MATS GUSTAFSSON

To say Needs! is an album from a well-regarded improv/jazz saxophonist won't do it justice. More like interconnection between radio dial, feedback hissing from the ashes, tapping the abstract, a shattered ritual, shaving off conventions of harmony. Gustafsson spurts and malts through an onslaught of morphed souls. It is unsettling, how he bumbles upon makeshift compositions, and that stuttering primitivism challenges apprehension, sinks in with fleshy bite.

ATLAS SOUND AND KANYE WEST

Quick observations, totally unrelated, on music ranging from the humble to the extravagant. Atlas Sound wheeze in ramshackle blues, though I prefer it when he whirls into the hypnotic, as he does, occasionally, on this lo-fi trip. Trying to avoid Kanye West is hard work and I don't want to dish the praise, he might get big-headed. But I'm still loving 808s & Heartbreak, so self-obsessed, why is it so moving? Anyhow, monumental ship arrives, fireworks shoot, super-store cash registers open. Brash stuff, and here goes, alright then, sometimes-Monster, Runaway-undeniably astonishing.

UNCLE BOONMEE WHO CAN RECALL HIS PAST LIVES

The second breathtaking film of the year. In truth, despite winning Cannes last spring, it's a seamless continuation of Tropical Malady and Syndromes and a Century. These are works gifted to us from the gentlest shaman. What a pleasure, for those watching in the enlightened darkness, to luxuriate in his strange, spiritual and puzzlingly comic other-worlds. The red-eyed forest beings, the fish and the princess, the sweet out-of-body ghosts. A fantastical impression of reality. Take me back there, to that inspired, imaginative space, where the incredible is wistfully promised with seeping premonition.

SALEM

Comments 1.

Why ya not reviewed Salem? That album been banging for centuries. You gotta problem with frigging vitality? No-budget brutality, slow-core rapping, the heart of damaged USA. There's trauma in Ibiza, needs sorting. Dude, we're sorry, with deep sorrow, we asked you to give up your services, the desk has been cleared. They are for real, no hype included. Courtney Love took twit-pics with 'em, damn, she should hire 'em. We will always love you, Four Dreamer, go take that hike, you reek of formality.

The discarded were threatening a-bruising, the beast lay down his head, overlaid by sugar dollars and grim inscription. Jilted by the flame of a fringed fur coat, he was grinding to a deliberate amateurism, keeping cold, banished from the avenues, listening to some deranged whoosh, helicopters chopping in the park, weren't it the biz? Tardy boxer, punching walls, knuckle marks. Girl moves to Upside Down, record skipping on turntable, she shouldn't dance like that, not with her face falling off, jumping on cars, weird men in a bacon-rigged diner, rude and irrelevant. Katherine appeared, startled blue eyes, blonde hair, blessing him through corridors of smashing sun, dipping windows, his black hair, twirled a lock, he kissed her red, awkward mouth, an acknowledgement of love. Rescue from the volcano.

Over and out, fumble dumbo J C.

KEITH RICHARDS

Nice one, riff master. A tough and entertaining memoir. Page by page, at every turn, Richards comes across as honest, scary, affectionate and witty. The '60s are portrayed without sentimentality as a time of integral social change, fighting against established order. The '70s languish in junkie superstardom, gripping, gruelling chapters that refuse to glamourise the truth and often shock the reader with a dead-eyed paranoia. Jagger and Pallenberg dart in and out of the narrative, as dynamic and compelling as the main character himself, brilliant friction. Then there's some haphazard accounts of how those amazing songs came to light, luck and chaos it seems. Exciting, jaw-droppingly direct and hilarious, Life is a ferocious book, it burns with the wisdom of an original non-conformist.

BRIAN ENO

This is what you'd expect, beatific. Another moon landing. Fatalistic background music. Okay, neurotic drum assemblage. Borne unto the brain, a swish of rainy poison. UK garage fluxed, Nerve Vet? Tracks stopping before they start on the get-go. Swig of French wine. Cut-ups of evolution. Guitars mesh, high-end over solar. Too tasteful, not No Pussyfooting, The Drop. Theme music to menace. Juddering sound apocalypse. African village with nettles. The guitar playing is too expensive, rote. Prayer for resolution. Yeah, watch your back, things are not quite what they seem, clean disruption. Monkey in the outer, look at them stars, they are shining, breathing and shuddering with condolence. Church bells toll, wide. It's only a performance. Nylon strings protruding synthetics. How many detectives, how many were there? Cumbersome mist, continual washing. Specs of blood in a transparent basin.

JOSEPHINE FOSTER

For the last few years Josephine Foster has resembled a musical archaeologist, digging in to disjointed renditions of classical German song-art, adapting Emily Dickinson's pure, sensory poetry and now, unearthing Federico Garcia Lorca's unassuming radicalism. Should that sound academic, opener Los Cuatro Muleros dispels such worry. It's a lively prelude, the players taking place, for the tale shalt be told. Anda Jaleo captures the playfully serious tone of flamenco perfectly. There isn't much need for translation, as good spirits reside, Foster radiating an uncontrived eccentricity as she clicks her castanets and stomps her feet in time. By the end, she sings to herself, alone, wavering and murmuring, the party was old-fashioned, but it still echoes in memory, on the close of summer.