Authenticity

There is a great deal of new music at the moment which might loosely be termed 'folk' or 'traditional' music, much of it refashioned in fresh and interesting ways. I'm still enjoying the quaint charm of Alasdair Roberts' 'Farewell Sorrow' album twelve months after its release, whilst on the other side of the pond, acts such as The Be Good Tanyas seem to be drawing new inspiration from traditional American forms. Whether or not this music is successful is to some extent reliant on how authentic or convincing we find the performers. Can this old fashioned vernacular really be applied to their contemporary life experience?

I find it easy to overcome such misgivings when listening to the sublime new album from Jolie Holland. Holland has become something of a cult figure since the release of her ramshackle self-recorded debut 'Catalpa' late last year. She collaborated with the Be Good Tanyas on their early material, and has gone on to find a distinctive voice of her own. 'Escondida' is a seamless melding of traditional country and jazz phrasing, not a million miles away from Norah Jones, but without so much as a trace of coffee-table blandness. Holland's vocals are so evocative that it seems misleading to either pigeonhole her or make comparisons - but the closest to this wonderful music I can think of is the equally talented Erin McKeown. 'Escondida' is as intoxicating and addictive as the 'Old Fashioned Morphine' that Holland sings about. It is rustic and familiar, yet simultaneously mysterious. 'Black Stars' is elusive, with many twists and turns in its melody, whilst the piano-led 'Amen' is simple, elegant and touching. Holland fares just as well on re-interpretations of traditional songs. 'Old Fashioned Morphine' is a hybrid of 'Old Time Religion' and Blind Willie Johnson's version of 'Wade In The Water', and is infused with a convincing blues spirit. When the brass tumbles in, there's an unmistakeably Tom Waitsian feel to the track. It therefore comes as no surprise that the man himself is a fan. 'Mad Tom Of Bedlam' is brilliantly inspired, stripped down to just Holland's laconic phrasing and some nimble brush drumming. At its best 'Escondida' is an imaginative refashioning of traditional forms, and a signifier of a dynamic songwriting talent.

I feel a little guilty for saying this, but I'm much less convinced by Devendra Banhart. His life story supposedly starts in Texas, but after his parents' divorced, he followed his mother to the slums of Venezuela. He was discovered at the age of 20 by Swans mainman Michael Gira, unwashed and homeless, who immediately signed him to his Young God record label. Gira thinks that Banhart is 'the real deal', and that his music is honest, sincere and completely devoid of any postmodern irony. It is a shame therefore, that his music is not completely devoid of pretension. Banhart is undoubtedly talented - his finger-picked guitar playing is frequently remarkable, with a resonant sound strongly resembling the guitar that formed the spine of Nick Drake's best records, or the naturalistic guitar sounds of early Bob Dylan. He also has an unusual and striking singing style, with hints of vulnerability and introversion. Yet his melodies too often meander, and both the titles and the lyrics are characterised by a tendency towards meaningless verbosity. When he is at his most concise, the wordplay can be touching, occasionally even humorous, but there is always the lingering sense that we are being admonished by someone who spends more time cultivating a neo-psychedelic mystical folk image than on actually forming an emotional connection with their audience. There's something slightly studied and academic about Banhart the wandering hippy nomad, named after an Indian preacher, an utterly mesmerising performer, the real deal. I wonder if this image might be stripped away, and there would be a more honest, compelling and original performer left behind. I will give the album a few more listens. In isolation, some of the tracks are striking in their stark simplicity - particularly the opening 'This Is The Way', 'This Beard Is For Siobhan' and the gently rolling 'Poughkeepsie'.

With the case of Joanna Newsom, the links with the folk genre are slightly more tenuous. Whilst she shares a stark, uncompromising style with Banhart, her harsh, childlike vocal and her choice of instrumentation (mainly harp and harpsichord), place her very much in a category of one. 'The Milk-Eyed Mender' is one of the most unusual albums I've heard so far this year - distinctive in both its approach to composition and execution. I must confess to finding Newsom's voice a bit of an obstacle - but then I thought that about Kate Bush when I was younger, and I'm now besotted with 'The Kick Inside' and 'The Hounds of Love'. Newsom is immediately striking vocally - an extreme, high-pitched squawk that also manages to be tender and touching at the same time. There's a chance that this album, with its whimsy and quirkiness, may well be a slow-burning indie gem. Newsom is signed to the wonderful Drag City label (American home to Bonnie Prince Billy, Smog, Royal Trux, Weird War and many others), and has already received the patronage of Will Oldham. I therefore feel almost obliged to like this record, so I'm persevering as much as possible. In places, it is effectively simple and touching (particularly 'Bridges and Balloons', 'The Book of Right-On' and 'Sadie') but it's also undeniably a challenge to listen to the album from start to finish.

Her lyrical approach is a little hit-and-miss, occasionally sounding forced or pretentious ('Oh, where is your inflammatory writ?/Your text that would incite a light, "Be lit"). More often than not, however, she finds a natural and insightful voice. Album opener 'Bridges and Balloons' begins with the marvellous lines 'We sailed away on a winter's day/with feet as malleable as clay/but ships are fallible I say/and the nautical, like all things fades', surely as evocative an opening verse as we can expect to hear all year. So few lyricists manage to conjure such wistful feeling whilst constructing such intelligent wordplay and inventive internal rhyme schemes.

