Wireless Festival Report

London's 02 Wireless Festival (God forbid that we should forget the '02' prefix) strikes me as a fine example of the corporate explosion in music festivals over the last ten years. In an 'I can remember when it all were fields round here' way, I can remember when we only had Glastonbury, Reading and the lamented Phoenix festivals. Then came T in the Park, V and now we have Connect, Latitude, End of The Road, All Tomorrow's Parties and sundry other events. Some come with more independent spirit than others - All Tomorrow's Parties has succeeded by virtue of its esoteric artist-curated line-ups and holiday centre accommodation, whereas Wireless works as a series of one-day events rather than a festival as such. Corporate sponsorship is everywhere, restricting the beer and food on offer and naming every single stage. It won't be long before every band on the bill is brought to the event by a separate multinational.

It's not only down to this that the event is so lacking in atmosphere though. The programming this year has been bizarre. Sometimes this is a good thing - Daft Punk are no longer at their commercial peak, and LCD Soundsystem and CSS are brave choices of Main Stage acts. It's gratifying that this bill does indeed pack out Hyde Park on a partially rain drenched day. Beyond this, though, the programmers are trying too hard. Every act on the main stage today, with the notable exception of dire folk rapper Plan B, deploys four-to-the-floor rhythms and the conventions of house and electro music. Today's line-up seems like a rather joyless exercise in nostalgia. Metronomy are bafflingly poor - a synthesiser and guitar group clearly modelled on Hot Chip, but without Alexis and Joe's warmth, melodic invention and broad understanding of musical history. New Young Pony Club might be hip to the groove, but their songs are charmless and shouty. There's not even a hint of a tune, or even a memorable riff. What's more baffling is that these acts would have worked so much better in one of the smaller tents - second stage headliners Klaxons are timed neatly to clash with LCD Soundsystem, which is infuriating.

Over on the XFM stage, Shy Child are essentially the synth-revival version of The White Stripes - a vigorous and accomplished drummer bashing the hell out of a skeletal kit and electronic percussion, combined with surprisingly intricate riffing on that most uncool of instruments - the keytar. They have energy and spirit, and they are remarkably tight - but the yelping vocals become monotonous and tiresome by the end. They'll need to develop their schtik (as indeed The White Stripes have done surprisingly well) if they are to have any kind of longevity.

On the Tuborg-sponsored stage, Husky Rescue (all the way from Helsinkini!) provide some much needed variety, with their strange and occasionally compelling blend of shoegazing indie-pop, country, folk and electronica. It's very self-consciously atmospheric, and they are very much the sort of band that might come with a press release describing them as 'cinematic'. Dressed sharply, they are also rather boring to look at, although their singer eventually sheds the nonchalant look to reveal how much she is clearly enjoying herself. At their best, they are infectious and enchanting, although they really need to do more with their somewhat lumbering rhythm section.

I found myself quite enjoying CSS back on the main stage, rather limited and one dimensional as they undoubtedly are. They are an indie disco band, but they do indeed get people dancing (particularly girls it would appear), and their music has a roughshod, insouciant appeal. There's no denying that they have a certain coolness about them, and energetic frontwoman Lovefoxx is, well, foxxy. Any more than an hour of this relentless backbeat stuff though and I would start to go insane.

LCD Soundsystem put in the finest of the non-headline performances, although their set is plagued by horrendous sound problems. With the amount of money pouring into this event, the kind of balance and sound cut-out issues that occurred here just shouldn't happen. James Murphy is clearly agitated by it all, and compensates for the problems by constantly giving signals and directions, to band and soundmen alike, which is quite fascinating to watch. Murphy has a very peculiar gait, mostly looking as if he's at risk of falling over, and his half-spoken vocals are invigorated in live performance. LCD are the only band on this supporting bill who achieve something concrete through the minmalist aesthetic, at least in part because Murphy knows that music has the power to engage the brain and heart as well as the feet. Recent single 'All My Friends' with its pounding one-chord riff bears the clear influence of Steve Reich and Terry Riley, whilst 'Time To Get Away' and 'Us V Them' are brilliantly groovy. Best of all are rapid and demented versions of 'Daft Punk Is Playing At My House' and 'North American Scum', the latter of which really seems to energise the audience. Genuine enthusiasm infuses this music with party spirit, and the willingness of all to just clatter some percussion for the sake of it is thrilling. 'Sound of Silver' is one of the albums from earlier this year that I keep returning to - this set brings into relief exactly why that is.

Daft Punk were simply mind blowing. Whilst bits of the 'Human After All' album showed a band at risk of repeating themselves (both ad infinitum within individual tracks and through recycling older ideas), this performance was ceaselessly inventive and fantastically entertaining. Clad in robot helmets for the duration of the set, and concealed within a pyramid-shaped space-craft, the band maintained their enigmatic stance whilst playing a simultaneously creative and crowd pleasing set. There were only three short pauses in an otherwise continuous set that achieved, everything good dance music should - it was relentless, sensorily confounding, playful, energetic and defiantly basic. They never simply replayed the tracks as they were originally recorded - instead cutting up elements from different tracks and layering them over each other. The clever splicing of the vocal from 'One More Time' with the head-spinning 80s metal riff from 'Aerodynamic' was a particular highlight. They orchestrated the whole performance with admirable precision, both thematically (opening with 'Robot Rock' and closing with 'Human After All') and theatrically. They gradually added new elements to the simple but highly effective light show, and the performance created a cumulative impact through a series of brilliantly engineered synaesthetic crescendos. With some justification, the crowd go completely mental, and it's been a while since I've been pushed and shoved with such vigour. They encore with a brilliant medley of their side-projects, with little snippets of 'Together' and 'Music Sounds Better With You'. I had little notion of what to expect from a Daft Punk live show, but this show has elevated them in my estimations.

Choppy Waters

A Brief Report From the London Jazz Festival

We Londoners all like to moan at every available opportunity. We hate the tube and its endless delays and 'planned engineering work' (just because it's planned doesn't make it any less inconvenient, does it?), we hate the dirt and the smoke, we hate the crowds and the relentless rush to be somewhere. Yet, honestly, when London does things well, it remains one of the best cities in the world to live in and experience. Over a period of years, the London Jazz Festival has slowly been cultivating a major reputation, attracting big name acts whilst helping to promote promising local talent. This year, it had the biggest, most star-studded line-up yet. I'm already regretting not booking a ticket to see EST and Polar Bear, a mistake as it must have been one of the highlights of the festival. Still, I can't complain when I got to see a plethora of excellent concerts, some of which came at almost no cost to myself!

First up was an intriguing double bill featuring the Stan Tracey Trio and the Wayne Shorter Quartet. Tracey is justly a legendary figure in British jazz history, and astoundingly has just celebrated his 80th birthday. The set was a polite, somewhat limited trio performance which took few risks and certainly broke no new boundaries. Tracey's unique style has, if anything, become more pronounced with age, and there were a few times when his accompaniment felt a little clunky. Still, the compositions were simple but effective, and the rhythm section swung nicely.

