The Single Life: Lana Del Rey, Jeremy Neale & More

As the sound of reindeer hoof beats come nearer, closely pursued by the dull clunk of over-limit credit card statements soon behind, latest rounds of new tunes tend to be either looking back trying to give albums you may have a missed a kick along as potential stocking fillers, or signposting product slated for the new year new release rush.

Among local product, Jack Ladder’s Playmates is one of this year’s glories, and the just off-kilter enough clip for Her Hands (Self-Portrait) will further pique the curious, as it should. Yes, that is actor Hamish Michael - Gatsby, Crownies, and a long way from playing beer-and-smokes cricket legend bloke Dougie Walters in Howzat – frocked up and lurking in the corridors of Sydney Town Hall, while the snakey Ladder tends toward channelling a young Bryan Ferry, as directed by David Lynch.

Lanie Lane became a different kind of intriguing too. Her Night Shade album saw the dropping of her primary-coloured sweetheart of the rodeo persona for something more in the earth mother/jazz chanteuse line, with No Sound (Ivy League) a good choice to bring old fans along - and probably find some new ones - as the song is probably the neatest straddling of Lane’s past and present styles.

And some are making more than a year’s jump. The eminently stylish Jeremy Neale seems to have leapt a couple of decades from a turtle-necked ‘60s shimmy to bravely namechecking Phil Collins early-‘80s output and drum solo style – lately best seen as performed by a chocolate-eating gorilla a couple of years back. There’s an oddly lush plastic beauty to The News (Remote Control) as hearts are broken and attemptedly reassembled like a Lego Opera House, perhaps with a couple of pieces missing.

Of course, a degree of plasticity and how you tolerate it is central to what you make of Lana Del Rey. She musically gazes into the middle distance as she provides the eponymous theme song for Tim Burton’s new fillum, Big Eyes (Warner), where the plot of art, artifice, lies and reputation seem to fit well with the sometime perceived realities or otherwise of Del Rey’s career.

Tis also the festive season of collaboration, as the well tipped and awkwardly named Night Terrors Of 1927 – containing members of Rilo Kiley and The Honorary Title among other things – have handy friends named Tegan & Sara to provide shiny-but-scuffed pop harmonies for their When You Were Mine (Atlantic) – regrettably not the old Prince song, but likely to be easily accepted on the playlists of certain youth networks and community radio stations.

This 2015 thing coming up so fast seems to have a bit of a New Zealand accent as an early theme, across a range of styles. Trust Punks is a suitably descriptive name for a band offering the snappy and snotty just-over-two-minutes of Through The Thicket (Spunk) which happily splutters at you in quick time, and then stops. As it should.

Yumi Zouma are also from those islands over there on the right, but are a quite different thing. Alena (Spunk) is pastel washes of synths, not quite soothing but certainly flowing with an assurance of a knowledge of melody and how to use machines to make them.

If you’re talking recognisable voices, Kate Pierson is the aunty who usually only phones on your birthday, but is ringing to enthusiastically tell you she’s sent you some scratchie lottery tickets. The B-52’s singer has a reputation as big as her vocals, which means getting the increasingly omnipresent Sia aboard for some songs and production is a happy meeting of the minds. Mister Sister (Lazy Meadow) is identifiably of both of them, and the coming Guitars And Microphones album could find a wide audience. Oh, the guy in the clip wandering through like we should know who he is? Fred Armisen, he of Saturday Night Live and Portlandia among other things. So now you know.

Thirty years and around 70(!) transient members on, Mike Scott runs The Waterboys banner up the flagpole again, knowing the brandname retains goodwill, far beyond at least one certifiable classic in Whole Of The Moon (yeah, that one…). Their Irishness is utterly intact, but November Tale (Puck/Kobalt) was recorded in Nashville, giving it a relaxed southern swing among its Celtic accents, maybe landing it somewhere between Dylan and Van Morrison. Which is probably no bad place to be.

Florida’s Merchandise remain a puzzling beast. Despite their American origin, they fit more easily into an English model – a bit of punk sneer, a chunk of self-centred ennui and melancholy. They probably grew up listening to The Cure, but later decided they probably liked Suede better. But would never admit to thinking Morrissey was cool. Telephone (4AD) groans a bit, then swings a bit in the manner that will find an audience who’ll consider them the best thing ever. But will gain only passing glances from most of us.