There is much to admire here - and if I've implied that the album as a whole might be irritating, it's nowhere near as infuriating as 'Crickets Sing for Anamaria' by Emma Bunton. That attempt at Latin-chart crossover is possibly the most inauthentic record I've heard all year. But that's another story entirely....

Together or Alone

A crazy long weekend has just come to pass in which I journeyed to Manchester to see Morrissey's first gig in his hometown for twelve years, prepared for a testing interview and still somehow managed to slot in going to see An Evening with Rufus Wainwright, The McGarrigles and Martha Wainwright at the Royal Festival Hall in London. The two shows were both excellent, albeit in very different ways, and it's hard to see how they might be bettered as the two best gigs of the year.

The sense of anticipation for the Morrissey show at Manchester's colossal Evening News Arena was almost unbearable. Press hype, both locally and nationally, together with genuine popular demand (tickets reportedly sold out within half an hour, although that statistic ignores the fact that standing tickets actually went on sale a whole day early) combined to give the show a feeling of a genuine event. That anticipation may well have turned to frustration whilst the eager audience members who arrived early to claim their space in the front rows had to endure half an hour of Damien Dempsey. Dempsey is just another in a long line of singer songwriters to be given the 'new Bob Dylan' tag, the kind of journalistic comment tossed away without any consideration of the material. Whilst Dempsey may have been pleasant enough musically (although tending towards blandness), his lyrics were so painfully earnest that they sparked extreme physical discomfort. He sang about human greed, the dangers of drug abuse and positive thinking - all messages fine and good, but not when presented in such a simplistic fashion, together with hackneyed rhyming dictionary couplets. His singing style also seemed to incorporate a bizarre hybrid of Irish and mock-Jamaican accents. It's really quite difficult to see why Morrissey has given this singer his patronage (Dempsey will also act as support for Loudon Wainwright III at Meltdown)when his writing is worthy only of embarrassment. Oh, and he really did have a song called 'I'm Never Going To Let Your Negative Vibes Get Through To My Psyche.' Good for you Damien - we'll just ignore you completely. It's for your own good.

Franz Ferdinand made for a striking contrast. Whilst I like the band in small doses - their album seems to do little more than repeat the same formula over and over again. The ridiculous levels of excitement that have greeted them has therefore occasionally seemed excessive. Perhaps a crisp, concise, high profile support slot is the best context in which to see them - because they were electrifying. Musically, the performance was tight and controlled, and characterised by a seemingly boundless energy and intensity. The crowd certainly seemed appreciative - and in much larger numbers than is usual for an Arena support act. Franz can now attract a sizeable audience for themselves. It was great to see so much playful interplay between the band members, and even the lowpoints on the album had new life breathed into them. A great warm up for the main attraction.

Comments about this show on the morrissey-solo.com message board seem to have been mixed, with some bemoaning a lack of surprises in the setlist or anything distinctive from the shows Moz has performed so far in the USA. This kind of talk is one of my major bugbears. Really, the set could only have been familiar if you had read all the setlists before attending, or if you had spent a stupid amount of money following all the gigs on the tour. To my mind, this was a consistent, esoteric set-list incorporating new material, a generous handful of Smiths classics and, most intriguingly of all, some unpredictable selections from Morrissey's solo past. A Greatest Hits of Morrissey it was not - but this should not be viewed as a criticism.

At the outset, Morrissey and his band milked the fervent anticipation for all it was worth. The lights went down, football chants of 'Morri-ssey!, Morri-ssey!, Morri-ssey!' erupted from various areas in the crowd, and an old Frank Sinatra song played over the stereo. Then, a most peculiar intro tape, consisting of a list of items reminiscent of England - poll tax, Stock Aitken and Waterman etc played over droning keyboards. Then, finally, after a good five minutes, they appeared, Morrissey looking sophisticated in a blue suit, singing the opening line of 'My Way' ('regrets, I've had a few...'). 'First of the Gang to Die' made for a most effective opener - anthemic, upbeat and immediate. Even though the album had only been out for a week, most members of the audience had already embraced this brilliantly evocative song. Many in seats were already on their feet, belting out the chorus.

For me, the most striking element of this show was how well these songs translated to an arena venue with a substantial audience. 'Everyday is Like Sunday' became a communal singalong - and even the slightly less obvious choices from the solo catalogue ('I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday', 'Such A Little Thing Makes A Big Difference', 'Hairdresser On Fire') filled the venue with a rich and impressive sound. Much criticism has been levelled against Morrissey's band for being a collection of workmanlike, uninspired musicians - but the playing to me seemed vibrant, full and entirely complementary to Morrissey's distinctive vocals. They have now, on-and-off, been reliable support for Morrissey for the best part of fifteen years, and their unity is emphasised tonight by Morrissey's telling comment - 'we do have a new album out, and praise God, somebody likes it!'

