead it felt like a dignified goodbye. Since then there's been two more records, both fairly staid, staying true to their characteristic pulse rather than exploring different avenues. It appears, with her other projects, that Sadier has been politely edging herself out of Gane's meticulous constructions. But at their best Stereolab ignited beams of light over their exact plasticity, combining the carefree and the studious.

So, what we have here is not Emperor Tomato Ketchup. It's Not Music. And Not Music is a feverish, obsessive idea of what the pop song can be. All angles are covered, with the clarity of a nervous breakdown, capturing essence through a skewed perspective. Basement Motown murk, fiendishly clever changes in harmonic structure, John Barry sass with a wink, Magic Band loopy rhythms, thumping pianos and bass drowned tantalisation giving a nudge to Don Cherry's visions of global unity and an unusual formulation of music-hall ska added for fun. Sadier skirts about the foreground, delving in occasionally without quite skidding. Phased and complacent at a whirlpool. Collages jittering with fuss, straight-laced and nuts. Too busy for answers. A couple of worthwhile remixes that dismantle tracks on it's sister record-Chemical Chords-come from Emperor Machine and Atlas Sound; one a Moroder late night vamp, the other a reverberating, shimmering dub with it's sights on close encounters. Signing out with the musical equivalent to an absurdist game is an audacious move. It's full of joy and brainy delight.

SUFJAN STEVENS

I generally can't stand musical theatre. Whenever I have the misfortune of attending such a show I find myself wondering why I'm being shouted at by pompous phonies demanding I should have a glorious time. Get lost. But I have a feeling 'Illinois' could revolutionise Broadway. It's only fair for subtle beauty to have it's marvelous revenge. And what a strange album for an 'alternative' artist to make, so comfortably seated in old, homespun notions of community and it's unfolding tales and reminiscences. More Steinbeck than counter-culture. The far-reaching arrangements were ambitious and careful in their avoidance of the overwrought, with commanding chorals and ornate patterning creating elegant shape. Moving beyond the steadiness of confessional singer-songwriter safety, Stevens stretched himself into a vortex of storytelling, at times giddy with uplift then deciding to quietly devastate you with a lovely song about a serial killer. Shades of Sweeney Todd? What would inevitably be missing from the opening night sensation is his voice. Sensitive, not coy, gentle, never dishonest. Distant too, somehow, allowing his yarns to speak and touch without any unnecessary excessiveness.

Does perfectionism lead to rigidity? Will a series of half-baked stop-gaps really do? He's served us some souffles in the meantime. The pre-sales of 'All Delighted People' haven't been announced yet, are we expected to witness Noah's ark? The title track suggests so, in two versions of movie-schmaltz dramatics and banjo intro/electrospection. Elsewhere a melodic genius slacks off, bemused by his own whimsicality. The letting go of hard fixtures can reveal simpler revelations. Curiously, I'm reminded of Paul McCartney's first three post-Beatles records, an amorous stripping down of intellect and attentiveness for an emotional and physical truth. Or is that a veiled and mystified reality? There's a semi-religious enrapture of romantic love and also a kind of blithe cheekiness, as if to say I could do a whole lot more with these sketches but who's to defy intimacy? Stevens is clearly an enigma, even as a universalist, only Allison DuBois knows what will happen next, he could probably do anything or nothing. I think he's capable of something extraordinary.

PRINCE AND MIA

Picked-up Prince's latest album from my favorite rag in town. It's sexy, economical, neat and funky. Like Stevie W, he breathes with music. Even the filler makes you move. Don't go searching for the holy grail, your hips won't like it. In other news, super-good to hear the phenomenal, ghost riding 'Born Free' separated from it's silly video counterpart. Not reviewing Maya though, she's way overexposed.

WAVVES

There were no seats on the train, so he slumped down in the corridor, put on his shades, sat beside the bathroom and switched on his laptop. What was C J, trusted friend, writing about now? A smiling stranger took a toke on her fake cigarette. He knew that feeling. They were trapped in motion. He looked out of the window into the mysterious space between the cities. Rows of red roofed houses, secret lives left unknown. He remembered those horses on the beach, tripping over the sand and the tide overflowing. His arms had been bitten by insects. He started to read.

