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.