Morrissey may hate the word 'perform', but if to perform means to communicate to an audience, to connect with them, and to entertain them, then that is exactly what he achieved. Standing in front of huge Elvis-style letters lit up to spell his name, and whipping the microphone coil, making extravagant gestures, he seemed every bit a modern icon. In recent years, he has also learnt how to deploy his voice in a greater variety of ways, losing some of his more mannered techniques and replacing them with greater power and range. The Smiths songs therefore were mere nostalgia, imbued instead with new life and a sense of grandeur (particularly a brilliant 'Shoplifters of the World Unite', closing the main set). He also seemed in good humour, lambasting Britney Spears before a masterful performance of 'The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores' and reporting that seven more copies of the album needed to be sold to secure the number one spot (it now appears that it has entered at number two, stuck behind the stupefying dull Keane).

On his birthday ('it's great to be 29. Where did the years go? Why did the years go?'), this performance seemed like vindication, victory and a celebration of a career that, while inconsistent, has marked Morrissey out as a great survivor. Judging by amusing new track 'Don't Make Fun Of Daddy's Voice', he's continuing to move forward. Hopefully we won't have to wait another seven years for the next album. The inevitable encore of 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out' was moving, and in self-deprecating style, Morrissey left the stage first, leaving his band to exit one by one, an effective final touch to a massively entertaining night.

Some minor gripes - it would have been great to hear at least something from 'Vauxhall and I' - perhaps 'Now My Heart is Full' or 'Speedway'. Whilst 'Irish Blood, English Heart', 'Crashing Bores' and 'First of The Gang To Die' stood as strong as anything in his solo back catalogue, some of the new tracks were replicated in excessively faithful fashion, even to the extent of reproducing the production trickery. 'How Could Anybody Know How I Feel?' lumbered as much as its studio version, whilst 'I'm Not Sorry' still felt limp and bland. 'Let Me Kiss You' and 'I Have Forgiven Jesus' are strong songs, but may well have worked better if given a bit more room to breathe. Still, only minor problems really. Anyone seeing Morrissey at Meltdown or Move is in for a treat.

Watching Rufus Wainwright and his family at London's Royal Festival Hall was an altogether different, more intimate experience. The venue is actually quite sizeable, and certainly imposing, but this endearingly shambolic evening genuinely felt like they were all playing in our living room. Everyone seemed in good humour, Rufus joking that the 'last time we played this show was for Grandma.' If there had been a pre-ordained set list, it was repeatedly deviated from, and the results were an embarrassment of riches, including solo spots for both Rufus and Martha, several originals from the McGarrigle sisters, guest spots from Linda and Teddy Thompson, and some moving interpretations of standards from the whole family. Perhaps the most striking element of this wonderful show was to hear how such varying and distinctive voices (The McGarrigles are understated but eerily haunting, Martha is forthright and intense, Rufus powerful and emotive) work so well together.

The arrangements are stripped down, but also richly detailed, give or take a few bum notes. The set list was vast, and with many songs I had never heard before, but it's possible to indentify some of the highlights. The scene was set masterfully with the evocative 'Heart Like A Wheel', one of the McGarrigles earliest compositions. Some of the songs with Kate McGarrigle at the piano and singing lead were desolate and affecting, emotional but avoiding sentimentality. Martha performed a song which may well have been called 'You Bloody Motherf**king Arsehole', which was forceful, and certainly generated some laughs amongst the audience. The level of uncertainty was endearing rather than unprofessional - Rufus claiming 'this is a club show...except we're not in a club!'. All performers, including Lily Lankin, Rufus' cousin, joined in for a rousing rendition of 'St. James' Infirmary Blues'. Even more haunting was an entirely accapella reading of the spiritual 'Hard Times Come Again No More' in the encore, with all the performers achieving a wondrously selfless harmony. Rufus may not be a folk singer, but his adoption of the folk idiom during this show seemed entirely convincing, and the contrast between the traditional songs and his self-penned solo performances worked remarkably well.

Rufus' solo performances were predictably sublime, and he offered a generous range of material, including 'Beauty Mark' and the extraordinary 'Foolish Love' from his debut album. The latter remains one of his most exquisite songs, full of Sondheim-esque show tune extravagance, but bookended by a graceful and emotive slower section, in which he played most effectively with tempo and phrasing. From the 'Poses' album there was a lilting solo version of the title track, and a rich performance of 'One Man Guy' with Martha and special guest Teddy Thompson. From 'Want One', there was a touching, subtle rendition of 'Pretty Things' and a stirring, almost virtuosic 'Dinner At Eight'. In its place at the end of the album, this track had failed to make much impression on me - but it's sheer power made it one of the highlights of the show. Someone in the audience shouted out 'GENIUS!' as the last chord gradually died. It was hard to disagree.

Rufus even found space for a slightly indulgent cover of 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow' (he just about got away with it), before which he reminisced about going to see 'Annie' as a child. Apparently his mother had told him that 'sometimes, Rufus, they even let little boys play Annie!' although Kate could not remember the conversation. Most effective of all was the whole family joining in on a new song, 'Hometown Waltz' which sounded grand and impressive, possibly even the equal of the fantastic '14th Street' which was sadly left unplayed.