Wayne Shorter's set could hardly have been more different. With Brian Blade kicking up all manner of storm and fury on the drums, Danilo Perez and John Patitucci were left the unenviable task of holding this free-flowing, rather abstract music together, something they handled with characteristic skill and vision. The performance was incredibly intense, and occasionally brimming with genuine invention - but it also felt tetchy and wilfully unpredictable. Whilst the pieces all seemed composed rather than freely improvised, it was immensely difficult to determine what had actually been written down, and melody was certainly made to take a back seat to individual expression. Shorter himself kept switching between soprano and tenor, occasionally even bending his less than supple body to whistle into the microphone, to little more than slightly comic impact. The pieces were long, but packed full of ideas rarely given enough space to develop, and sometimes I simply longed for Blade to lock in with Patitucci's wonderfully rhythmic bass playing. It is, however, amazing that Shorter continues to reinvent himself, never content to repeat or trade on past achievements.....

....Unlike, say, Herbie Hancock, who put in a set at The Roundhouse on Saturday that was in part an unabashed crowd-pleaser, but also demonstrated some of the peculiar judgment that has dogged the latter stages of this great musician's career. His playing remains little short of astounding and he may still be the best piano accompanist in jazz. His solos also still seem largely effortless and inventive. They contrast effectively with the spirited playing of guitarist Lionel Loueke, who clearly has little respect for genre boundaries or polite conventions. His brief solo spot was one of the highlights of the show. Yet, there were too many things wrong with this performance for it to be truly worthy of someone of Hancock's status. The rhythm section of Nathan East and Vinnie Colaiuta are technically proficient, highly gifted musicians, but also relentlessly heavy and a little lacking in soul or feeling. As such, the performances of Headhunters-era classics 'Watermelon Man' and 'Chameleon', whilst lengthy and driving, lacked the subtlety provided by original drummer Harvey Mason. The insistence on performing a handful of tracks from last year's ghastly 'Possibilities' album (featuring the likes of Christina Aguilera, John Mayer and Paul Simon, and apparently representing Hancock's aspirations for the world) also undermined the flow and quality of the show. I would have preferred a more challenging and affecting ballad than the insipid and protracted arrangement of Stevie Wonder's artistic nadir 'I Just Called To Say I Love You'. None of us had really come to hear Nathan East sing after all! Perhaps I'm being too conservative, but I felt Hancock sounded most comfortable and expressive when at the acoustic or electric piano - the electric keytar just sounded stilted, whilst the novelty synth pads immediately damned most of the material with a dated '80s atmosphere. There were moments to tresure for sure, particularly on a rousing 'Canteloupe Island', but it was a difficult set to get through.

Cassandra Wilson started ominously, with similar cod-ethnic synth playing and mock-atmospherics. Her band soon picked up though, with some controlled playing from the rhythm section and benefiting greatly from a harmonica player, whose improvising proved consistently stimulating. Still, the version of Cyndi Lauper's 'Time Out Of Time' (already more famously jazzed up by Miles Davis in the 80s) was soporific, never breaking out of its rigidly enforced ambience. A gritty take on a Willie Dixon tune soon livened things up, and from that point onwards, Wilson demonstrated her passion and genuine feel for the blues. A moron in the crowd still insisted on making unnecessary demands for a standard, to which Wilson obliged with pointed humour. The concert was at its most exciting when closely in touch with the traditions of New Orleans and the Mississipi Delta, and a fine drum solo also helped raise the spirit.

The two gigs I caught on the closing weekend were on a completely different level. The 60th birthday concert for Dave Holland was one of the finest jazz performances I've seen in years. Opening with a brief trio set with Jim Hall and Kenny Wheeler, the three old-timers playing what appeared to be a spirited and perhaps unrehearsed set of consistently excellent compositions. Wheeler took a while to warm up, fluffing his own composition and sounding slightly out of tune. Once in the zone though, he still has merciless control and a rich, beautiful sound. Even in his eighties, Jim Hall still sounds effortlessly fluent in the language of the guitar, his playing elegiac and mellifluous throughout, more than appropriate for the trio setting. Holland, a superb bandleader, held everything together with sturdy precision. The set from the Dave Holland quintet was undermined slightly by the absence of Steve Nelson, who usually plays vibraphone and marimba for the group. Instead, we get Jason Moran on the piano, and an inevitably more conventional approach. Mercifully, this didn't matter too much - Moran's soloing was outstanding, and he left plenty of space for the rest of the band, a good tactic, as trombonist Robin Eubanks and unstoppable saxophonist Chris Potter frequently need it! Opening with a remarkably crisp 'Prime Directive', during which Potter and Eubanks initiated the thrilling trading of licks which characterised the whole concert. Nate Smith, relatively new to the band having replaced the outstanding Billy Kilson, proved himself just as gifted as his predecessor, grooving hard with superb time, and relishing the opportunity to play the unconventional rhythms which Holland's compositions demand. His solo toward the end displayed not just technical virtuosity, but also some real success in conveying musical and meaningful ideas from the drum kit, actually orchestrating and arranging a solo, rather than just showing off his abilities. It was hugely fascinating to watch. The main body of the set focussed on the excellent new 'Critical Mass' album, and was democratic in allowing Eubanks and Smith to have their compositions performed in addition to Holland's. They basically emulate his style, although with great success on this new release. The improvising was lengthy, with bucketloads of energy and enthusiasm, not least from the extraordinary Potter, who played his furious notes with fiery passion. The infectiousness and accessibility inherent in Holland's melodies contrasted brilliantly with all the exuberant improvising, and many of the compositions are as memorable and hummable as pop songs. Anyone who can compose music that is so musically and technically audacious, but also so immediately appealing, must be on to something good.

The final show came from label-mates at Dune, Soweto Kinch and Abram Wilson. Wilson's opening set was surprisingly long, showcasing what must have been the entirety of his new concept album, telling the story of troubled musician Albert Jenkins, his experiences in hybrid hip hop/jazz big band The Outsiders and his family trauma against the backdrop of New Orleans musical history. What a vibrant and exciting mix of styles and ideas this was - and so refreshing to hear someone reinvent the big band with such verve and tenacity. The music was characterised mostly by its driving rhythms and deep rooted connection with gospel and the blues, with Wilson a commanding presence both when performing long, rapidly flowing lines on the trumpet and when singing with gritty integrity. He is an intense and serious performer, and rarely ever smiles - but it certainly seemed like the whole band was enjoying bringing this intriguing music to life.

Soweto Kinch played much the same show he delivered at his album launch at Cargo a few months ago, but with the added bonus of the extraordinary Troy Miller returning to the drum set. Miller is one of the best young players in Britain, with real natural feel and completely unique invention. He sounds as comfortable playing tightly controlled hip hop grooves as he does when swinging beautifully, which again begs the question of why Kinch elected to programme drum beats on the recorded versions of the hip hop tracks. As a result, his intelligent and articulate concept album about lives in the tower blocks of B19 in Birmingham really comes to life in live performance, especially as Kinch is a shamelessly brilliant entertainer. He has brought this music to a young and attentive audience, and they seem to value the attacking soloing as much as the witty wordplay. This show sounded less tentative and more comfortable than the Cargo performance. Kinch continues to get better and better - the second part of his new project gets released next year, and I'm looking forward to it already!