Ah, Wavves. He'd enjoyed that brat's blistering racket last year. Hyperactive, dreamily discordant songs that lodged themselves firmly inside your memory. There was a sweet insolence, so basic, it had to be true. A celebration of wasted and wasting time. A gum-chewing thesis on nothing much. 'King Of The Beach' hangs out in the rad life, with a side-order of self-doubt. Nathan Williams probably wrote these lyrics in 5 minutes, they are real narrow, we hear about how he's 'an idiot,' 'still feels stupid' and that 'my own friends hate my guts.' Business as usual. He also worships the sun, the ocean, the sand, the surf and the girl with a glazed casualness. The music's gotten cleaner, guitars crunch instead of smother, West Coast harmonies glisten like sea ghosts and there's some inviting, 80's synth textures wobbling and swirling in the mix. It's lighter, instantly attractive and he's so good with those honey-goo melodies and throwaway sentiments that the record is becoming happily addictive.

TETRO

The first breathtaking film of the year. Personal and outlandish. Ludicrous? Maybe. Pretentious? Perhaps. And what about courageously adventurous, charmingly offbeat and visually, wondrous.

ONEOHTRIX POINT NEVER

I was going to complete a piece on 'Returnal' using the concept of a dialogue between a left channel speaker and a right channel speaker weighing up the merits of the music blasting out from their electrical pores. It started off as fun, got confusing and eventually gave me a headache. Too much ink. Now, sadly, I don't have the time to really examine this talented artist's latest work. I can say, a little blandly, that I like it quite a lot. There is a powerful tension at stake. Flickering, protruding splinters of noise holding back submersion into spiralling, hymnal harmony. Static in the cathedral. Disembodied echoes, traces unresolved. Over driven fractures, blue clusters on the mesmeric journey to the white-light zone. It's rather queasy, without an arc in sight, at once engaging and nauseous. I'm sure that the speakers would agree.

LAURIE ANDERSON

Laurie Anderson is spooky. She has a voice like no other. Droll, observant and detached, it spurns emotive expression. Her lyrics flirt with the sparse detail of haiku composition. Then there are the other voices. Electronic modulation wasn't her invention, Annette Peacock, for instance, plugged into an abrasive amp-throat chaos in the early 70s. But Anderson made it her own; warped narrative commentary and distracting aural semblances disturbing any conventional centrality. Her debut, 'Big Science,' still sounds striking and dead-on. Much of it has a bone-chilling clarity, seeming to pre-figure post-9/11 technological paranoia, delicate prophecies conceived with mantric precision and mathematical beauty. None of the albums she's made since have been quite so startling.

'Homeland' is co-produced by her hubby Lou Reed. She's had a profound influence on his work this century, as he's shunned songwriting to become a fully-fledged avant-garde experimenter. Anderson sticks to what she knows. Her calm, suggestive texts are backed up yet again by typical, art installation atmospherics. 'Only An Expert' deviates, it's an odd satire on our current cultural and political crisis set to some Ph.D. funkiness. But patience is rewarded in the pure, menacing brilliance of 'Another Day In America.' On this unsettling, darkly comic monologue, she affects the sort of treated, disfigured voice familiar from real crime television shows, in which the speaker's identity is deliberately masked and disguised. Broken poignancy creeped out by the inhumane. Here is an extract:

'There was an old married couple and they'd always hated each other. Never been able to stand the sight of each other, really. And when they were in their 90s they finally got divorced. And people said. 'Why did you wait so long, why didn't you do this a whole lot earlier?' And they said. 'Well, we wanted to wait until the children died.'

The lonely, morbid wisdom of everyday malice.

ARIEL PINK'S HAUNTED GRAFFITI

Lieutenant Columbo called upon Jessica Fletcher. 'Did you hear about the disappearance of Ariel Pink?' ' That's my case, don't get involved' she said. Cigars puffed, typewriters tapped.

'Worn Copy' was a muffled gem. Mr Pink recorded what seemed to be classic rock on the basest of matter. It was as if Todd Rundgren had dipped his master tapes into a sea of murk. The downgraded quality of the audio phonics held one at a distance from it's pop accessibility. A gas station radio pumping out meaningless pap through a gauze of grimed incomprehension. It inevitably went on too long, resembling a daft, manic kid showing off his latest magic trick. But still, what an idea, catchy tunes destroyed by pre-designed, wilful sludge. You felt like telling him to cut it out, joke's over, and that was, of course, entirely the point.

' I was a thinking 'bout hiring that Ariel Pink guy for the homecoming ball' Sue-Ellen Ewing told Alexis Carrington at the charity function. 'Damn you, he's mine' she replied. 'I've just signed him up for a million dollars.'

