The Only Person Who Didn't Seem Happy About St Vincent's 'Fallon' Gig Was St Vincent

It’s a bit difficult to work out just what constitutes an artist entering the mainstream consciousness these days since the interwebs did away with the video star - who’d previously killed the radio star some decades earlier. One signpost to a wider audience might be an appearance on one of America’s resurgent late night shows with Fallon or Kimmel holding your album cover up to the world while probably not knowing who you are. Conan will nod perhaps a little more knowingly about your work, while Colbert awkwardly shaking hands with some leather-and-fur-clad rapper remains one of after-midnight television’s surreal delights. Some artists are even further indulged, allowing some degree of concept and set dressing, rather than just setting up in the space in front of the house band. That’s the status St Vincent now has, but rather than the wall of body parts she offered The Late Show a couple of months back, some church pews and a string section sets the mood nicely for the loss and longing of Slow Disco (Loma Vista). Jimmy and the audience seem happy, and maybe a few more units are shifted. Everybody goes home happy. With the possible exception of the artist.

Meanwhile, Sia’s greatest trick is being instantly recognisable while not being in plain sight at all. The two-tone hairstyle now comes in festive colours as the brave experiment of putting out a Christmas album of all original songs continues. The marketing plan now extends to an advent calendar of clips to go with said tunes, released weekly in the lead-up to Night Of The Flying Reindeer. And for Candy Cane Lane (Atlantic), the Furler also giving a nod to some other Yuletide traditions, such as Claymation-style animation – a form that really only seems to appear in December tales of drippy snowmen and/or Santa’s workshop somehow breaking down at exactly the wrong time of year. Throw in the tubular bell chimes of a million Phil Spector Christmas records, and realise that she knows her history – musical and seasonal.

Looking onward to the new year so fast approaching, some seem to already be slating in for the comeback returns of a range of bands and artists – some who you probably haven’t realised you were even missing. Arctic Monkeys, The Prodigy, Interpol, My Bloody Valentine – ok, fine with all that. Craig David? Maybe we’ll think more about the necessity of that one later. But after the typical lineup ructions and a less typical collaboration and flirtation with the art-rock smartarses of Sparks, Franz Ferdinand are apparently going to be themselves again. Always Ascending (Domino), the first sample of the new album with just their name on the marquee is an odd beast, almost like Alex Kapranos is trying to cram all their influences into the one song to announce their return. There’s a bit a Bowie, some almost angular old new wave, and even an odd shout-out back to their own Take Me Out in the call-and-echo ‘Hello’ breakdown in the middle. All very odd, but oddly familiar.

One of our own who won’t do anything but their own way announce their latest return with typical literary and classical references, and the occasional bonus flying penis. Yes, that’s what I said. Augie March emerge blinking from one of their usual longish creative hibernations, with Bootikins (Independent) coming at you in a one of their more awkwardly tumbling ways, as Glenn Richards intones about love and death and such - and the confusions attached to same. Poetic allusions and ancient Roman ‘thingies’ abound, as you’d kind of expect, but you are already curious about what intellectual and musical twists and turns the album to follow will present.

Of course, there remains few better ways to increase your profile than confecting a little outrage. Lil Uzi Vert is one of those typically pierced and (badly) tattooed hip hop artistes of the new generation who seem angry that ‘the man’ (or whoever…) hasn’t provided with enough money to buy their gold-plated Range Rover just yet. Though it’s his name with top-billing on The Way Life Goes (Atlantic), it’s Nicki Minaj’s input that will add some commercial pull to it. Beside her enormous skill of managing to rhyme ‘TSA’ with ‘PSA’ at one point, the main conceit here appears to be the flipping of the usual hero/victim conventions of the rap culture. It’s him being all auto-tuned and reflective, while she writhes and rambles about what a ‘bad bitch’ she is. It’s all a bit NSFW as the buzzards circle and the pitbull strains at the leash – oh incidentally, that’s a genuine canine pit bull, not little bald old mate in the suit whose success remains one of the great mysteries of popular music.

Let us go for something a little more subtle, perchance? That the Soderberg sisters of First Aid Kit desert their Swedish homeland for the hipster-beset bucolic near-mythic surrounds of Portlandia in America’s Pacific Northwest seems a perfect match. Their talent and standing also means they get names to help in the realisation of their muse such as various members of REM, Wilco, and Midlake. You’re beginning to work out how it sounds already, aren’t you? OK, yes and no. Some of their default folkie minimalism is present, but Fireworks (Columbia) probably pitches more toward a Twin Peaks-suitable ‘60s pop ballad of the kind of epic loneliness Roy Orbison often conjured. Whatever, it aches and it’s quite lovely.

So then there’s sometimes almost infuriating ability that can come from a truly gifted kid. It should be a sacred duty to save them from the fleeting fame and subsequent damage talent shows like The Voice, X-Factor, and their ilk do to such people. Thus, don’t confuse this precociously special Sydney teenager with a former UK quest contestant. Fall (Studio 57 Recordings) is one of the first songs ‘our’ Emma Jones has written. It just pours out of the speakers showing the craft and style she’s already developing. But just listen to that voice. As the wistful trumpet seeps in, consider that the back backing is mostly provided by schoolmates, and hope is provided as well as entertainment. Please, just keep her away from those spinning chairs and let her talent bloom.

There’s a sweet and sometimes sour ramshackle charm to what Yon Yonson do. Ten Four (Teef) unfurls in a nicely doubting tumble of thought process that at some points goes off at tangents, as does the music. The squelchy keyboards waft by, the whole thing managing to be haunting and insistent at once. The Yonnies remains one of those little scuffed gems who deserve more notice.