Another Report From The London Film Festival

The Alternative Closing Night Gala

Yep that's right, whilst some muppets headed in the direction of Leicester Square for the Closing Night Gala screening of Babel (and if Inarritu's previous, horribly overrated work is anything to go by, this will be a tedious, self-satisfied and dour experience), I headed to the NFT (soon to be rebranded as BFI Southbank) for two weird and wonderful films on the last night of the festival. Both, in slightly differing ways, reminded me a little of the recent work of Korea's Kim Ki-Duk, particularly 3 - Iron and Spring, Summer, Autumn Winter...and Spring. No bad thing.

First up was Tsai Ming-Liang's I Don't Want To Sleep Alone, a defiantly dreamy and mysterious mood piece that I found completely enthralling. The slow pace is tricky initially, and I'm not sure British audiences will be all that easily prepared to yield to it. Indeed, about 20 minutes in, there was a mass exodus from the cinema. Only one of Tsai's last five films has received any kind of significant cinematic distribution in the UK (Goodbye, Dragon Inn). Even accounting for this, it astounds me that people pay inflated festival prices to see movies having done no background research on the director. Tsai is an auteur with a very singular style that requires some patience on the part of the audience. This film contains virtually no dialogue, and instead unfolds in long, wordless sequences that emphasise the physical and erotic tensions between the characters. It's a technique completely alien to western audiences - and this film has a unique intimacy and peculiar force all of its own. In places, it's also very funny, which will do much to stifle any accusations of pretentiousness that Tsai may well be placed with. Much of the language comes from the frequent interjection of songs - either captured on radios or performed by street musicians. They all serve to enhance the opaque but haunting mood of the images.

The film is essentially a visual musing on the nature of physical desire, and, perhaps more controversially, the erotic associations implicit in acts of care. A homeless man is beaten to a pulp by a criminal gang demanding money, and is eventually helped out, and offered half of an old mattress, by a member of a group of immigrant workers. The two men sleep next to each other chastely, but a number of carefully filmed scenes depict the physical and emotional tensions between them. Meanwhile, a parallel story unfolds whereby a young woman cares for the paralysed son of a cafe owner. She is humiliated by her domineering female boss. As he recovers, the homeless character of the other story becomes intimately involved with both women, and torn between them and his chaste relationship with his own carer. As a toxic heat haze descends on the city, all three characters begin to give way to their desires and the results are strangely compelling.

I Don't Want To Sleep Alone is Tsai's first film to be produced in his native Malaysia (previously he has worked in Taiwan, effectively in exile). The use of location is masterful, from the cafe to the extraordinary abandoned factory flooded with water. The photography is consistently enthralling, and the final sequences have a rapturous quality unlike anything else I've seen in recent years. Some will no doubt react adversely to Tsai's uncompromising high-mindedness, but I found this to be a bold, beautiful and intelligently provocative work from a modern master.

Zhang Ke Jia's Still Life was a last minute addition to the festival, and surprise winner of the Golden Lion at this year's Venice Film Festival. It's safe to say that this film relies a lot more on conventional narrative and characterisation than Tsai's film, but it still has a surreal strangeness and glacial pace unusual for western audiences. It also interweaves two stories, although not as explicitly. Set in the village of Fengjie (now demolished) on the site of the extraordinary Three Gorges Dam (the world's largest Hydroelectric project), it tells the story of two characters returning to the city looking for loved ones. A man is looking for his wife and child, neither of whom he has seen in the last 16 years, whilst a woman arrives looking for her husband, although it is some time before we appreciate her motive.

Whilst the film certainly achieves some emotional impact from their stories (although some may be more bemused by the dry, almost deadpan nature of the performances), it is less about plot than theme and mood. Zhang's greatest success in this picture is to capture the strange atmosphere of a place being demolished to make way for man-made floods, with all the confusion and transitory sensations that arise from forced relocation. There are two very bizarre scenes - one in which the two main characters see a UFO fly through the valley (is this purely to give some sense that their experiences are linked?), and another where a superimposed spaceship appears to blast off entirely unexpectedly. I'm not sure these sequences added very much, although I appreciated the final surrealist image of a man walking a tightrope between two high buildiings a good deal more, as this seemed to symbolise the precarious nature of the local lives of this region more effectively. It's ultimately a straightforward, if inclonclusive work, although its masterful handling of time and place, landscape and atmosphere, adds considerable weight and impact. Again, like Tsai's film, the intervention of music is significant - in this case some spectacularly cheesy Chinese pop music, with a romantic lyricism that seems peculiarly intoxicating. The Venice award should mean it gets full UK distribution next year, which is good news for anyone prepared to look beyond the ordinary for their cinematic fixes.

The London Film Festival

I haven't written about cinema for some time, but my appetite for watching films has remained voracious through recent months. I was particularly pleased to attend three films at this year's London Film Festival. It's the first time I've managed to enjoy this event, and it's worth stating that artistic director Sandra Hebron has produced a superb line-up of films. It's gratifying to see new films from the masters of world cinema in the enormous Leicester Square Odeon, a space usually reserved for the most hollow and banal of blockbusting 'entertainment'. Not only that, but this festival seems less concerned with glitz and glamour, and also less concerned with judging awards and prizes. Instead, it is a celebration of the great diversity and quality of modern cinema. Those that attest that cinema is in a state of perpetual decline need look no further for firm rebuttal of their arguments.

Having said that, all three of the films I saw at the festival were in some way flawed. Most disappointing of the three was Wong Kar-Wai's 2046. To my mind, the Hong Kong director is one of the greatest living film directors, and his visionary approach to narrative and structure has produced some beautiful films, particularly when combined with the stylish cinematography of his collaborator Christopher Doyle. His previous film 'In The Mood For Love' was an atmospheric and evocative masterpiece so much is expected of this picture, which has had a ludicrously troubled gestation. The baffling success of Zhang Yimou's Hero (a film that seemed to me to be all style no substance, all surface no feeling) has reawakened interest in Asian cinema, and it's no surprise that Wong's latest production is being greeted with zealous enthusiasm. It has employed something in the region of seven different cinematographers, and following a Cannes screening which confused many, it was deemed to be unfinished and the version showing in London was a re-editied version. Unfortunately, it still seemed fragmentory and frustratingly opaque. Some of its images are striking, particularly the mysterious shot which opens and closes the film. However, its ideas appear to have been pieced together almost at random, and the meaning of the film only starts to become clear in its final third. It's not an overlong picture at just over two hours, but it really seems to drag and, particularly in its middle third, feels dangerously repetetive.

