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.