The Single Life: The Prodigy, Ariel Pink & More

It’s a lament often heard more from sport commentators: “Where are the personality players?” Those eccentrics, the puzzling, the bizarrely talented who perhaps don’t even realise it. The footy codes have mostly defaulted to those currently out on bail. Cricket has Warney, but even he appears to have been replaced by some sort of fibreglass android with built-in random Twitter-posting programme.

Music’s fairly short on such old-fashioned weirdos these days too. But Ariel Pink sometimes gives it a good shot. Even when he’s not actually present in the video to go with his occasionally under-realised/occasionally overcooked music. The visuals of Dayzed Inn Daydreams (4AD) – and take that, spellchecker – are alternately harrowing or dark-humoured, while he muses on death in a suitably world-weary manner. Bonus trivia points: all this is financed and supposedly promotes a hipp-ish clothing brand, and the not-so-gently weeping guitar is provided by Jason Pierce of Spritualized. Himself being a fair call in the odd stakes, as I recall the interview I did with him at 1am in the morning on his record company’s roof where – perhaps due to some pharmaceutical intervention beforehand - he spent most of conversation actually counting the stars in the night skies overhead rather than answering any question about himself or his music. Ah, good times.

Then there’s those where the weirdness is more a result of ego over personality. And you guessed Kanye West straightaway, didn’t you? Collaboration being his current indulgence, here Rihanna is the recipient of this round of his largesse, with Four Five Seconds (UMA) a surprisingly restrained strum – although said strum appears to be the only thing provided by the third leg of this potentially enormous butting of heads (heading of butts?), it being provided that young hopeful Paul McCartney, whose career is being given a similar generous kick along by the Yeezus pose. In reality it would stand as a pretty good demo recording, and could be quite something if they get around to finishing it.

And then you cross from the charmingly nuts, to somewhere around complete arsehat. Have some casual sexism, and ignorant fuckwittery. There’s a formula that’s worked for you before, Redfoo – you really haven’t learnt anything at all, have you? Juicy Wiggle (Party Rock Records) is another vomit of frat boy objectification. And no, it’s not ironic - or even trying to be. That’s fucking frightening. You’re Berry Gordy’s son for godsake – and while dad was no great shakes on the treatment of women, at least he could recognise talent. This is a joke – and not a good one. We have now cancelled his visa, surely? You’re only getting 15 seconds of it. You can thank me later.

The Prodigy’s perhaps surprising return gives us the chance to watch the sometimes disturbing colour and movement of their resident wind-up toy and wide-eyed loon, Keith Flint. But for the title track of the upcoming ‘comeback’ record, The Day Is My Enemy (Take Me To The Hospital – now, there’s a label name!) a guest from another time is invited. That’s Martina Topley-Bird, the former Mrs Tricky and the identifiable voice of some of the best of her ex-hubby’s records. There still seems to be some danger in what The Prodigy deliver, but it remains to be seen if they can engage a 21st century audience.

And then we move along the idiosyncratic continuum to somewhere between ‘quirky’ and ‘sweet’. Sally Seltmann offers We Are The Music (Three Of Hearts), an almost unrelentingly open-hearted stroll home of new affection. She plays to her stylistic strengths, it skips along while her identifiable tones dance over it. Destined to be ‘our song’ to certain couples who just hooked up at GoodGod, and missed the last bus back to Newtown (insert the slightly hipster venue, and slightly hipster inner-suburb localities of choice relevant to your state).

Jazmine Sullivan is another kind of female voice and attitude completely. This is dark, old-style r’n’b. A grown-up, who has been fucked over, and is trying to make damn sure it doesn’t happen again. Dumb (RCA) is the shot across the bow of that man/boy who ain’t got it yet – and sure as hell ain’t gonna get it from her. The obligatory rap section might be a bit unnecessary, and frankly a bit shit – but apparently this what is demanded in the pop music these days. Your affection for muppets may also be a little traumatised with some of the antics in the attendant clip.

Oh, give me the warm desert breezes of Calexico. With ideal guests such as Neko Case and Iron & Wine aboard, the upcoming album is expectantly awaited, with Cumbia de Donde (Spunk) a suggestion that everything will be fine - although you’re never quite sure where the synthesised mariachi band ends and real trumpets start. But that might just be the idea.

It’s also been some time since the last Death Cab For Cutie item. This is understandable, when you consider that since the last record Ben Gibbard has dealt with the significant losses of band co-founder Chris Walla and his marriage to Zooey Deschanel - the definitive manic pixie dream girl for emo and indie boys across the world. Sigh. There’s got to be an album’s worth of tunes in that alone. Black Sun (Atlantic) is a title that sounds moody enough, although the sound itself is maybe a little richer and maybe commercially-aimed than previously – as Walla’s role of producer of the band’s work has also been outsourced with his exit. Album is titled Kintsugi – from the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. Now that’s deep and meaningful, maaaan.