It is supposed to be a sequel of sorts to the previous film, with Tony Leung reprising the same role. He plays a writer who stays in a hotel to work. He is inspired by room 2046, and the number becomes the title of his latest novel. The film intercuts scenes of his relationships with various women, which often seem fraught, intense and complex with some loosely realised scenes from his science fiction novel. The problem is that the sequence of the film is eliptical and elusive. The majority of the science fiction scenes are left to the end of the film, and don't really help elucidate much about the earlier scenes. Most of the encounters between Leung's character and the various women seem to be like circular arguments and don't appear to ever reach a resolution. Added to this is the problem that the leading female performances, from the undeniably beautiful Faye Wong and the ubiquitous Zhang Ziyi, seem to be overstated and bordering on histrionic. There really are only so many shots of teardrops and scenes of perpetual crying that any audience can stand. The film is bizarrely inconclusive about the nature of love and relationships, and plods along as an ill-conceived mess.

Dialogue is minimal, and music frequently employed. In fact, the film feels like a series of experiments in form, with a wide variety of stylistic devices and sounds being employed to vary the mood. Some are more successful than others, and there were times when I did feel strangely moved by the combination of music and image. Unfortunately, this is a film comprised of a series of tableaux that don't add up to a coherent whole. Wong has used complex editing and shifting cinematic styles before, to much greater effect, particularly in the outstaning 'Happy Together'. Here, there really is no narrative thread to grasp at. Towards the end of the film, Maggie Cheung returns as a character called Shieu-Lien, who shares a name with the character she played in 'In The Mood For Love', yet it is left ambiguous as to whether or not the two characters are meant to be the same. What does, at last, become clear, is that Tony Leung's character has been veering between a number of different women, searching for the more crystalline and higher love that he shared with the original Shieu-Lien. Why on earth did it take so long for Wong to make this point? Does it really justify the two hours of confusion we have just endured? No doubt many critics will be awed by the power of this film's mood and imagery into composing rave reviews - but images without coherent ideas or emotions behind them don't make for great cinema.

Given that I am not a big fan of Gregg Araki, I'm not entirely sure why I went to see his latest effort Mysterious Skin. I think it was mainly so I could judge for myself how well he tackled a weighty topic. His previous films 'Nowhere' and 'The Doom Generation' have been tacky, nihilistic films emphasising hedonism and violence. 'Mysterious Skin' addresses the subject of child abuse, and does so with decidely mixed results. It is nevertheless by some considerable distance Araki's finest work to date, and a sure sign that he is moving in the right direction.

Perhaps inevitably, Mysterious Skin reminded me of Lukas Moodysson's similar, but more coherent 'Lilya 4 Ever', particularly in that it contains some grim and unflinching scenes. Much of the film makes for disturbing viewing, and it is these harsh and compromising elements that are most successful. Araki's expose of the lack of options facing both young and old in smalltown America is hardly original, but is presented in a spare and entirely convincing manner here. This is all helped along by superb performances from the film's two leads, both taking considerable risks with their previously safe reputations by agreeing to take the roles in this film. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, better known as the long-haired kid in Third Rock From The Sun gives a brooding and mature performance here. Brady Corbitt (I believe one of the stars of the supposedly dire Thunderbirds movie) has to deal with a slightly more sterotyped and restrictive character, but manages to be sympathetic and moving nonetheless. The juxtaposition of the two characters' contrasting reaction to the abuses they suffered at the hands of their paedophile baseball coach are effective, and I found the final confrontation with their past to be particularly devastating.

Levitt plays Neil, a frustrated youth whose childhood endurances we are introduced to in pretty unpleasant detail. He is a difficult character, who clearly has problems forming meaningful relationships and he seems to drift into the seedy world of a gay hustler simply because he has nothing to do, and no longer really cares what happens to him. His apathy, and compulsion to keep repeating meetings with increasingly violent men, is troubling and believable, as is the blissful ignorance or inability to help of those who surround him. It all culminates with a deeply horrible rape sequence that left me feeling physically and mentally shaken. By contrast, Corbitt plays Brian Lackey, a young man frustrated by his loss of memory, believing that he had been abducted by aliens in his youth. The truth of his childhood ordeal has been cruelly withheld from him, and he gradually attempts to piece together his past, finding the major missing piece of the jigsaw when he finally tracks down Neil, with whom he had been on the same baseball team.
This side of the story presents more problems - the alien abduction storyline seems a little hoary and cliched, and adds an uncomfortable layer of surreal comedy to the proceedings. No doubt this came from the source material (Scott Heim's novel of the same name), but it may have been elaborated and heightened to complement the dreamlike atmosphere which infuses this otherwise harrowingly realistic picture. Indeed, there are a couple of surreal scenes (one involving that most depressing of cinematic cliches, suddenly falling snow) that seem like they belong in a different film entirely.

Ultimately, these issues are so devastatingly real and severe that they probably required a surer narrative presence than Araki's unsteady guidance. He seems unconcerned with lingering, and frequently cuts too quickly from one scene to another. This is surely a remnant of his low-budget exploitation style from films like 'Nowhere'. From the evidence presented here, Araki would be on much surer ground if he concentrates on a non-judgemental realism. This may well be where he might find his true cinematic voice.

A big event for me was the UK premier of the new film from Greek director Theo Angelopoulos. Angelopoulos is one of the true masters of cinema - with a distinctive personal vision comprised of stately pacing and elaborate long tracking shots and set pieces. Some critics felt that his last film 'Eternity and A Day' represented a compromise of his vision. I disagree wholeheartedly. It was without doubt a more accessible film than his earlier works - but it justly won the Palme D'or for its extraordinary resonance and humanist concern. I found it to be one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen and it repays repeated viewing. To my mind, 'The Weeping Meadow', the first part of a projected trilogy (at his rate of producing films, Angelopoulos may well be dead before he manages to complete the set), seems to be a retrogressive step back towards a more austere style of film making. Its palette of colours is more muted, and the mood is relentlessly tragic. It also repeats a number of Angelopoulos' regular concerns, most significantly the plight of stateless refugees. I'm confident, however, that repetition has not diluted these concerns, nor the deep humanism that characterises his films. It is still, of course, defiantly elaborate, and I simply have no idea how some of the characteristic set piece scenes in this film were constructed. Its images have a resounding power lacking in most western films, particularly the extraordinary middle section, which incorporates a flood and a funeral, and ranks with the best of Angelopoulos' work.

At the Q and A afterwards, many of the audience felt that the film contained little hope. In Eleni, Angelopoulos seems to have created a character that acts chiefly as a cipher for the suffering of Greek history more generally, and there is no doubt that her despair in this film is palpable. Yet, her plight to me seemed to be profoundly affecting, and it sustained this film throughout its lengthy three hours. There may not be hope as such, but as in all his films, Angelopoulos seems concerned chiefly with elucidating the harsh reality of life in times of war and confusion, and there is no doubt that his vision is sympathetic and passionate. This film is a powerful and compelling illustration of the devastation of war. In its focus on one small village, it is structured in microcosmic terms, yet has an epic sweep that is distinctive in its lack of bombast. It is certainly another powerful statement to add to one of the great canons of modern film-making.

