The reunion of Os Mutantes – minus Rita Lee, of course – a couple of years ago was one of the more unexpected in recent years, not least because, as legend has it, Arnaldo Baptista hasn’t been in the best of psychic health since the band originally split in the mid-‘70s. It’s even more of a surprise to discover a brand new album from the band, “Haih” – though calling it an Os Mutantes album might be a bit of a stretch, since only Sergio Dias Baptista now survives from the original trio (Dinho Leme, the band’s ‘70s era drummer, also provides a link with the past). Nevertheless, Sergio Dias has made a tremendous fist of recreating his band’s chaotic early sound. Unlike some of his fellow Tropicalistas, notably Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso (whose last album, “Zii e Zie”, was rather good, incidentally), Dias hasn’t tried too obviously to modernise Mutantes’ unique Brazilian take on psychedelia – and he hasn’t been tempted into using the talents of American fans like Devendra Banhart, who figured in some of the Mutantes reunion shows. Instead, Dias’ main collaborator on “Haih” is Tom Zé, the Tropicalia veteran whose taste for cultural cannibalism and haphazard collages was arguably stronger than any of his subversive contemporaries. Zé’s own various comebacks (often facilitated by David Byrne and Luaka Bop) have often embraced electronica, remixes and post-rock (the last time I saw him, his backing band was Tortoise). Zé also has a taste for clanking metallic percussion, and you can hear some of it knitted into the first track proper of “Haih”, “Querida Querida”. Much more noticeable, though, are the intricate horn and string arrangements (an evident homage to Mutantes’ original arranger, Rogerio Duprat) and Dias’ familiarly snaking fuzz guitar breaks. It’s a fantastic, and hugely reassuring opener, a looming and ornate anthem in the vein of “Panis Et Circenses” or “Algo Mais”. The fidelity to Mutantes’ first two albums is striking and satisfying; that smash-and-grab raid on both Anglo/American and Brazilian musical traditions, the vigorous satire that’s evident even to a non-Portugeuse speaker (check the jarring mention of Saddam Hussein in “Bagdad Blues”, or the self-explanatory “Samba Do Fidel”, which seems to examine relations between Brazil, Cuba and Argentina and includes the English refrain, “We would love you forever, little sister chikita banana”). All this playfulness, of course, cannot be entirely ascribed to Dias, and it’s clear the inquisitive quirkiness of Zé had a critical part to play on the album. But some songs like “Neurociencia De Amor” and especially “Nada Mou” seem like perfect fusions of Zé and the Authentic Mutantes sound. There are other nods to Tropicalia, too: a vague North African lilt to “Teclar” which recalls Gal Costa’s “Touareg”; and a Jorge Ben song, “O Careca”, which summons up the frantic grooviness of his own “Africa Brasil”. At times, the thought occurs that some of “Haih” might be almost a pastiche of a pastiche, but it’s generally far too exuberant and tuneful to be dismissed so sceptically. Dias plays wonderfully throughout, and even allowing for Mutantes’ traditional eccentricities, they’re still capable of a curveball: “O Mensageiro”, written by Dias on his own, is fulsome jangle pop that reminds me unaccountably of The La’s and “There She Goes”.

For a good few people in the UK, maybe the last time they came across Andrew WK was in 2001, when he appeared on the front of NME covered in blood and was proclaimed as something akin to the future of rock, thanks to some oddly bombastic, super-dumb party tunes. That career didn’t quite happen, not least because most people who heard Andrew WK spent more time contemplating whether his enthusiasm was genuine or satirical, rather than partying as hard as he demanded. The thing is, though, that in the intervening years WK has interspersed a few more mainstream rock records with distinctly odder projects. I suppose pre-fame connections with Wolf Eyes and the underground noise scene should’ve been a sign. But WK’s trajectory has recently managed to take in part-time membership of Current 93, collaborations with Baby Dee and production work for Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, as well as parallel careers as a successful New York club owner and a motivational speaker. Looking at “55 Cadillac”, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was a return to party metal. The cover shots involve WK driving a Cadillac, lying in the boot of a Cadillac and leaning out of the car window looking deranged. Only a subtitle, “SSPI”, gives a clue as to the real nature of the album: it stands for “Spontaneous Solo Piano Improvisations”. And that’s pretty much it: Andrew WK working his way through forceful and very melodic jams on the piano in Baby Dee’s house in Cleveland. It begins with a car engine drowning out the crickets and distant dogs, but generally works at a sprightly, almost jazzy pace; we were immediately reminded of the Takoma pianist George Winston, rather than something austere and avant-garde like, say, Morton Feldman. As a sceptic intrigued by Andrew WK, I have to admit it’s a lovely and propulsive record. As ever, I’m sure it’ll provoke a good few debates about what is serious/irreverent in his work, but what strikes me is that “55 Cadillac” actually makes sense as a link between his mainstream rock records and his more outre projects, in that it highlights the energy and zeal which he brings to everything he does. When he appears to be drumming on the piano during “Night Driver”, it seems to be provoked by a guile-less exhilaration rather than some calculated attempt to gain improv kudos. And when the final “Cadillac” ends with a shrill, rudely unexpected chorus of guitars, WK seems to be making the connections explicit: he doesn’t separate out his musical ventures into the ‘serious’ and the ‘lightweight’, he just does what he does. This time, it sounds awesome.