MARIANNE FAITHFULL

Marianne Faithfull is a sharp cookie these days. Writing frank memoirs, refusing to share bottles of wine with interviewers, she's well-aware of her iconic status. Though it wasn't always like this. In the sixties she was determined to live as recklessly as the boys and was punished by the outdated system. So this lovely-looking, searching young woman turned to self-destruction. Her Ophelia is perfect; narcissistic, vulnerable and grimly compliant in her own downfall. The comeback was legendary, Broken English and Strange Weather remain haunting and emotive albums, she was croaky and cool, singing words of defiance and hurt regret.

With classic artists, we permanently hope that they'll come back and show us some new tricks or at least demonstrate how it's really done, according to them. Horses And High Heels doesn't branch off into different directions and there is no equivalent of Sister Morphine or Times Square to trouble the soul with naked desolation. Yet it is heartfelt and ultimately good-natured. Faithfull relishes Hal Willner's lush, bluesy arrangements with a stately, shadowy warmth. Why Did We Have to Part has a gritty urgency. King and Goffin's Goin' Back is reinvented, innocent, youthful optimism subsided by knowing experience. Then, guess what, Lou Reed pops in with one of his precise, metallic solos that begs the tantalising question, what if the two of them joined up for a robust, melancholic collection of songs?

SONIC YOUTH

I was talking to a wonderful painter. While ago. Playing an SYR in the background. He said, 'Ah, this reminds me of Stockhausen.' As an art teacher he'd played Stockhausen for the schoolchildren in his class and their work had gained freedom and courage. Lines became more spontaneous, colours more daring.

SYR 4 found Sonic Youth engaged in the experimental notational scores of several modern classical 20th century composers. They left their own distinctive fingerprints while respecting the original intentions of the graphic compositions. Some rock fans were angered, some serious music buffs were taken aback. Rules and restrictions still seemed to apply. But not for this open-minded group. Other SYR records focused on those guitars; jagged, enveloping textures of eerie, threatening sound. Sometimes, Kim Gordon would sing, moving from a breathy hush to a challenging howl, continually sensual and disconcerting. This latest SYR record is a soundtrack to a French movie titled 'Simon Werner a Disparu.' It is subtly beautiful and idiosyncratic. Splashes, clicks, scratches disturb the reassuring, reflective flow. High frequencies, pianos, was that the cold blue rumblings of the ocean I heard or the gleaming drift of a night drive through Paris. Spaced-out and contemplative, they pick up electric speed and rhythm then float back into slow echoing chords. A beguiling episode in a fascinating series.