Festivals Round-Up

AS is traditional, the last two weeks of June have been characterised chiefly by torrential rain. I have spent much of my time standing in it. I guess it's a demonstration of my passion for music. I've certainly learnt not to trust an advance Met weather forecast. Glastonbury will be 'mostly pleasant with scattered showers'. If that's what they call scattered showers, I would hate to see what heavy rain is. I'm pleased to say that, for the most part, the battle against the elements, despite requiring all the willpower and physical stamina I could muster, was worth the effort.

First up in my festival double was the Fleadh, in the delightful grounds of, err...Finsbury Park. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm sure the reason for cancelling the festival last year was that they could not find an Irish act to headline the festival. This year, the event was headlined by that well known Irish folk act Bob O'Dylan. There are surely any number of acts that Mean Fiddler could have gone for (although they mercifully spared us The Corrs). How about the reformed Dexys Midnight Runners, Shane McGowan or, even better, Elvis Costello. I'm now officially starting a campaign to have Costello as next year's headliner - by then, he should have a new album with the Imposters to promote. Anyway, gripes aside (after all, I was there chiefly to see Dylan anyway), I enjoyed the day very much.

I was disappointed to have managed to miss Polly Paulusma, who was given the indignity of a twenty minute set far too early in the day. Kicking things off for me then was the dependably entertaining Billy Bragg. He was on fine soapbox form, voicing his support for a four day working week (well I'd support that too - but frankly at the moment it would mean less pay) and the new European Consitution. Bragg's major shortcoming is that he can often be too earnest - and one of the worst examples of this is 'Sexuality', the song with which he opens his set. It was admittedly one of his biggest hits - but it always struck me as a very simplistic and ham-fisted response to homophobia. A fine message, badly executed. Mercifully, it got better from there. Bragg proudly proclaimed himself as one of the 'saddoes' who followed Bob Dylan, and cheekily played a Dylan song with his own reworked lyrics as a homage. He also played generous helpings of the Woody Guthrie material he recorded with Wilco - still perhaps the highlight of his career so far. A reworked version of 'Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards' rounded things off passionately. At his best, Bragg is eloquent and brimming with conviction. I enjoyed his subtle ribbing of Damien Dempsey, a man who has taken all of Bragg's failings and distilled them into an embarassing mess. Having felt thoroughly uncomfortable during his support slot for Morrissey at the MEN arena, I avoided his set like the plague.

On the Borderline stage, Laura Veirs gave a mysterious, subtle and engaging performance, accompanied by some stark guitar playing. She managed to squeeze in most of the finest moments from her excellent 'Carbon Glacier' album, and the songs retained their distinctive, icy atmospherics within a live setting. Her voice is unusually biting - and it makes for an initially uncomfortable contrast with her spare arrangements, but over time, I have grown to admire her work immensely. 'Shadow Blues', 'Rapture' and 'Riptide' are the best moments today, as they are on the album, with evocative and emotive lyrics, and a real sense of space and time. It's a real shame that she was brought over from Seattle to play for only 25 minutes. An artist of this quality deserved more time to cast her remarkable spell.

Back to the main stage - and the most underwhelming act of the festival were Delays. I managed to meet them at Glastonbury, and they proved to be warm natured and good humoured people, but on stage they seemed isolated in their own world, and more than slightly self-important. The singles are infectious minor successes that promise a great deal for the future and there is no denying that Greg Gilbert's androgynous voice, scaling extraordinary heights, is a definite asset. So many of their other songs, however, seemed thoroughly unremarkable, notable only for the annoying electronic bloops and keyboard blips that seem to have been pasted unthinkingly all over them. If they take their gift for compelling atmospherics and expansive melodies, they may yet fulfil their promise - but as yet, they are not the great pop band they clearly wish to be.

Unexpected revelation of the festival were The Charlatans. I had long ago lost interest in this band, and in fact was greatly angered by their idiotic apeing of Curtis Mayfield on the terrible 'Wonderland' album. So far, what I've heard of the new 'Up at The Lake' album hasn't exactly restored my faith either. It was therefore a huge surprise that this crowd pleasing set proved a timely reminder of just how brilliant this band can be. As a group of musicians, they are still arguably the best rock band in the country. The rhythm section has a swagger and nuance that has been sorely missing from most of the sixities-inspired bands of their ilk. Compare this edgy, groovy playing with the leaden, trudgy riffing of, say, Kings of Leon, and it's immediately apparent that this is a group in a class of its own. Wisely, they choose to keep well clear of most of their recent material, playing only 'You're so Pretty, We're so Pretty' and 'Love is the Key' from 'Wonderland' and a mere couple of tracks from 'Up at the Lake'. Instead, we are treated to a marvellous greatest hits set, filled with nostalgia, but also delivered with enthusiasm and energy. 'Just When You're Thinking Things Over' is brilliant, with some superb interplay between the band, 'One To Another' and 'North Country Boy' are solid and instantly memorable, and both give guitarist Mark Collins opportunity to show off his chops. They even wheel on Ronnie Wood for an overly faithful, if undeniably spirited cover of The Faces' 'Stay With Me'. They end with a riotous 'How High' - leaving the crowd satisfied and entertained, if more than a little drenched by the rain.

I then end up dividing my time between stages and searching for my late-arriving friend (who had somehow managed to play a football match in the pouring rain). I watched
John Prine with keen anticipation following a recommendation from my friend John Kell (editor of the excellent Unpredictable Same fanzine). I had expected there to be an unfortunate clash between Prine and Dylan - but, contrary to the original billing, Prine played in the early evening. I'm not familiar with his material, so I can't specify any particular highlights, but I can affirm that these were intelligent, powerful, complex and compelling songs, sung (at least at first) with convincing authority. His voice began to get a little croaky towards the end - but this struck me as only a minor problem in an otherwise consistently fascinating exhibition of some of the great songs in the American canon. The unnerving task of following Prine went to the wonderful Laura Cantrell. This time there was an unfortunate clash between stages, so I had to content myself with watching a mere two of her songs. She is a charming performer, with a distinctive voice and a real knowledge and feel for country music. Peel has rated her first album as among the best he has ever heard - a very high recommendation indeed and I will be looking to pick up her back catalogue as soon as I next get paid.