The re-runs. The Eighties have been soaked and saturated by a new generation. All that cheesed, banal 'liberation' butchered and left to hang out and dry by a stoned aesthetic. The hippies reincarnate, they were giggling at the woeful, selfish glitter, before deciding to reclaim it for themselves. Mr Pink was slightly ahead of the game, he watches it all, this knave of hearts, time to step forward, seek adoration, show them who's champ. Pass the Doritos, sip the Pepsi. 'Before Today' is a chance to reek in the hype. He stays true to himself, a taste of the tasteless, wedding party glitz with a glint of the bizarre. Another genre tomorrow, another revaluation, a cult artist continuing from where he took off. There is no great ambition on board to rock the boat, to marvel at musical expanse, the flatness is intentional and so is the gifted confusion-does he mean it? How is this meant to be accepted? Is he an outsider, the alien of paperback science-fiction decoding the irresistible shallowness of karaoke art? Or is he a smug, smart-ass for those in on the comedy? The layers of clouded interference on the 'merry-go-round' may have been erased, but the picture is no clearer. Perhaps, in some cases, a lack of artistic definition should be applauded.

DENNIS HOPPER 1936-2010

Out Of The Blue. Blue Velvet. Terrifying. Unforgettable.

DREAMING WILL

A new film.

AVI BUFFALO

Credits roll.

Tommy finished the article on the upcoming actor. He slipped on his turquoise Blondie t-shirt, and checked himself out in the hotel room's mirror. Then he took the i-pod from his bag and put it on shuffle. Headphones clamped, wraparounds fixed, he made his way downstairs. In the open air, the heat tranquillised his mind. He crossed the bridge with the toothless beggars selling their trinkets. He passed by the piper band, 'Money please,' and waited for the boat to arrive. Standing there, he spied the actor and his sidekick. Someone shouted at him in Italian to stop blocking the entrance. 'Scusi.' The actor eyed him suspiciously, pulling back his sunglasses. Tommy copied his movements. The boat arrived. As it sailed through the majestic paradise, Tommy bit his lower lip, remembering a moment from the actor's last film. The actor glared at the mirage in disbelief, before exiting at his destination.

A ringtone. Sigh. Grimace.

'Hello' she said. 'I'm at the movies.'

'What? This is ridiculous' said the old man from the row behind.

'It's about a man on a boat. Speak later.'

The warm breeze blew and "What's In It For?" came on. He swayed to the endless harmonies- 'Oh oh ah oh'- and laughed at the way the singer sang about his muse, with her 'Bacon lips.' Released from the city grind, he danced in the yearning euphoria and stretched his long arms up into the sunbeams. He wished all the other passengers could share his happiness. 'Look over here, I feel so free, watch me, listen-'Oh oh ah oh.'

Tommy got off at the stop beside his father's bar. Tonight he was attending a rock legend's dinner party. He sat down and ordered a vodka martini, the seventeen euros waved. At the other side of the lounge was a girl he'd seen at the airport concourse yesterday. A dark haired sparrow who never blinked. He tried to smile at her, but she'd obviously cottoned on to a greater truth. Both weren't exactly sure who was following whom. She whispered in her friend's ear. Feeling sleepy, he curled up in the music.

'He's sleeping. Bad boy,' she said.

The old man rose out of his chair, and stood in front of her.

'Can You Please Be Quiet. I'm trying to watch the film.'

A 50's guitar gently introduced "Can't I Know." There was a slight unease, as if the singer was stepping quietly to the object of his desire. Barely there, and taking little turns in melody, until the tempo took hold and the conquest bathed this lingering apprehension in the lightest of liquidity. He opened his eyes, and saw an old man observing a talkative woman at the table beside him, they seemed so familiar.

COURTNEY LOVE

Listening to Hole's 'Pretty On The Inside' again, I was struck by the raw venom. It's relentless and poetic. Songs like 'Teenage Whore' and 'Good Sister/Bad Sister' involve you in the choked turbulence of one woman's experience. Slammed together with disgust, howled with distain, it never let's up in vivid horror. What had happened to her, where would she go to after purging her hatred and untamed emotion? Courtney Love divides people, some see her as a fuel of reckless honesty, others as a shameless opportunist. She is full of contradictions. A well read raconteur, a druggy mess, someone dying to be loved, someone hellbent on causing trouble. But always, without doubt, living right now, fluid in thought and opinion.