This was a playful show, and a celebration of a family with an extraordinary range of talent. It gave invaluable insight into the songs which shaped Rufus and Martha's childhood, and which no doubt inspired them to follow a musical course themselves. The music of Leonard Cohen, traditional country songs, the McGarrigles own work all combined fluidly with the more grandiose stylings of Rufus' work and the ragged intensity of Martha's singing. At the end, there were shouts amongst the audience for all sorts of songs, including 'Gay Messiah', one of the forthcoming 'Want Two' album's more controversial offerings. 'Please', said Rufus, 'this is a family show!' 'Rufus will not be playing Gay Messiah tonight' said Kate firmly, Rufus responding by saying he was saving it for Dublin. Instead, we got a rapturous 'Goodnight Sweetheart', made all the more entertaining by Rufus completely forgetting the words, replacing them with 'I feel like Judy Garland, except I'm stone cold sober...' Whilst this rambling and erratic element was a consistent presence of the gig, it'e effect was to make the performance more touching. This was how live music should be - generous, adaptable, honest and with the audience made to feel part of the celebration. In essence, a marvellous evening.

One major gripe with both shows - those bloody motherf**king arseholes who insist on walking in and out of the venue during the performance. Right - you've come to Manchester to see his first gig in the city for 12 years, or you've taken what could easily be your one and only chance to see the McGarrigle and Wainwright families on the same stage together and what do you do? Stay and watch the show and be entertained and inspired or get another vastly overpriced beer? It shouldn't really be a hard choice to make, and the latter option is vastly disrespectful to the artist, whether they notice you or not.

This is the first post I've made in a while - so there's plenty to catch up on. In fact, the last couple of weeks have delivered the most significant new albums of the year. I'm only just managing to keep up.

Laptop improvisor Fennesz returns with 'Venice', easily his most accessible album to date. I'm usually deeply suspicious of 'laptop improvisation', in that much of it can be obsessed with electronic sound purely for its own sake, often lacking melody or discernible structure. Fennesz has something extra. His previous album 'Endless Summer' demonstrated both his love for abrasive electronics, and for the classic sixties harmonies of the Beach Boys. It refracted delicate guitar strums through dreamy sound, and the result was complex and strangely affecting.
'Venice' is an even warmer record - remarkably distant from the confrontational white noise of earlier Fennesz material. It still places considerable demand on the listener - tiny fractured melodies are buried deep within the maternal hum. The overall sound, however, is pleasingly enveloping. The tracks seem to follow a discernible arc of progression, and the intelligent deployment of dynamics is more pronounced here than on 'Endless Summer'.
Disappointingly, its use of live instrumentation is considerably less inventive. The guitars come into play heavily in some of the later tracks, but they seem to be blandly distorted and uncharacteristically detached. David Sylvian's vocal is appropriately eerie, but does seem to break the carefully sustained mood.
Taken as a whole, 'Venice' is a calming, impressively effective mood piece that sees Fennesz developing his sound into something that is individual, challenging but also inviting and inclusive. Particularly admirable is Fennesz's ability to tease the listener with slight hints of melody and rhythm, whilst subsuming them entirely to the overall atmosphere, which assumes a strangely static superiority.

Another act making strides towards greater accessibility are Brooklyn's Animal Collective. I managed to pick up last year's 2CD reissue of their first two recordings on the Fat Cat label. I found them to be intermittently fascinating, but overly academic, and a little too preoccupied by midless noise. Still, there was something novel in their combination of twee pastoral psychedelia (strongly influenced, it would seem by Barrett-era Pink Floyd) and avant garde production techniques. 'Sung Tongs' is their fourth LP and it represents a giant step forward. It's still characterised by the twee melancholia and childlike nostalgia of their earlier material, but is bolstered by a more determined engagement with rhythm, harmony and melody. Avey Tare and Panda Bear have crafted something undeniably intellectual, occasionally pretentious - but also playful and enervated.
The opener 'Leaf House' is perhaps the best example, an insistent rush of strummed guitar, syncopated percussion and manipulated vocals. 'Who Could Win A Rabbit' is anarchic, with strings of verbose non-sequitors forced into uncomfortably tight phrases. Equally impressive is 'Winters Love', which is more subtle, but no less engaging. 'The Softest Voice' is endearingly fragile. What is most impressive about this album is how Animal Collective manage to make skeletal arrangements sound expansive. Most of these songs sound like manipulated campfire singalongs.
It's by no means perfect - some moments are too elusive and abstract, or simply too droney. The centerpiece of the album is the thirteen somewhat monotonous minutes of 'Visiting Friends', a track built on excessively minimal harmonic foundations. They do not support the track for its entire length. This is emphasised by the fact that it is succeeded by the refreshingly brief (less than a minute) and entirely charming 'College', where a welcome sense of humour returns.
At its finest, 'Sung Tongs' demonstrates considerable promise, and an ability to combine riotous invention with humour and melancholic introspection. Animal Collective are still occasionally handicapped by high-minded pretensions, but they are starting to shake them off in style.