It was then over to the main stage for a typically uncompromising, confounding and intermittently inspired set from Bob Dylan. As usual, he was ushered on to the sound of Aaron Copland, and a voice proclaiming his legendary status - 'the man who made his name with protest folk songs, discovered drugs in the mid-sixities and produced some of the greatest music of the era, who surprised everyone by finding God in the late seventies, who lost his way in the eighties, but returned to greatness in the nineties - the poet laureate of rock n' roll, Columbia recording artist, Bob Dylan' (or something close to that anyway). He now seems to have abandoned guitar playing, instead hunched uncomfortably over an electric piano at the side of the stage, avoiding any direct contact with the audience. He made no concessions to the crowd with the set list - opening with 'Down Along the Cove' and even including 'Seeing the Real You At Last' from his least popular mid-eighties period. As usual, he reworked the songs in radical, occasionally unrecognisable arrangements, most of which proved to be energetic, straight ahead blues. This gave appropriately gutsy backing for Dylan's cracked voice. When I last saw a Dylan show (Wembley Arena towards the end of 2003) - his voice was stronger and clearer than I had expected. Today, he occasionally slipped back into mumbling monotonous phrases. He was crisp and compelling on beautifully affecting versions of 'Boots of Spanish Leather' and 'Desolation Row', both good selections. He was forceful and apocalyptic on rollicking versions of 'High Water' and 'Summer Days' from the now not-so-new 'Love and Theft' album. These tracks sounded remarkably close in spirit to the classics 'Maggie's Farm' and 'Highway 61', both full of energy and intensity. Best of all was a reverent, committed take on 'Not Dark Yet', one of the finest songs from the 'Time Out of Mind' album. Less impressive were lazy renditions of 'It's All Over Now Baby Blue' and 'Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee', where Dylan seemed to care little for melody or phrasing. Larry Campbell's guitar and mandolin player was outstanding from start to finish - he really is a stunning musician, adept at both accompaniment and soloing. With such a dazzling band behind him, who are able to bring new magic from the tangled web of American musical history, Dylan's poetry has now been shifted to the sidelines in favour of some astonishing musical interplay, now heightened by Dylan's unorthodox keyboard stabs. It was a shame that this interplay had to be interrupted consistently by the presence of Ronnie Wood throughout. His performance was clearly hastily arranged last minute, and he clearly had no idea of the structure or arrangement of the songs. He was visibly lost - although mercifully not really audible (someone on the sound desk must have had the good foresight to leave his guitar channel mixed well down). All in all, this was a pleasing set for Dylan fanatics - but by no means a crowd pleaser. Dylan only spoke to introduce the band, leaving those in the audience less familiar with the Dylan concert experience to play guessing games as to what song he might actually be playing. Only the rousing encore of 'Like A Rolling Stone' proved to be a crowd singalong - the crowd having a much stronger mastery of the tune than Dylan, who improvised on regardless, still ploughing his own path, unprepared to change direction or be influenced by any trends.

I went to Glastonbury largely to work on a volunteer radio station Radio Avalon - which proved to be a challenging and immensely enjoyable week of work. The station output was enriched this year by sessions from Damien Rice, Michael Franti of Spearhead, Carina Round and Denis Lecorriere amongst many others. I would urge anyone going to the festival next year to tune in!

I was a bit apprehensive about what seemed to be a nostalgic and largely disappointing line-up, and feared that the festival might not be so much about the music this year. Nostalgic it certainly was - but no less enjoyable for it. Most of the music I managed to see came on the Friday - when for some reason I seemed to have more free time.

Wilco were the first band I saw, and they set the standard for the rest of the weekend. Performing in scorching sun, they played a set consisting mostly of songs from their two most recent albums 'A Ghost is Born' and 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot', both of which are inventive, ambitious and important works. Many of the new songs are characterised by dextrous, expressive guitar squalling, and sprightly, punchy piano playing. Particularly impressive is the lengthy 'Spiders', with its hypnotic krautrock-inspired rhythm and controlled explosions of furious energy. 'Hummingbird' is an elegant song impressively played whilst 'At Least That's What You Said' builds from super quiet hum to a spectacularly raucous guitar duel. From 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' we get a clattering, unorthodox 'I Am Trying To Break Your Heart' and a solid, steadfast 'War on War'. It is all impressive stuff, despite Jeff Tweedy's determination to remain aloof and detached throughout.

At their last appearance at Glastonbury, Elbow recorded the crowd for the track 'Grace Under Pressure' on their spellbinding 'Cast of Thousands' album, and this year they returned to do it all again for the single version. Now that the song has become familiar, I'm imagining that the chanting was bolder and bigger than before. This was a solid, dependable set - although perhaps not quite as transcendent as when I last saw them at the Junction in Cambridge last year. I have always felt that Elbow's hypnotic rhythmic propulsion and emotive melodies would translate well to a festival, but singalongs aside, I'm not really sure that they did. Perhaps it was just that Guy Garvey's mordant wit was somewhat restrained. 'Switching Off' was beautiful and inspiring, whilst 'Fallen Angel' chugged relentlessly. Some balance was lacking in that some of their most adventurous material (particularly 'Snooks') was omitted, but it was still a set brimming with conviction and invention - perhaps too much for the mid-afternoon pyramid stage crowd. I look forward to some new material from this excellent band.

Later in the evening, PJ Harvey played a bewitching and highly charged set. Whilst in her maturity she has become arguably less aggressive, she still enthrals and captivates with her distinctive and sensual performances. Dressed in a ripped Spice Girls top, she appears as a perverse inverter of pop fashions, very much follwing her own muse, isolated from trends and expectations. Perhaps that is why critics seem to have reacted indifferently to 'Uh Huh Her' with its basic, dirty blues influences and rather rough sound mix. It's actually another very impressive record (albeit in marked contrast with its cleaner, more immediate predecessor), and in a live context its songs really come alive (particularly 'Shame' and 'The Letter', which drip with distaste and suspense). She playfully taunts the crowd, and sings with remarkable clarity and confidence. Her band are raw and complimentary, and they regularly swap instruments, the percussive drive heightened on the songs that employ two drummers. She also mixes in some old favourites, including a fiery version of 'A Perfect Day Elise', a direct and potent 'Good Fortune' and sleazy, dangerous takes on 'Down By The Water' and 'To Bring You My Love'.

Over on the acoustic stage, a legend is doing the nostalgia circuit. Arthur Lee's latest incarnation of Love is actually remarkably fresh and upfront, with some strangely virtuosic electric guitar playing. The heavier feel almost overcomes the folk and soul influences that informed 'Forever Changes' - but I rather welcomed Lee's attempts to breathe new life into cult favourites. Although I deeply admire these songs, particularly for their structural, melodic and lyrical complexity, I do wonder if the influence and importance of 'Forever Changes' has been somewhat overstated. Nevertheless, when compared with the small amount of new material in this set, which seems insipid and lightweight, these songs still sound colossal and inspired.

Back to the main stage for headliners Oasis. I can no longer really claim to be an Oasis fan, and I haven't bought any of their material since 'Be Here Now'. The general consensus on this set seems to have been that it was lacklustre and consciously unengaging. I must beg to differ. Having seen Oasis at Earls Court on the tour supporting 'Be Here Now', when they were only intermittently appealing, sludgy and bloated, I was pleasantly surprised by their set. Of course, there was no real performance in it, with Liam's usual swaggering arrogance and affrontery the main focus of interest. Many thought they were going through the motions - but I felt that by skewing the set in favour of their first two albums ('Definitely Maybe' is about to be reissued in one of those horrible tenth anniversary packages - can it really be ten years??), they played to their strengths. There were still moments of insipid blandness - the terrace dirge of 'Stop Crying Your Heart Out' and Noel's rather earnest 'Little by Little', and the two new songs lacked spark, but the bulk of the set proved a timely reminder of what great pop songs 'Live Forever', 'Morning Glory', 'Acquiesce' and 'Supersonic' are. Zak Starkey's drumming was enervated and clattering, which proved a welcome addition to the usual wall of strum.

