List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your Spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

Wildly emotional music always gets me, but I’m increasingly loving music that’s more three dimensional: knees up, head down. And at least the first few in this list of seven songs driving me wild right now are those kind of songs.

Nina Simone – ‘Strange Fruit’
Ms N. Simone’s voice is rough, sweet, tortured and beautiful in pretty much equal measure, like the woman. She’s so special we named our little girl after her. I’ve been listening to her albums over and over recently. And although a friend just gave me her wonderful 1959 live recording at New York’s Town Hall, an album so thick with mood it wraps around your ears like caramel, it’s her intense ‘Strange Fruit’ that never leaves me.

She’s ferocious and raw and honest and, more than anything, alive.

(Well said Big Stereo)

Tricky – ‘Council Estate’ (South Rakkas Crew remix)
A little while after my daughter began to kick down her walls, her mother’s stomach, Tricky released this record. “In my mother’s belly and I’m starting to kick.” It’s a Tricky life story… paranoia, superstar aspirations, pop hooks. In other words, vintage Tricky Kid, which might not be such a big deal if you’d only heard his first couple of albums (Maxinquaye, Pre-Millenial Tension), but is pretty amazing in the light of disappointing recent records (including Blowback with Ed Kowalczyk from Live). Desperate for a fading fame? Whatever inspired his return, the original is good, but the South Rakkas Crew’s soca-fied and time-stretched dancehall version is pure symbiosis.

Justin Townes Earle – ‘The Good Life’
I was in New York City a few months ago and saw in Time Out that a guy with Steve Earle and Townes Van Zandt’s names was playing a show. I’d never heard of him before, but he’s named after Townes, and son of Steve, and I figured that was enough. Not sure what I was expecting, but he was much better. We’re talking rockabilly, country, the blues, or as Justin calls it, “mostly love songs and train songs.” I might save my other comments for a review, as I just discovered he’s touring Australia in November. If he’s half as good as the gig we saw in the National Public Theatre’s tiny side room (capacity around 20-30), you’ll be hearing a lot more.

Eilen Jewell – ‘Rich Man’s World’
This rollicking bluegrass and country pop record found its way to me a month or two ago. Along with Alela Diane’s The Pirate’s Gospel, it’s my kind of easy listening. Friends over, barbeque listening; Sunday afternoon listening (or morning if you’ve been tuned into my radio show).

The Rectifiers – ‘Climbing Giant Numbers’
I was obsessed by ’60s pop and admittedly very twee indie pop when I was at uni. I worked up the street at a record shop in Newtown, and devoured records every day in a circuit of record shops that would generally involve large piles of vinyl and pretty significant amounts of time listening. Around then, I got a spectacular compilation of new French music makers called Source Lab 2 – featuring, among others, Daft Punk, Dimitri From Paris, Alex Gopher, Doctor L – but the most astounding thing on the record was a sedate piece that spun in ’50s exotica and warm proto trip hop, Air’s ‘Casanova 70′. ‘Sexy Boy’ followed soon after, soundtracking far too many hairdressers and cafes, but their thing was pretty amazing. In the past couple of months, I’ve been listening to the third record from Melbourne’s Rectifiers. And it has a similar vibe. Air with a bit of another Australian group, Sun. Hard to choose a favourite track as the whole album is so easy on the ears, flowing by in a softly optimistic, blissed out blur.

Charge Group – ‘Lunar Module’
I could understand someone writing this off as bloated and slow. It’s definitely a ponderous thing and I’ve probably written off many great bands like that. Fortunately, I saw Charge Group play a lot of these songs at Sydney gallery and warehouse gigs over the past year or two, and was well and truly primed for their album. The band is basically old Sydney outfit Purplene: Matt Blackman, Matt Rossetti and Adam Jesson; plus Bree Van Reyk and Jason Tampake. This is really tugging the heart strings stuff, bleak, blanched and captivating. But while it touches on moods you might find elsewhere, Matt’s voice is so Australian and so earthy it’s almost jarring.