After the violent splurge of 'Pretty', she begged for solace in the mainstream. This wasn't a sell out, it was a cry for acceptance. 'Live Through This' is a great, wracked punk pop album, containing wild, sensational entertainment. 'Violet', 'Miss World' and 'Doll Parts' are thrilling feminist anthems, beautiful, valiant and harsh. 'Celebrity Skin' had many bittersweet songs, burnt by the L.A. sun, but was diluted by an unsatisfying production. After a long spell in the wilderness a solo album appeared and musically it was an ugly monstrosity. But 'America's Sweetheart' is tough and funny lyrically, the acid was unleashed once again, deceptively sloppy, sharp as a razor. She also appeared in two films by Milos Forman, 'The People vs. Larry Flynt' and 'Man On The Moon', both offbeat biopics centred on irrational iconoclasts. Receptive and natural, her acting felt untainted by Hollywood artifice. Then there was Nick Broomfield's morally dubious documentary 'Kurt And Courtney', which denies the integrity of an essay for a tabloid bogusness. The elitist and the naive may fail to detect the joker's parody or the clown's pathos.

'Nobody's Daughter' has a laboured history. Along with the infamous, self-proclaimed 'Joycean' rants, she uploaded, then deleted some very fine demos on her My Space page. They were moving, confessional songs coated in unobtrusive AOR arrangements. Love's vocal delivery was bruised and rasping, her words revealing a latent tenderness. She sounded her age, signifying a sage-like maturity. Then predictably this was all scrapped for the reformation of Hole without any of her former bandmates. Despite the absence of guitarist Eric Erlandson, a loyal deputy, 'Samantha' and 'Skinny little Bitch' roar in an accurate approximation of their original glory. She sounds fierce again, ready to chew and spit out all the pretenders half her age. But what of the remakes, the new versions of those touching laments, dissolving in cyber land?

With ex Material man Michael Beinhorn back in the control room, compression is turned up to the max. This makes 'Pacific Coast Highway' less a melancholic eulogy, more a feisty piece of work. Somehow 'For Once In Your Life' survives, as a brutalised country-rock lullaby. Yet many of the songs suffer from a methodical, unimaginative uniformity, a wall of commercial noise. Which is a shame, since her voice is often affecting and candid, at times stirring the heart with an expressive anguish. No more so than on 'Letter To God', Linda Perry's power ballad, which should be dreadful but is sung with such rough feeling that it twists into something riveting. She believes in every lyric, and this shot self-assurance places her in the mould of Dylan and Faithfull; essential, ravaged singers with enormous authority over anything they touch. And yes, praise be, past masters and mistresses of savage regret, 'Loser Dust' gives us the fingers up, being a very likeable slice of bubblegum. Crass, flawed, unfashionable. A rock 'n' roll rebel.

ERYKAH BADU

New Amerykah Part 1 came as an abrupt shock to the system. I had previously labelled Erykah Badu as Lauryn Hill's nearest contemporary, a smooth soul stylist with a dash of fire. But aided by a brilliant production team-including Madlib and Sa Ra-here stood something different, a defiantly eccentric creature. Badu's sumptuous vocal presence was set to a modern Funkadelica. Political mythology ghost danced over forms of '70's-infused, edgy hip-hop. Telephone, a farewell to her late friend Dilla gave one goosebumps. The upright, sing-song chants held conflict with a sunken anger, resulting in a quite frightening disorientation. Warm, relaxed and out of sync, Amerykah carried an aura of There's A Riot Going On's seductive, deeply whacked catharsis. Was this the first crooked step to a cracked universe?

Nope. In her promo video for Window Seat, she performs a minimalist striptease while walking through the city streets. She acts like a scruffy goddess, confident, wise, holding all the secrets of the world. New Amerykah Part 2 is a far calmer, more organic album that features Badu's unique, slinky vocals lulling over lithe, jazzy grooves. The songs are actually quite formless, Badu giving the impression of improvisation. The musicianship on the other hand is impeccable and immaculate, grounded by resonating bass and a Headhunters solidity. Agitated even recalls Weather Report's lilting fusion. But one does miss the left field turns Part 1 took in sonic labyrinth. Political context is also surrendered in the name of love. Which is not to say it's generic, there's much supple pleasure in these tracks, just a lack of risk or danger. 20 Feet Tall swells with cinematic cool and the closer Out My Mind, Just In Time sprawls with a smokey lushness, subtly allowing interruptions in it's tone. Then, far from fear, she glides with luminous ease into the midst.

MGMT

 When it comes down to MGMT, I stand alone.

Most of my friends and relatives will have zilch to do with them.