I feel like I've waited for the new album from The Magnetic Fields for longer than I would usually wait for a 214 bus. At last, it has arrived, and, pleasingly, it offers more of the same. 'i' is another themed release, albeit much more succinct than the magnum opus '69 Love Songs'. All of these songs begin with the letter 'I', first-person ruminations on love and relationships in Stephin Merritt's trademark ironic style. Merritt has bemoaned the fact that many critics seem to find sincerity in his songs and take them at face value. Yet, the beauty of these songs, to these ears at least, is that they can work on both levels - as witty and ironic musings, or as genuine declarations. The concluding track 'It's Only Time', with a marriage proposal at its heart, could be as direct a song as Merritt has yet written.
At its best 'i' is characteristically marvellous. Merritt may have gone for an entirely acoustic approach here - there are no synths, but he has not lost his talent for penning for compact pop masterpieces. 'I Looked All Over Town' is forlorn and delightful, whilst 'I Don't Really Love You Anymore' is defiantly catchy. 'I Thought You Were My Boyfriend' somehow manages to sound like a synth pop tune, but this time without deploying any synths. The arrangement would appear to consist of electric sitars and ukelelees. It's jaunty chorus is irresistible.
Merritt's wry lyrical sense of humour is still on top form - most notably on 'I Wish I Had An Evil Twin', in which he imagines his malicious doppelganger carrying out every nasty act he cannot manage himself (because evil, naturally, isn't his style). All men would be scythed and tortured, but the pretty ones would of course be saved for Merritt. This simple, brilliant image perfectly encapsulates Merritt's gay pop sensibilities.
In its second half, 'i' does seem to run out of steam a little. Merritt's ironic style has always left him in danger of falling into writing mere genre exercises and some of the tracks here do suffer this fate. 'Infinitely Late at Night' is slinky and salacious, but amounts to nothing much more than a parody of lounge or bar jazz. 'Is This What They Used to Call Love' is worse - it's imitation of barroom piano balladry a little difficult to stomach. These genre parodies all seem to be sequenced towards the end of the album - which only serves to emphasise their shortcomings. At least they are offset by Merritt's unmatched dexterity with lyrical couplets, and his way with a winning melody. 'If There's Such A Thing As Love' and 'I Don't Believe You' are among his best songs. Ultimately, 'i' is another endearing and charming collection of songs from a wry, sly master.

Coming soon...reviews of Loretta Lynn, Morrissey and Hot Chip...

Magic and Accident

The final date of the Matthew Herbert Big Band tour at London's Barbican Centre was a genuine spectacle. The Barbican now seems to have successfully cornered a market in open-minded contemporary music programming - this is not music that you will hear regularly on any radio network, but it is of genuine significance, and can still pack out a substantial music hall. The Barbican still has the sense of being a slightly snooty, serious venue - where talking during the performance might result in a swift lynching, but maybe this is the most appropriate venue for Herbert's daring and intelligent melding of jazz and electronics.

Mind you, despite them inciting anger in other members of the audience, I didn't really blame the group in the row behind me for starting a conversation during support act Bugge Wessletoft. It's not that the music was terrible - in fact, it had the potential to be quite interesting. Unfortunately, Wessletoft's take on electronic jazz was mostly soporiphic, and only intermittently engaging. My lasting impression of this short set was that the five pieces were remarkably similar and extremely formulaic. The music initially sounded intriguing, but the use of loops, DJ work and laptop computers actually served to limit the possibilities of what the band could achieve. They were fixed in to a regular, hypnotic tempo. Subtle percussion work helped create a dense rhythmic base on which the musicians could and should have expanded. Yet, melodically and harmonically, the compositions were uninvolving, and the improvisation was strangely perfunctory. Reliant as they seemed to be on pre-ordained material, the band could really only play to the most fundamental of dynamic changes - a loud section followed by a quiet ruminative section, but with very little variation in tone or mood. It made me yearn for some more daring, more organic, perhaps even more confrontational musicianship.

Matthew Herbert's big band was something else entirely. This performance demonstrated convincingly that electronic interventions can invest fresh significance in old forms. The 'Goodbye Swingtime' album initially struck me as a little too subtle and restrained in its approach, but it has grown on me considerably as I have come to appreciate the intricacy of its arrangements. Live, any sense of restraint is quickly dispelled, as Herbert steps on stage, strikes a cup with a spoon, records it, and somehow transforms it into a clanking, invigoratingly dense rhythmic mesh. The band come on stage, and play from charts with controlled discipline and rigour. The overall sound is colossal, enveloping and striking.

The compositions succeed in maintaining great reverence for traditional big band forms (the spirit of Ellington, Gil Evans and Mingus breathes through this music) , but also manages to transform it into something creative and relevant to the here and now. Herbert takes a live feed from the band and samples it - often you can hear hints of melody being recycled and remodelled in real time. Unlike Wessletoft, everything he does fits in and makes real musical sense. The electronic interventions never come across as pretentious or excessive. Whilst the vivid detail of the live band impresses, it is Herbert's uncanny abilty to integrate with the unit that is so vital to its success. The actual amount of improvisation from the band is minimal, but this becomes unimportant when Herbert's considered and thoughtful manipulation of sound becomes the chief form of experimentation.

Herbert is a genuine master of the sampler - and has a great way of finding unique sounds. Tonight, he samples the band ceremoniously ripping up copies of the Daily Mail, or squeaking balloons, and works this into the texture of the music. With striking images on screens as well, the show is a visual treat. His politics are visceral and polemical, but much less vague than the flirtations of the Manic Street Preachers or even the idealism of Billy Bragg. They serve as the backdrop for his music, but they do not define it.