Noel rather bitterly recalled performing 'Don't Look Back In Anger' to a somewhat indifferent crowd last time they played, but this time he looked somewhat sad, perhaps even moved by the occasion. Despite several line-up changes and countless bust-ups, this is a band that has survived through sheer mass appeal. At the end, after a turbulent and rather perfunctory take on 'My Generation' (Oasis have never really been a great covers band), Liam leaps from the stage, stands stock still facing the crowd, and balances his tambourine on his head for over a minute. It looked iconic. This was not quite a Glastonbury triumph - it was inconsistent and perhaps a little muddy (not quite yet in more ways than one) - but for the most part, it was enjoyable and convincing.

Saturday was a much tougher day, with much time spent backstage standing in torrential rain. In fact, I only managed to see three acts, but all would almost have justified the ticket price by themselves.

Late afternoon on the Other Stage, My Morning Jacket were both an extraordinary sight and a compelling sound. With giant hair flailing everywhere (you can just about see the drummer's arms somewhere), they constructed a huge monument of noise. Live, they err towards the lenghtier, rockier side of their set - and a little more balance would have been welcome. When I saw them in the considerably more intimate confines of the Cambridge Boat Race, Jim James' acoustic moments made a deep impression on me. Still, James' reverb-laden vocals, the twists and turns in the song structures (particularly 'Run Thru' which sounds like two entirely different songs spliced together) and the increasingly intricate guitar swordplay proved as captivating as ever today, even if it lacked subtlety.

Just about time to run over to The Guardian Lounge, which by this time was almost sinking into the quagmire of mud, where the outstanding Adem is playing the most intriguing and original set of the entire festival. Unfortunately, I only have time to watch four songs - but that is enough to get a general impression. All his musicians are seated, and the sound is remarkably quiet, often just a delicate murmur in danger of being submerged by background chatter. The arrangements are exquisite, with intuitive use of percussion and unusual instrumentation. Whereas Adem's voice sounds cracked and vulnerable on record, it sounds full and communicative in a live setting, even when he plays a stunning rendition of 'Pillow' completely by himself. 'These Are Your Friends' sounds both considered and anthemic, and 'Statued' is lilting and affecting. The emotional directness of some of these songs is striking, and often undeniably charming.

Much later on the Main Stage, Paul McCartney proves to be the grand highlight of the festival. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Given all the Lennon myth-making and eulogising we have to put up with on a daily basis, it's so refreshing to see a living Beatle have the chance to state his case. His earnest, everyman banter is slightly cloying (there is a lot about 'vibrations', 'laylines' and 'rocking in wellies' - yes Paul we know we're in hippy territory and that it's pissing it down), but the music is huge. Of course, he has the benefit of the finest songbook in English pop history - and he uses it generously. 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'Yesterday' are favourites, 'Hey Jude' unsurprisingly becomes a lighters-aloft mass karaoke session and 'Drive My Car' rollicks along with a real sense of fun. He seems to be genuinely enjoying himself, despite being at the end of a lengthy world tour. Best of all is a solo set, where he honours John Lennon with 'Here Today' and George Harrison with a lovely version of 'All Things Must Pass' (what a characteristically unassuming and deferential gesture), and performs a sweet, deeply moving version of 'Blackbird'.

Even the Wings songs sound awesome - 'Jet' kicks things off with an energy that belies his increasing years, whilst 'Let Me Roll It' is massive and thrilling. 'Live and Let Die' provides another highlight, with its dazzling, no doubt obscenely expensive pyrotechnics. He plays most of his well known Beatles songs, and finally ends with a medley of 'Sgt. Pepper' and 'The End'. He plays almost nothing from his solo career (personally, I wouldn't have objected to one of the songs co-written with Elvis Costello from 'Flowers in the Dirt'). It's hard to see how this unashamed and entirely selfless crowd-pleasing can be topped. I have to make one reservation though - before the set began, there was a warm up DJ who seemed to go on for an entirely unpleasant eternity. Initially, there were snatches of McCartney songs that could be picked out from the noise, and this would have made some sense if it had provided a short intro. However, the thumping noise soon became relentless and indistinct, entirely inappropriate for the occasion. An error of judgment rather than a massive calamity perhaps.

Sunday has its own frustrations as well. As far as the headliners were concerned - I was bursting with excitement at the possibility of seeing Television in the New Bands Tent (new band?! they couldn't even be described as newly reformed!). Unfortunately, I discovered their set had been rescheduled to 6pm and I had missed it - leaving only a choice between Orbital and Muse. Given the time I spent walking between stages, I missed most of Orbital's set - their last ever performance on English soil. Still, I caught 'The Box', still to my mind an excellent composition and their finest moment, as well as 'Satan' and, of course, the Dr. Who theme. My reservations about this sort of dance music live remain though - it was like listening to the recordings amplified very loudly, whilst some fairly uninspired visuals are projected behind them. It's never clear what these people actually do when they are on stage - although that's not to detract from Orbital's achievement over the years, which is significant, and I hope this set proved to be a reminder of their value.

Earlier in the day, James Brown proved he could still enjoy himself and dance despite being well over the age of 70. Like Bob Dylan, he now seems to have real trouble enunciating ('I feel Good' sort of becomes a series of grunts 'uh eeeeuuuh ooooohgh'). To my mind, there was something slightly ungracious in this obligatory greatest hits set, despite an astounding level of energy and a well-aware, tightly controlled backing band. Still, control and awareness means little when compared with the original JBs, who were the funkiest band of all time. Perhaps James Brown was never a singer first and foremost - more a communicator and a demanding bandleader, and there was plenty of that on display.

Another real highlight was Morrissey. Arriving to the same taped hate list that opened his Manchester homecoming show, and again with giant glowing red letters spelling out his name behind him, he bitzed through a all-too-brief set which offered no compromise or concession to a festival audience. His humour was on razor sharp form ('please do not OD until we've finished our songs', he somewhat tastelessly requested - later on, he was to thank 'some of' us) and his singing better than ever. Opening with 'Don't Make Fun of Daddy's Voice', an even newer song than the material on 'You Are The Quarry', he did little to break the audience in gently. As for much of this tour, the set dipped into unpredictable areas of his back catalogue - a slow-burning but haunting 'I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday' and a deceptively endearing 'Such A Little Thing..' being particular highlights. Elsewhere, a typically anthemic 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out', 'Everyday Is Like Sunday' and current single 'First of the Gang to Die' proved to be audience favourites (the reaction, contrary to some comments on the Morrissey solo message board, was by no means 100% hostile where I was standing). As ever, a clutch of material from the new album was delivered with gusto, particularly 'The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores'. It was unfortunate that Alain Whyte was conspicuously absent - the guitars did seem a little less cutting than at Manchester, even though there was a worthy replacement. The set was brought to a crunching, determined conclusion with a raucous 'Irish Blood, English Heart'. Morrissey may balk at the word 'performance', but he is really looking more and more of a star with every passing show. Quite why he had to settle for being below the turgid, deeply terrible Muse on the bill is beyond me. He was Sunday night's de facto hero headliner.