Nothing personal, lack of interest.

Why did I become a fan, when did it all start?

Time To Pretend video.

Cheap, dumb fun. Flaming oceans, septic day-glo, bows and arrows, multitude dimensions.

The song was so alive.

Huge production, harsh synth lines, massive drums, sugar sweet melody.

Yet very perceptive, if you listened closely.

Barbed lyrics planned a manifesto, a cycle of cliches, the ultimate dead end rock dream.

The emptiness shone with a wretched, rank sheen.

I underrated their debut album, thought it was tasteless and irritating.

But the songs weirdly crept up on you.

Weird yeah, because they seemed so desperate to be liked. Crying ribboned puppies, mall rhapsodies.

Electric Feel and Kids burst with tongue in cheek exuberance.

The Youth spun and webbed a crystal elegance.

Weekend Wars and Of Moons, Birds & Monsters hinted at a rising intricacy.

Andrew VanWyndgarden is in his own informal, nonchalant way, a perfect rock star.

Like an actor playing a part in say, Dazed And Confused or Almost Famous.

Handsome, playfully laconic, high on adoration and chemicals.

A dosage of trash lapped up by a knowing, eager ingenue.

Surface and depth, dunked in the taunting revulsion of star seeking.

For Congratulations, MGMT have rummaged a thrift store of icons to pay homage. Two songs are entitled Brian Eno and Lady Dada's Nightmare. Jennifer Herrema shows up as a guest artiste, probably with the same level of enthusiasm as posing for a Calvin Klein campaign ad. All are clear examples of the twain between frivolity and intuitive diversion. Intellect dressed in blithe silliness. Early Eno dandified serious minded electronic innovation in a lexicon of glamorous irony. Herrema confounds the potential bourgeois with her ravishing redneck persona. Interviews, fizzed on red bull, revel in surf, Rocky IV, corporate metal and pledging allegiance to Dubya and ELO. Subversively low-brow, she launches a take no prisoners obstruction to her art which happens to be formidably cunning and extremely esoteric, when interpreted as a body of work. As for Madonna's wee apprentice, the pedagogy has yet to translate from the rapt, nihilistic pornographic image to cutting memorable tracks, but she is causing much worry for reactionaries, which proves the worth of her regal eroticism. A smudge of grotesque intent destroys the voyeuristic gaze. So how do these Brooklyn guys bare out, now they've laid their cards on the table?

Flash Delirium, the first 'single' woke up to a change in direction. To the directionless? No, a kaleidoscopic ride with the logic of a hallucinogenic trip. Fragments of the random constantly shifting, threatening to attain conclusion or resolve, instead choosing to reach out for that next special idea. The main hook is a delightful Beach Boys rip, which would suggest retro. But that in turn would suggest replication, not the dizziness that's so abundant here. One could refer to Zappa, that studio savvy insanity, but his lethal satire would never have allowed the title song itself, which is simply heart warming and gorgeous, if definitely a tad cynical. Are they still committed to providing a critique of their own practice? Or has all that self-awareness melted in a haze of wonder? We've made it now, this is the real us, sounds an all too familiar motto, worthy of groaning ridicule. At sixteen I said to a girl I wanted to impress 'This teacher doesn't care who we are'. 'Do we?' she replied. Her response left me trumped and bewildered. We are fated to pretend.

You won't find many records as wide eyed and melodically alluring this year. They have caught a certain golden mood when mod culture escaped into the summer of love. The songs stream into your unconsciousness, unfurling free association, falsetto contemplation, bubbling with a good natured vision of pop utopia. They aren't afraid of sentimentality now, which is a viable emotion when genuine. It can be seen as defeatist to emulate the past, but if your so wrapped up in it's daydreams, why begrudge a connection to creativity. MGMT's odes to their idols are humbled by a fey reverence, masking their virtuoso alterations of texture and structure. The epic Siberian Breaks is obviously the centre piece, a fascinating mosaic that refuses to settle for linearity. It's not easy to separate the other songs out since they all flow as a whole, and often seem to be conversing in a lucid dialogue. Lady Dada is an exception, where Stereolab's sophistication transfigures into Goblin shlock, what the Dadaist herself would make of it who knows. Dumping a case of the smarts, they've introduced a romanticized idealism which reverberates in nostalgia.

Sometimes moving on can mean traveling backwards.

ALEX CHILTON 1950-2010

Infinitely tender and troubled; The Letter, September Gurls, Holocaust, Take Care.