The best moments of the show come when vocalist (and Herbert's partner) Dani Siciliano performs. On her recordings, her voice sounds elegant and also slightly elusive. Live, she is both expressive and tightly controlled. She also looks fantastic. In one of the two encores, there is an awesome full big band arrangement of 'The Audience', the best track from Herbert's house album 'Bodily Functions'. Siciliano's voice is sampled, replayed and echoed. It is dazzling, and also indicative that Herbert sees his own music as having the potential to be explored in new and different ways. The strong vocal performances left me slightly disappointed that Jamie Liddell and Arto Lindsay, the other two vocalists on the 'Goodbye Swingtime' album could not put in an appearance. It would have been fascinating to see how the band might cope with the jerky, edgy rhythms of a track such as 'Fiction'.

Without these songs in the set, it remained a relatively brief performance, but it certainly left me wanting more. It ended with the band taking flash photographs as an integral part of the final composition, and encouraging audience members to do the same. This was a performance determined to explore new artistic possibilities, but while also creating and sustaining a sense of entertainment and involvement. The two need not be mutually exclusive. It left me convinced that Herbert is one of the most inventive and important producers and composers currently at work. His next project will apparently involve collecting samples of food - he is currently encouraging readers of his website (www.magicandaccident.com) to send in recordings of themselves blowing bubblegum. It sounds slightly ridiculous, but somehow it will surely end up sounding extraordinary. Tonight's show summed up both the magic and the accident of this music - the magic of the composition, and the accident of risky, daring electronic improvisation. In the end, it made perfect sense, and never sounded chaotic. My Dad summed it up perfectly: 'I guess he's some kind of genius'. I'll second that.

Whilst the rest of the country debates the pressing issue of ID cards (which, by the way, I do have strong opinions about - but I'll save that for another occasion), I'm currently debating (with myself) whether to spend my money on going to see Kill Bill vol. 2. My tendency towards cynicism has lead me to become increasingly aggravated with the marketing campaign that has accompanied Harvey Weinstein's slashing of the film into two halves. Let's have double the number of promotional appearances, double the number of excessively gushing reviews, two soundtrack albums, double the box office takings. After all, it makes good commercial sense. More significantly, I have substantial misgivings as to whether Tarantino's undeniable qualities as a director (a kinetic visual style, sharp, brazen dialogue, considerable energy) are really enough to ensure a place in the pantheon of greatness. It's all very well to know and love cinema - and to reference it compulsively, but that only works when the basic idea behind the surface sheen is coherent and compelling.

I went into Kill Bill Volume One expecting to love it. What could be better than Uma Thurman brandishing a samurai sword? Whilst it did offer visceral thrills aplenty, there was something missing, and the end result felt to me slightly hollow and indulgent. It offered a very macho revenge fantasy, but simply with a woman carrying out the vengeance. Much of the thrill came from the rabid, grandiose and highly choreographed violence - in fact, the violence provided so much of the film's entertainment that it almost felt pornographic and degrading. This is not to say that I support film censorship, or even abhor the use of cinematic violence. Violence penetrates our world every day, and film-makers as artists may well have something interesting to say about it. Yet, Kill Bill had precious little substance. It didn't dwell too heavily on why Thurman's Bride wanted revenge - only that her actions perpetuated a grim cycle of impulsive, unpreventable violence. She is so ruthless and single-minded in her desire to confront and kill that she almost seems deluded. Compared with Michael Haneke's 'Funny Games' a horrifyingly nasty, but defiantly intelligent examination of apparently motiveless violence which makes its audience complicit in acts of sadistic torture, Tarantino's film seems to give viewers what they want, without ever stopping to ask why they might want it.

Despite these reservations - a niggling doubt remains. Volume One is only half the picture. What is revealed in volume two that might provide some depth or characterisation to this graphic comic book fantasy? Does it, as rumoured, contain more of Tarantino's trademark dynamic use of modern vernacular language? Does it provide us with more backstory? It's hard to see how Thurman's inevitable confrontations with the remaining members of the Deadly Viper Assasination Squad and, ultimately, Bill himself can be anything other than more of the same. If that is the case, then Kill Bill will be a complacent artistic failure (if a considerable commercial success), with considerable style but very little substance. Still, I must find the time to find out for myself...

Similar accusations of style over substance have been levelled at Gus Van Sant's Palme d'Or winning film 'Elephant'. I saw it for a second time in a tremendously powerful double bill with Nick Broomfield's documentary 'Aileen: Life and Death of A Serial Killer' a couple of weeks ago. I was again struck by its chilling, yet etheral atmosphere, and the considerable originality of Van Sant's approach. It's hard to believe that this subtle, quietly compelling and considerably important film was made by the same person who oozed irksome sentimentality in 'Good Will Hunting' and 'Finding Forrester'. Some people seem to have reacted violently against this film, claiming that it is boring, or has little to say about school massacres in America, or both. This is a valid opinion - and I hence warned my friend that 'nothing happens until its inevitable end, when everyone gets shot.' I was delighted when he agreed that such a summary was somewhat crude.

