While London slows to the funereal glow that surrounds the anniversary of the death of Lady Diana Spencer, former trip-hop provocateurs The Real Tuesday Weld offer their tribute, of sorts, The London Book Of The Dead. Stephen Coates, the braintrust behind The Real Tuesday Weld, obviously has an obsession with dead blondes. And we understand. Totally. Weld, the '60s starlet who starred in Sex Kittens Go To College, was also a serious actress whose work in Thief, Play It As It Lays, and Looking For Mr. Goodbar made the case for brainy blondes everywhere. But wait a minute, she's not dead. But Lady Di is, of course. So what is Coates getting at? Is he mocking the Tibetan Book Of The Dead? Hoping for death (and the resulting sales) by association in loosely referring to the same text as John Lennon in "Tomorrow Never Knows"? We may never know. Conspiracy theories get started this way.

Coates released The Real Tuesday Weld's debut When Psyche Meets Cupid, back in 2001. Dreamy and outer space driven, with beats gurgling and synths cooing, he followed up the album with similar sounding recordings like At the House of The Clerkenwell Kid, I, Lucifer, and The Return Of The Clerkenwell Kid. While his debut cemented his rep as an intuitive programmer and accomplished yet experimental songwriter, Coates' ensuing CDs sometimes lost the plot. The music was either oddly sterile or detached, or simply didn't reach the dizzying heights of his debut. The London Book of The Dead signals a return to form for Coates, in the same way that funerals often reunite loved ones and lost long friends. Death, where is they sting? Drowning in the pub, no doubt.

Hinting at Serge Gainsbourg, Burt Bacharach and Eric Matthews, Coates surrounds himself with a largely acoustic backing group for London Book Of The Dead. Coates handles samples, vocals, and "Optigan," accompanied by clarinet and live strings along with the usual combo format. The marvelous Puppini Sisters lend vocals to "I Love London"; Coates also liberally lifts from Cole Porter's "I Get A Kick Out Of You" and the text of William Blake's "London."

"Last Words" bounds over a sprightly beat not dissimilar to a Kraftwerk single, Coates singing about helium balloons, dropping coins into a junkie's hat, and the death of a friend. It's a song perfectly suited to an early autumnal day, bittersweet memories and glowing guitars flying overhead like shooting stars. "Last Words" is all spinning piano, humming synths, whispered vocals and incessant beat. Death lurks in this song, Coates welcoming it like a friend. The song flies by like a cinema montage of the archetypal last moment when your life supposedly flashes in front of you. Or perhaps Coates is in some invisible pod flying over London, reflecting and noting his old haunts for a final time. It's as comforting as falling asleep in the snow. "I never thought the end would come this way," he sings. Hey Stephen, it won't!

"Last Words"

Manu Chao Chao: On the opposite emotional tip, Manu Chao's forthcoming La Radiolina confirms the Parisian-born Latin alternative artist's skill at concocting folk-pop songs that drill deep into both brain and booty. He's sold upward of 500,000 copies (and counting) of his 1998 debut Clandestino and its follow-up, Proxima Estacion: Esperanza.  Like all great artists who seemingly come from nowhere to capture public consciousness frozen at a moment of time, Manu Chao draws from a million styles to create his unique sound. World beat is Chao's calling card, for sure, but his music is broader than some simple demographic marketing gimmick. Chao's itchy songs allude to Spanish pop, Mexican conjunto, French cabaret, Algerian Rai, even a hint of the Clash's rock and roll revolution. Manu Chao sings in French, Spanish, Arabic, Galician, Portuguese, and English - who knows where his feisty songs will land?

"Rainin In Paradize," the first single off La Radiolina, is practically punk rock, except for Chao's urgent, harmony laden vocals. Intimate and rocking, the song soars with charged electricity. "Me Llaman Calle" thumps through two-step goodness while a mad narrator babbles incessantly and multiple guitars riff like the sounds of rotund troubadours at a festive Mexican restaurant. What the heck is he singing about? When the vibe is this good, who cares? Pass the Cerveza and get off my cloud.

"Rainin in Paradize"