VIV ALBERTINE

In the late 70's, The Slits were the sussed, anarchic libertines to The Raincoats' cerebral, studied bohemians. Aside from contrasting outlooks, both made off-kilter, singular records full of untrained passion. Post split, guitarist Viv Albertine has spent time as a jobbing television director, try if your inclined, the hugely confusing kids show The Tomorrow People. Snubbing The Slits' flat reformation (although Ari Up never fails to create havoc as a live performer) she's instead grabbed a deal on Ecstatic Peace for her belated solo career. I had the good fortune of seeing her twice in action last year. First at a Q&A for veteran punkers, where she baited the polite audience with deadpan eloquence; 'What are you all doing here then, come on, I'd really like to know.' Everyone shifted in their seats, not having the guts to reply. Then came a tentative, rather shy concert where she treated us to a faltering rendition of David Bowie's Letter to Hermione. The self penned songs on her Flesh EP are pretty, if soured by ripe rebellion. Standing out from the terrain is undoubtedly Never Come, all clipped innuendo, cheeky references to Bolan/Young and catchy invention. She possesses an understated English voice, rich in breathy suggestiveness without any pretensions of grandeur. And don't worry, her guitar playing continues to clatter with upmost angular conviction. Roll on the full-length this summer.

JOANNA NEWSOM

Dear Gawain,

It's Ty here, bro. How's life over the lake? Here the dogs are still relishing cold coffee from bowls and the cats sigh with jaded superiority. I have mailed Joanna Newsom's new, 3 LP opus along with this letter, hope it gets to you. Have One On Me lured me into the past, our friendship, the pleasing realm of memory. When The Milk-eyed Mender caught you spellbound with beauty and seeming innocence. I was the cautious one. There was a wave, or a flash, wasn't there, of young, literate songwriters regressing, uncoiling themselves in childlike caves. Coco Rosie, Devendra Banhart, Newsom and to a lesser extent Animal Collective swooned to their own charmed, fantastical adventures. Only AC hinted at wild riots, the others being just too cute to spoil the party. Our roles then reversed. I found myself lost in Ys' ambitious, enigmatic reverie while you stood outside protesting self-indulgence.

Have One On Me illustrates the calm maturation of her gift. She has grown out of creaking helium to cooing reflectiveness, her vibrato refined into a hush. No longer a fluke overdosing on quirk, here is Newsom revealed as an artist dedicated to her craft. The songs could be revised old spiritual madrigals, where it not for her constant, dense lyricism. The level of self involvement is striking, in the same way as Kate Bush inhabited her own private universe, leaving you feeling lucky to be allowed in. It's also imbued by a feminine grace, a captivating Eden, timeless and distant from rock convention. True, it's meandering at points-but isn't it perhaps refreshing to hear albums stripped of instant, sensationalist gratification. I will delve into these sensory songs of poignant, mystified desire with an endless frequency, trusting them to blossom further colors and complexities. Until then, write back and share your thoughts, I'd like to hear your kind personal opinion Wain. Mother and Father send all their love.

Peace, Tyvian

YUKA HONDA

A gentle, thoughtful musician, Yuka Honda has been a mainstay of New York's avant-pop melting pot for twenty years. She is best known for her mid/late 90's duo Cibo Matto, who's irreverent, jubilant and hip two albums offered a wide spectrum of unabashed joyfulness. After the rupture, Miho Hatori did a stint in Gorillaz then junked modernism for Bossa nova. Honda took a different route. She united with many interesting collaborators, especially like-minded women such as Yoshimi, Ikue Mori and Petra Haden. Her sensitive contributions, alongside Cornelius and ex boyfriend Sean Lennon, led to Yoko Ono's Between My Head And The Sky being unexpectedly wonderful, a sympathetic testament to Ono's originality and scope. Her three solo albums have all been issued on John Zorn's diverse Tzadik label without much fanfare or recognition of her talents.

In the latest chapter of an unknown fantasia, Heart Chamber Phantoms, she opens a space for specters to come out to play. Virginia Woolf types a liner note "It is far harder to kill a phantom than reality" This is a soothing seance, genuinely mysterious and ungraspable, a digi-jazz landscape. Michael Leonhart's trumpet often dominates in looped figures, looming from the cosmos in a manner akin to Jon Hassle's fourth world physics. A maze of noir, the music rejects relation to everyday signification. In a funked up fashion it forms a hidden trail to Mori/Parkins' Phantom Orchard with it's sensual take on abstraction. What narratives drift inside these instrumentals are beholden to the individual listener.