Actually, lots of things happen in 'Elephant'. It is a vividly realised and highly evocative account of everyday high school life, sometimes banal, sometimes affecting - and how easily tragic violence can break into that world. It uses the resources of the cinema with consummate skill - long tracking shots follow unprofessional high school actors up stairs and along corridors, elegantly and naturally capturing the routine of the high school day and the physical environment. These shots, apparently inspired by elusive Hungarian director Bela Tarr, are so meticulously crafted that they have an entrancing beauty of their own. We know very little about the characters other than what we observe through the course of the terrible day that Van Sant films. We see John's problems with his alcoholic father, girls who eat lunch together, argue and then vomit in unison in the school toilets, Elias spends much of the day working on his photography portfolio. Events that may seem minor, such as the corridor greeting between Eli and John, are repeated from different angles, a technique that allows the film to invest considerable gravitas in ordinary lives. The soundtrack makes highly effective use of amplified ambient sound, and together with image, the film has a devastating cumulative effect. For me, the climax of this tightly controlled cinematic crescendo comes when the killers enter the library and, where others are paralysed in fear, Elias completes the final act of capturing them on camera. It's a fleetingly brief moment, but it emphasises perfectly the film's intention of capturing events on film, in a detached and non-judgmental style.

It offers a number of potential explanations as to why its teenage subjects may have been driven to mass murder - they are shown playing violent computer games, ordering weaponry from the internet and shooting targets, watching Nazi video footage and even showering together to release themselves from sexual repression. Van Sant remains admirably distant from any one explanation and instead leaves it entirely to individual viewers to reach their own moral conclusion. Yet, to argue that means that the film is entirely devoid of purpose or impact is arguably narrow-minded. It is not at all exploitative. At the heart of this film is the simple, stark observation that violence can claw into the most ordinary and calm of environments, and disturb them forever with menacing ease. It's a film of tremendous style - elegantly composed, intelligently structured and performed with naturalistic composure. It is also a chilling, provocative meditation on apparently random, motiveless violence.

As a 'fictionalised' account of a high school massacre, it made for an effective counterpoint to Nick Broomfield's documentary feature 'Aileen'. This was also an extraordinary film, and one that dares to pose important questions about the nature of truth, and the dangers of a complacent criminal justice system. It is difficult to know what to believe and what to regard in serial killer Aileen Wuornos' testimony - she repeatedly alters her story about whether or not she murdered in self defence, possibly in an attempt to bring forward the date of her execution and end it all as swiftly as possible. Broomfield's documentary illuminates both the failings of the American justice system and also the failings of society at large (to which lawyers, judges and governors seem spectacularly blind). As America's first female serial killer, Wuornos had clearly been exploited by so many - movie-makers, police and fraudulent lawyers alike. She emerges from this film as an intense, frightening and deluded figure who has herself suffered greatly.

It's possible to argue that Broomfield presents nothing new here - we already know about the archaic, unflappable attitudes of Jeb Bush and the inherent problems with capital punishment. It's in his probing into Wuornos' life and his direct interviews with her that Broomfield is at his most fascinating. He clearly relishes uncovering terrible, grimly fascinating human stories. In previous films, he has risked trivialising his subjects with his deadpan voiceover, and obtrusive boom-microphone. In always showing himself and his equipment on film, I've occasionally felt that Broomfield has made himself his own subject at the expense of the incisiveness of his commentary. Not so, here. In this film, Broomfield is much less invasive, despite being called to appear at appeal hearings himself, and less prepared to take the testimony of others at face value. He has firm opinions and points to make, but is this time more questioning of his approach. The result is arguably his most effective and powerful documentary.

I've had an adventurous week, finding familiar faces in exciting places, if not entirely unexpected ones. I've also been forging new contacts and making movements of my own. I've still yet to reap any reward - but I can justifiably feel a little better about my situation at the moment.

Anyway, at least I'm a new face, rather than one trying to atone for past sins. Morrissey has had a strange decade since the release of the widely panned 'Southpaw Grammar'. He now seems to be finally emerging from his wilderness years, as defiant and controversial as ever. He has reconciled himself with the NME, granting them a full interview, and the release of his new single 'Irish Blood, English Heart' and new album 'You Are The Quarry' is tantalisingly imminent.

I've never been an obsessive Smiths or Morrissey fan, but have rather quietly admired the stature and influence of this eloquent spokesman with exceptionally dry wit. At his best, he is an original and incisive lyricist, with a distinctive singing voice that eschews technical methods both in terms of pitching and phrasing.

It always struck me as bizarre that he was demonised for racism only after brandishing the union jack whilst supporting Madness at Finsbury Park. Race and race relations have been a consistent theme in his solo work - from 'Bengali in Platforms' on his very first album (central lyric: 'life is hard enough when you belong here'), through to his unapologetic new single. His most contentious song, 'The National Front Disco' featured a repeated chant of 'England for the English!'. The album from which it was taken, 'Your Arsenal', was largely well received on its release. Morrissey justified it by claiming he was speaking in character. Yet even in this week's NME, however, he expresses sympathy with the ill-informed populist view of the immigration issue. It is a question, he says, of how many people you continue to let 'flood' into the country, whilst expressing sympathy for the persecuted. I have a problem with this rhetorical language. By implication, it demonises all economic migrants, and ignores the fact that Britain has depended on immigrants for a number of years. What it does indicate, however, is that Morrissey is probably not a racist. I can't imagine him inciting violence against ethnic minorities or anything like that. What he is is someone with a very romantic idea of England, and someone with a strange interest in the development of racist views. In following this interest, he may have merely perpetuated the ignorance he purports to be writing about.