Micah P. Hinson – ‘Tell Me It Ain’t So’
Every now and again a song sends tingles all across my skin. There are probably a quantifiable group of variables responsible, some combination of words and sounds, but I don’t care, I love those songs, and this is one. I heard it on the radio for a while before I got a copy, and every single time I hear it, my skin goes crazy. The forlorn “constantly, craving what isn’t mine” could be a riposte to the K.D. Lang song, or it might not be. It’s Americana with a crossover of folk, blues and country, but like so much great music, it’s also just Micah P. Hinson.

Back at you Macfarlane – you’re ages away in the UK blogging for tinymixtapes so you must be hearing some very fresh sounds – also, Rozie, Lee Tran, Andy Ramadge, Chris, Matt, Bec Paton and Everything At Once.

Richard Goodwin, one of the featured artists, is known as a sculptor, including a long run of public art on freeways. But a lot of his work, and definitely the work on show at IDG was hugely inspired by NYC artist Gordon Matta-Clark, and in some ways it is pretty subversive. With an ARC grant from the Howard Government, Goodwin mapped public spaces throughout the city: lift spaces, stairs, even the public toilets on the 37th floor of an investment bank.

Richard Goodwin at FBI

Film producer and distributor John L. Simpson was in later to talk about his film, Men’s Group – out in September – but also found time to discuss the balancing act of being in the business of art making, and making art.

Selling the show: John L. Simpson at FBI

I went to Firstdraft gallery on Wednesday night to check some emerging artists: Emma White, Tully Arnot (a student of Richard Goodwin’s, strangely enough) and The Elastic Band (Jo Cuzzi, Patsy Black and Amanda Cole).

We found time to fit in some music too:

Jungle Fever – Charlie Feathers
Thing Called Love – The Kahn Brothers
Cold Son – Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks
Serious Times – Gyptian
Tip My Canoe – Dengue Fever
Beef in a Box – Architecture In Helsinki
Hurry Up – Roman Revutski
A Love Supreme – Alice Coltrane
Make it So (feat. Michael Johnson) – Daedelus
The Suspense is Killing Me – Box 8 Bit
Karaoking – Plastic Palace Alice
Dancing on a Knife – Tennis
Ludey-do-dah – Mr Johnson’s Marching Boys
Bird – Grand Salvo
Dragonslayer – James Pants
Engine No. 999 – Western Synthetics
Lost in Low Cloud – Flying Foxes
What is a Life? – Youth Group

The crazy outfits, the big soul numbers. He was dressed in Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat the first time I saw him, in early 2004 at the Sydney Festival bar. He’s got a band now, and at the Bowery on NY’s Lower East Side last weekend, they opened with an explosive version of ‘Another Day’ from new record Jim. Read the record reviews and you’ll see names like Marvin and Otis and Sly and Prince – it often feels he’s tilting an ironic brow to those guys, but it wasn’t always that way. Lidell was an IDM demigod, a hero among Wire critics – Super Collider, ‘media suits’ made from videos, CDs and 16mm film – so his 2006 blue-eyed soul record, Multiply, was something of a surprise.

A couple of years earlier I saw the beginnings of that record at the show in Sydney. I could not stop talking about it. I was blown away to the point that it left an embarrassingly black mark on my name. Lidell took risks. Along the way, his music alienated much of the audience, a crowd attracted by the promoter’s brand of smooth deep house rather than its headliner. Lidell’s live loops and heavily layered performance have since been co-opted by the likes of Final Fantasy and Dan Deacon, though their approach differs from Lidell’s uninhibited blast of the thrill of being there, playing live.

Back to that black mark. A Sydney DJ came to play at a party I organised in Canberra later in ’06. I picked the DJ up from the airport, and he proudly shoved a demo CD in the player. It was works-in-progress from Multiply. I kept listening when he got out of the car at the hotel, and – to my eternal shame – ripped the disc. I was that excited. Thrilled, even, to hear this guy again. The recorded set was good, too, packed with messy, unmastered jams and Lidell’s playful voice.