AFRIRAMPO

A friend gave me a bootleg of Afrirampo's November '09 concert in Shangri-la, Osaka recently. It's blazing stuff, a real head cleaner. Sonic Youth were left scratching their sore heads after being attacked by them onstage with giant, fluffy hammers a few years back. Seen some a-okay happenings this year; LCO tackling Reich/Cage, Peter Brotzmann, Ubiquity and Shipp/Spaceman/Coxon/Noble (Miles Davis strolls into east London-Rated X) All had great moments to be sure. Not reviewing any of 'em, cuz I wanna focus on records. Check Afrirampo out next time they appear at a shindig nearby, might be more fun than even you can handle.

MASSIVE ATTACK

The door slammed shut. 'Play this' the model demanded before falling on to her leathered seat. The driver was hardly taken aback. He slid Massive Attack's new CD into the machine and accelerated. 'Blast from the past' he muttered upon deaf ears. It'd been on a constant cycle of repeat at the shoot. When leaving the hotel she'd got one of the assistants to burn her a copy.

Pray For Rain began. It was highly familiar. Graven piano patterns warned of incoming dread, live drums met cold electronic flourishes. The tone was resolutely downbeat, Tunde Adebimpe conjuring an urban abyss. An aged woman overtook them on a slow wattage scooter, tracksuit, baseball cap but her red shoes were sure shiny. The driver wondered if his wife had gone shopping after work, and if his daughter had done her homework. Observing his client in the dashboard's mirror, he thought this is a far cry from when I was a bus driver.

Martina Topley-Bird curdled Billie's blues to a Can-like groove touched by fidgety beats. A glowing 6 AM, clubbed out anemia pervaded the synthetic womb. She put on her shades. 'I was the oldest girl today' she said to no one. The Piccadilly lights shone bright, neon paintings reflected in a drizzled out stupor. Another line was waiting for her at home. Girl I love You had been her favorite. Horace Andy's spooky, quivering voice stretching out over amped bass throb and resoundingly grim brass. A company of drunken office workers aimed at the car with water pistols.

Until this point, Heligoland and London held gloved hands in shadowed alliance. Then a second crew of conspirers took up reportage. Flat of the Blade featured the sleepy, Manchester burr of Guy Garvey, surveying the warped underworld like a wounded boxer denying the final blow. Hope Sandoval's intimate gush stirred the electric cauldron. Damon Albarn's weedy boyishness gasped for air. Signs of redemption on the horizon. As the driver relented into sweet, musical spasms of humility, the model grimaced and felt cheated by compromise. The flashlight of photographers greeted her on the doorstep. Without an exchange or gesture, it was the end of the ride.

PATTI SMITH

Bought a copy of Just Kids yesterday. Finished it this morning. Vividly evocative and profoundly emotive, a less guarded Chronicles. Illuminations for aspiring artists, explorations for those on a quest to break down the barriers all over again.

BEACH HOUSE

A couple of years ago I was at a concert where Beach House quietly upstaged the perpetually wayward Cat Power. Chan Marshall is always unpredictable live. I've seen her hypnotize a crowd alone in near darkness. I've witnessed her walking over an audience with a glass of JD and ice singing Otis Redding. This time she seemed merely tired and erratic. Possibly she was bored of her covers band. I don't blame her. Now she's recording an album solo, like in the good old days. Could be sick. The willful southerner in her, that vast displacement, leaves you constantly unsure of her next move. Lonesome introspection or an out of joint jam with Wu-Tang? Don't you doubt it.

Where was I? Beach House. Poet Tom Paulin once memorably described Madonna's Ray Of Light as 'Jacuzzi music'. Well, Teen Dream's an island of claustrophobic warmth surrounded by the cold, cold ocean. Facing an odyssey of sugared reassurance, radicalism shrugged and gave up the ghost. They stick to a template; gauzy reverb guitar, attentive drum machines and caressing organ chords. Victoria Legrand's vocals and lyrics are again a curious paradox of spaced out ethereality and grainy depressiveness. If Chan Marshall's songs can feel uncomfortably exposed, Legrand's remain outwardly elusive. Soft-focus mush aside, their muggy unknowability does beguile and allure, Zebra's languid ruminations almost eclipsing the intoxicating Gila, from Devotion. Following on, Silver Soul shines with equal magnificence in it's subtle glory. Despite resistance, I have been seduced.

