2002-12-14 - 3:19 p.m.

R.I.P. Mary Hansen, who became a stiff on the (Stereo)slab last week. Coincidentally, my first ever piece of published journalism mentioned her by name. I forgot I used to be a music journo. Pretentious? Watashi?!:

STEREOLAB, JIMI TENOR. LONDON ASTORIA.

After the bluesed-up space cowboy returns of SCOTT 4 and the soundtrack to inertia delicately invoked by AERIAL M, we have JIMI TENOR, fin (ahem) de siecle champagne socialite and voyeur of sundry sticky exchanges along the kitsch side of town. Cool as chrome, he sidles up with lilting jazz swings and leads us by whatever we�re proffering up to the delightful squeals of �Can�t Stay With You Baby� and by the time we reach �Sugardaddy�, he�s sitting up, squirming all over his synth like it had a face. Like all the best cheap thrills, he leaves us wanting more. STEREOLAB are far from cheap, of course, being possibly the only band in history to harmonise the word �weltanshauung�. What we get is an �Emperor Tomato Ketchup�-heavy sprinkling of �Lab favourites old and new. In contrast to, say, Chumbawamba, Stereolab offer a quite seductive modernist politic, tempting you over by way of Laetitia�s louche but concerned eulogies to whatever the hell it is she sings about, whilst Mary skips about with her peppery �la-la-la�s�. �Percolator� is urgent, hardly allowing for the trademark moog-laden weaves and even the vernal melody of �Cybele�s Reverie� is punched out with an uncustomarily abrasive edge. The resurrected �French Disko� is damn near intimidating with its sinister refrain of ��human existence is pointless�� and you�d believe them, too, only there�s the inspirational complexity of rock-out �Le Boob Oscillator� to prove otherwise. It�s a grand finish, and you�re now firmly ensconced in Stereolab�s agenda of futurism. Ladies and Gentlemen, we are voting in space.