A while later, Multiply appeared. Hints of those early performances remained, there were some decent songs too, but musically it was flattened. The spikes and mistakes replaced by grooves and polish. Like a turntablist, his thing struggled on disc. Jim, his latest, appeared this year. But I’d lost interest and only went along to the Bowery show because friends wanted to go.

Flaunting a spray-on beard, dark glasses, embroidered jacket and stripy pants, Lidell stepped out with a full band, including a bearded sax blower in a smoking jacket (and not much else). It was a skronking, funked up jam, taking in 12 songs and both records. The band took a break halfway, leaving Lidell space for a 20 minute knob-twiddling, tumbling beats jam that culminated in an extended version of ‘When I Come Back Around’.

Lidell’s voice is not of the calibre of the artists he emulates – it’s rawer, not quite as versatile – and his songs don’t hit the same heights either. But the thing you need to understand with the guy, the thing I’m beginning to understand, is that all that stuff isn’t the point. The point is the performance. And his band – part Muppets, part Zapp – has a by-the-seat-of-the-pants joie de vivre that’s exhilarating, contagious, and seeing Lidell just makes me want to see him again.

Jesse Sullivan’s a video and sound artist who was on the board of Brisbane art-space White House. You get the sense he has bigger ambitions than just making a track that gets picked up by scene DJs.

In just under half an hour – what a relief, a debut record not padded out to album length – Sullivan delivers a mix of vocal and instrumental tracks, with the balance tipped to the former.

Once upon a time Australian rappers worked to a North American template, which inevitably left their art school or suburban rhymes sounding comparatively weak, but the resurgence of dancehall, the appearance of local scenes in places like Paris and Baltimore, and the rise of British grime has given local MCs a few alternative reference points.

Sullivan’s rapping gets close to novelty kitsch – he admits as much in ‘Cold Sweat’ (“Not a lyricist or a real MC / You’ll never see me rapping live on MTV”) – but his manic lyrics and delivery keep it focussed. It’s the high pitch delivery of grime, with a hint of Eminem. The effect’s underpinned by a tough production aesthetic that’s most audible on the instrumentals: ‘Sludge Factory Riddim’ takes Geeneus and Dump Valve style grime as its base, all ravey synths, sirens, time stretched vocal samples and perpetual forward motion; ‘Straight Outta the Garage’ on the other hand is closer to dubstep, its ravey bleepery adorned by references to the mid-90s fave, Itch-E and Scratch-E’s ‘Sweetness and Light’.

Mr Cloak and Dagger is a hilarious, at times irritating, rushing, and hysterical listen. It’s far from timeless. But chances are you’ll be getting up for another ride before long.

This wasn’t just some fling, well it didn’t seem like one – after getting the CD on promo about a half a year before the proper release, I listened to it repeatedly, told everyone about it, played it constantly. Like Badu and Mary J., Gray took hip-hop and classic soul and twisted it into a simmering groove. Unlike those singers, Gray was up close and intimate, snug and comfortable, the kind of singer whose music insinuates its way into you.

With a proper release, she found her way onto the soundtrack for every party, cafe, clothes shop and bar, seemingly right around the world. And, like so many distinctive singers, her voice quickly became a prison. Her once dear voice turned cloying.

Alela Diane’s kinda new record, The Pirate’s Gospel, reminds me of Gray. Not musically – far from it. The similarity’s in the proximity you feel to her voice, the up-close intensity of listening to her sing. I say ‘kinda’ because the album came out on a self-release several years ago, and has just been rereleased, courtesy Holocene/Inertia. I think it’s essential, but you may have to hold tight for the final verdict.

A song from Alela’s album: The Rifle (courtesy of Holocene Music).

My review of The Pirate’s Gospel for Cyclic Defrost.