KATE MCGARRIGLE 1946-2010

I cherish the self-titled debut and The Dancer With Bruised knees, she was an underrated miracle of wit and wry compassion.

OWEN PALLETT

  Linda sat on the bus as it crawled thru the city. Under her left arm was a grocery bag full of fresh citrus fruit. In her hands lay a notebook, ready and hungry for smoked revelations. A tramp threw up on the street, a kid took a picture on his phone. Weirdly compelling, the paranoid shuffler moved in a figure of eight. Over there, a girl put on some magenta mascara while ignoring the attentions of an eager admirer. Closing her eyes, she transcended the noise, the violent uncensored information by conjuring a scene from the 12th century; the supernatural visions of Merlin, and natural disbelief of King Arthur. Inhabiting another reality, she almost missed her stop.

Edward had been taking self-portraits on an ancient polaroid, nicknamed 'Void'. The results were pasted onto a faded mirror that shifted perspective according to different views. He was awaiting her return. The warm keys turned the locks. 'Linda, you gotta hear this! There's still ferocious coffee in the pot'.

A symphony filled the four corners of their room. Propulsive, hunter beats anchored sonic overflow. 'Who is this?' she proclaimed. 'Owen Pallett, got it today'. 'He sounds half asleep' she remarked, tuning into his sneaking voice. 'Just wait, he's casual but sincere'. Plucked violins crept like cheerful field mice, lavas opened, Mount Alpentine rushed on discordance and atonalism. 'What's the libretto, his words are too buried in the mix'. 'A conceptual riff on an angry farmer. Who cares, let the music take hold of you' he answered. She chewed her nails and noticed a mood of rarified and well mannered exuberance that stood in stark contrast to the exhilaration of her favorite rock idols. She admired the stately arrangements, even if she couldn't totally share Edward's enthusiasm. 'Shimmies for Van Dyke Parks to shake Pina Coladas to' he grinned.

'I need a pee' she sighed. 'Wait, the best one is coming next' he replied with glee. 'Darn, what are we, an existential Beavis and Butthead?'. Holy mother of God. E Is For Estranged was unbelievably beautiful, tilting strings, eternally mysterious scripture, the way he weaved melody was a sad, sensual pleasure. An elegy to lost love. She held his bony frame in her arms. 'Okay, you have sold it to me'. As they danced slowly, a tender dawn awoke beneath the smoggy sky.

ERIC ROHMER 1920-2010

Enchanting films of modest magic and delicate observation; Claire's Knee, Love in the Afternoon, The Green Ray and The Romance of Astrea and Celadon.

VAMPIRE WEEKEND

Bram S JR was traveling back from NYC to London across the sweeping atlantic. On a packed airplane he wondered how to waste some time. No way was he gonna suffer through Mamma Mia again. Searching the selection on High Mile radio he stumbled upon Vampire Weekend's debut. Wow those dudes must be like international now or something. Weren't they that group he'd turned his nose up at before? The champagne clouds drifted by his window. Last night Obama had emerged victorious and America seemed to burst with regained optimism.

Putting in the lame ear plugs he found musical elevation. He'd been so wrong about them. I mean white guys doing African in an ironic fashion? Pretty contrived. At least those middle aged rockers in the 80's wanted to save the world. Why not buy a Fela Kuti record and be done with it. But this was nothing like that, nothing so cynical. Oxford Comma sat up and snapped at you with it's bright, fervent passion, M79 shared a joke with Mozart and The Kids Don't Stand A Chance announced itself as a modern anthem, one you could shout along to without shame.

Anticipating jet lag with a smile he purchased a copy at the airport upon arrival.

That was then. Skating round Central Park's ice rink-only a distant memory. Contra, Vampire Weekend's second album was already out. Was he stoked? Kinda, he couldn't say. The first two songs immediately felt like reuniting with old friends from those heady times. Horchata celebrated an obscure drink over thumb pianos and the lightest of tribal rhythms. White Sky featured Ezra Koenig's happy continuation of Paul Simon's conversational intricacies, and his sublime gift with a melody. Richard Serra replaced Jackson Pollock as a lyrical reference. After that? Well, it all started to turn pleasant enough. The high pitched guitars still rang out. There were dalliances with auto-tune, Arthur Russell cello shapes, the cheapest of synth beats, but where was the urgency or excitement? Hard to fault, harder to relate, so he cranked up Sunn O instead on the stereo. Yet later in the sleepy night the gentle sway of I Think Ur A Contra bewitched him, had he been too hasty in his opinion after all? Maybe they deserved a second chance.