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.