So that was it - all over, only a rather hasty and unpleasant tent dismantling and drowsy overnight drive home left to recount - thanks must go to Nat for keeping me from falling asleep at the wheel!

Strawberry Fair

For me, the festival season began in earnest last Saturday with Strawberry Fair, a large free festival and the highlight of the Cambridge musical calendar. It felt good to get out of London for the weekend, and it proved to be another remarkably successful event.As we did last year, we spent the entire day in the acoustic/beer tent, thus enjoying some excellent music. The line-up did not quite hit the heights of last year, with Alasdair Roberts and Canada's Royal City putting in an appearance, that was a truly special occasion. The focus this year was largely on local acts (or at least acts with a strong local following), and when there is such a strong pool of musical talent in Cambridge, it was difficult to object.

The highlight yet again (although they were not in the headline slot this time, appearing instead at 4.15 in the afternoon) were local heroes The Broken Family Band. Introduced by Pete Um (what a shame he wasn't performing himself) as 'the sexiest band in the world', they had a lot to live up to. Since last year's triumphant headlining set, they have released their debut album proper, the marvellous 'Cold Water Songs', and a very impressive mini album 'Jesus Songs'. Even with an expanding back catalogue to select from, they still offered some new material, including an hilarious song called 'Devil Woman' (key lyric 'your heart is black but your body drives me crazy'). Dependably, their performance was a sustained blast of energetic, inventive, comic fun. With their robust take on the country idiom, fusing it with indie charm, punk rock energy and stamina, and poetic wit, BFB manage to be intensely humorous, quirky, endearing and touching simultaneously. Steve Adams' vocals manage to switch from the snarly to the sensitive over just a couple of bars (prime example, the carefully controlled 'Perfect Gentleman'), and there were plenty of wisecracks between the songs. Together with some incongruous rock posturing and some solid rhythm section support and there are the makings of a great band. Highlights included a raucous take on 'Don't Leave That Woman Unattended', complete with beatbox vocals, a splendid 'Twelve Eyes of Evil' with some amusing lyric changes ('I was playing drums in a psychedelic band' became 'I was playing drums in Franz Ferdinand') and a spirited version of 'Walking Back to Jesus pt. 2'.

Also returning to the festival after a triumphant performance last year was Chris T-T. Last year, he played his first set with his new band at Strawberry Fair, but this time round it was another of his charming solo acoustic performances. Rather less ramshackle than usual, this was a very solid performance, largely free from mistakes, but one that resonated with T-T's observant wit and good humour. There was no brand new material in this set - but what was made clear was Chris T-T's consistency over the course of four albums. He may not be a technically great musician (he often stumbles over chords and often strums in a fairly rudimentary fashion), but his songs are rich, intelligent, charming and, increasingly, politically involved and astute. This set was entertaining and satisfying, a generous selection of songs from throughout his career, including the wonderful 'Dreaming of Injured Popstars', a song that might be considered an albatross around his neck. He resisted calls for 'The Tin Man', claiming it was too quiet for a festival audience, but still played quietly affecting versions of 'Tomorrow Morning' and 'The English Earth', two of his most reflective and considered songs. 'Cull' demonstrated his political bite, whilst 'Sellotape (Dawson's Creek)' cheerfully lambasted trash TV whilst accepting its inevitable appeal ('admit it, you all like Hollyoaks', he added at the end) and set-closing 'Drink Beer' provided a homage to more earthy considerations. Of his albums, 'The 253' and 'London is Sinking' are the most successful and well worth checking out. I managed to pick up a special live acoustic CD from the man himself - and am enjoying it as I write this!

The rest of the bill was perhaps less exciting - although the brief set from Atilla the Stockbroker and his special guests was remarkable for its gutsy, impassioned political conviction. It wasn't without intelligence either - I've moaned elsewhere on this site about Damien Dempsey's embarassing rhyming dictionary lyrics - Atilla the Stockbroker was equally sincere, but almost massively more articulate. He also brought with him two intriguing singer-songwriters. From Australia, the imposing figure of Rory Ellis, who clearly had plenty of compelling life experience, but whose voice sadly seemed to betray the influence of post-grunge drawlers such as Nickelback. That's a little unfair, given that his sings were by no means that bland - but I found it hard to get past his rather forced vocal sound. From the US came David Rovicks, a radical, anti-war singer with a careful, convincing mix of satire and sincerity. Unfortunately, I was so desparate to empty my bladder at this point that I missed the bulk of his set, but from what I did manage to hear, he had character and quality. As a whole, the group crafted a stylistically varied, but thematically consistent performance that entertained and challenged in equal measure.

Much of the rest of the line-up was merely satisfying. Headliners The Low Country featured excellent local guitarist Rob Jackson. He has a full, resonant, blues-tinged guitar sound reminiscent of Bill Frissell in its use of spacey echo effects and tremolo. The songs were certainly pleasant enough, and I was struck by the vocal qualities of their singer, who seemed to be controlling the melodies well, although with some timidity. Unfortunately, most of the songs were also overlong, extrapolating single ideas for what occasionally seemed like hours rather than minutes. They also frequently succumbed to a tendency to be blandly soporiphic - not without charm, but also somewhat unremarkable.

A similar charge could probably be laid against London-based singer Pauline Taylor. I certainly wasn't particularly inspired by her deliberately inconsequential lyrics. However, her voice was impressive - commanding where necessary, soft and restrained where appropriate, and she benefited greatly from some skilled musical support from an excellent band. To these ears, she fared better when leaning towards a more soulful, perhaps even funky sound. An entirely acoustic performance may not necessarily be the best context for her voice - which seemed worth more than merely lingering in the background. Much better than Dido obviously, although that may well be damning her with faint praise.

Loophole were on a completely different planet - one where little things such as playing in time, harmonising together and matching music and lyrics didn't seem to matter much at all. This was ponderous, pompous and, ultimately, entirely tedious music, crowned by some horribly mannered singing. It all seemed to represent a rather cliched attempt to be epic (they had clearly been listening to Muse), but the result was an ill-judged, sprawling and really quite unpleasant mess. No doubt they will be signed up to a major label on the cover of the NME quite soon - it's the Nu Prog Revolution.

Loophole's chaotic and charmless din shouldn't however take anything away from another highly enjoyable festival. The organisation and effort that goes into putting this event on - organisers and bands are all working on an entirely voluntary basis, is considerable. Timings were consistently efficient, and the sound balance was clear and crisp. A big thanks must go to all the organisers - the fair is a marvellous local tradition, and a great celebration of a diverse array of talent.