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.