And it was.

The stark, monochromatic scenes, and Sam (“at least you’re not the singer from the Fall”) Riley, pushed you into Ian Curtis’s world – it was pretty overwhelming, to be honest.

I’ve been looking forward to Ed Kuepper’s gig at the Basement for ages. And what we could hear through the noise sounded like it was probably good, but the sound was so loud. So loud. All I could hear around me was glass shatter treble splashing, reverberation and people complaining about the sound. I assume the Basement would hire a sound guy, but there was no evidence to support that tonight.

It started well. I arrived at about 7 to interview Ed for my radio show. We caught the last bit of sound check, including the band’s gorgeous Go Betweens cover, ‘Finding You’. I chatted with Ed over a beer for half an hour (it’ll air on my show in a couple of weeks), then went back to the bar as the tables filled up.

Married 50-somethings – a fair few looked like fading rock stars themselves – took up most of the dining area. Bottles of red wine, steaks and plenty of gesticulation. The band took the stage with little fanfare, horn section, keys/double bass, former Saint/Laughing Clown Jeffrey Wegener’s handlebar moustache and Sunnyboys bassist Peter Oxley.

It was LOUD from the first moment they touched instruments. Bogong moths careered down towards Ed’s mic as though their kamikaze manoeuvres could stop the frightening, ear quiveringly dense sound. No luck.

A shame because at points it was transcendent in a way few music makers can manage. Those 50-somethings had their fancy phones recording video and pictures, and instrumental space jazz jams gave way to bluesy riffs, the fantastic sax player blasted squealing vocalisations, and it was just magical.

Too bad we had to leave before the second set.

Gudrun Gut’s debut solo album hasn’t attracted the kind of desperately hyperbolic prose heaped upon Panda Bear’s latest. I’ve caught myself wondering why, given it seems, to all intents and purposes, like a companion piece to that record.

Noah Lennox operates at the lower end of the frequency spectrum on Person Pitch, that lauded record, his ecstatic pop music built on the Beach Boys, glitch and droning reverberation and reflected in the deep throbbing bass of minimal techno. Of course, I Put a Record On is more explicitly rooted in techno, and with Gut’s half-spoken thick German accent it could be mistaken for the bordering-on-passe cliches of electro-pop. Don’t be mistaken.

It is self-effacing, which you’ve probably already gathered from the statement of fact that doubles as a title: “I put a record on,” she says. Simple as that. As though the creative process could be reduced down to the action. And maybe it is as natural as that, despite being a solo album, Gut is not new. The pale-skinned and pretty, in a black lipstick goth kind of way, West Berliner formed Einstürzende Neubauten at the very beginning of the 1980s, afterwards moving on to Malaria! and Mania D, and these days, runs the excellent Monika Enterprise label.

I Put a Record On is Berlin, it’s a woozy, wonky squinted view of the vitally alive, hazily decaying and sometimes business-like city. Polkas trade places with Marlene Dietrich riffs, piano accordions and Thomas Fehlmann’s techno percussion; Gut’s vocals switch from soaring to spoken in a moment, her approach by turns sultry and naive. At one point, the album drifts into dreamy instrumental hip-hop and circus organ, while on ‘The Wheel’ Gut cycles a reversed loop into a shoegazer-hazy pop song.

Her cover of Smog’s ‘Rock Bottom Riser’ is an unexpected surprise, and a highlight. Over a pared-back beat, and the rising tones of an organ, Gut sings, “I am a rock / bottom riser / and I owe it all to you.” It’s captivating, and understated, in a way that opener, ‘Move Me’ with its tech-waltz swing, flirts with destroying. That Gut can romance a polka and shuffling percussion, with her own murmured song, “I don’t know why I feel so strange / I don’t know why you make me feel so strange,” borders on the revelatory. It’s a perfect first song, but the entire album is like that. Unexpectedly beautiful, unlike anything else I’ve heard this year.