I find it hard to resolve this problem with my undeniable appreciation for his best music. The new single is punchy and crisp, produced by Jerry Finn, who crafted the crystal clean FM punk sound of Blink 182 and Green Day. Yet whilst those bands, despite their penchant for toilet humour, sound sanitised and unremarkable, 'Irish Blood, English Heart' sounds firm and unrepentant. The strange meeting of cult indie hero and mainstream production values appears to have worked a treat. He is, of course, still barking on about the flag. He dreams of a time when he can stand by it without feeling racist or partial, and then goes on to lambast the monarchy. At least in my mind, the Union Jack and the monarchy are intertwined, so I can't help feeling there are inherent contradictions in his worldview. Nevertheless, it's refreshing to hear an uncompromising record which seems to have helped him to regain his position as critical darling of the British music press. Many are saying the new LP is his best since 'Vauxhall and I'. That album, with its charm and intelligence, was as good as anything The Smiths ever produced. Despite his continued courting of controversy, there is much to look forward to and I'm keenly anticipating his homecoming gig at Manchester's MEN Arena.

When I said there was no new music to buy, clearly I was lying. I've been on a bit of a spending spree this week. First into the bag is a delightful EP from Toronto's Hidden Cameras. I've been ranting on about this band's considerable charms for well over a year now, and I've been lucky enough to interview them and enjoy a drink with them in one of Cambridge's premier gay bars (if that isn't a contradiction in terms). They describe their music as 'gay folk church music'. That may make it sound inaccessible, but in reality, it's joyous and inclusive pop, so long as you're open minded enough not to be offended by upfront lyrics about man-on-man action. They manage to combine lo-fi production values with huge, almost excessive arrangements with consummate success. 'The Hidden Cameras play the CBC Sessions' is really a collector's item - a limited edition vinyl only release of six tracks recorded for the Canadian Broadcasting Company. It includes their signature tune 'Music Is My Boyfriend', not available elsewhere and a marvellous version of B-Side 'Worms Cannot Swim Nor Can They Walk' performed completely solo by songwriter and mastermind Joel Gibb. The remaining four tracks are faithful, if slightly more ragged performances of songs from their debut LP of last year, including the sprightly, delightfully catchy anthem 'Breathe On It' and the melancholic charm of 'Boys of Melody'. Wonderful stuff, but probably best to start off with 'The Smell Of Our Own'. Both are available on Rough Trade and there is a new album proper scheduled for release later in the year.

I may well have fallen in love with 'Our Endless Numbered Days', the new album from Iron and Wine. Its rudimentary cover painting, its smelly cheap card sleeve and its stark, finger-picked acoustics exude a defiantly rustic quality. Its a collection of excellent songs, performed in a hushed and restrained style, and with deceptively simple arrangements. The guitar playing is consistently excellent, and Sam Beam's soft, delicate voice imbues the music with an endearing vulnerability. The songs tread over old ground in American folk music, largely concentrating on death and mortality, but with a poetic muse that is somehow both honest and elusive. Melodically, it's fresh and inspired. Musically, it has both activity and breathing space.

Until now, other members of the post-rock ensemble Fridge have remained in the shadow of Kieren Hebden, who has eclipsed the success of his band with his solo output as Four Tet. Now, Adem Ilhan has stepped out of the shadows with a distinctive and affecting solo projects. 'Homesongs' is a collection of recordings made in Adem's warehouse studio, and mixed in collaboration with Hebden. These are sparce folk-tinged songs underpinned by delicate laptop interventions that never feel excessive or intrusive. The lyrics are sometimes a bit twee, but there is genuine emotion on display. This is an album that occupies its own unique space, far from both the math rock intellectualism of Fridge and the pastoral, jazz inflected electronica of Four Tet.

The Great Easter Film Round-Up Part 2

OK so it's a little bit late in the day, but better late than never I guess.

I've recently become very enthusiastic about the films of Billy Wilder. I've always admired Some Like It Hot and The Seven Year Itch for their combination of arch intellect and playful comedy. Over the Easter break, I finally managed to see one of Wilder's many masterpieces Sunset Boulevard. This is simply one of those films that has such stature it is almost beyond criticism. Gloria Swanson revels in overacting as Norma Desmond, the faded silent movie star, living alone save for her Butler in a strange, isolated Hollywood mansion. William Holden plays a struggling screenwriter whose ragged attempts to escape sacrificing his car to bailiffs lead him to her weird world. Tentatively, he agrees to write a script for her, but he soon becomes deeply spellbound by her graceless, tragic decline. She claims 'I'm still a big star - it's just that the films have got smaller!'. In fact, her fan letters are invented by her butler (brilliantly played by Erich Von Stroheim), and her attempts to reignite her partnership with director Cecil B. De Mille (gamely playing himself) are distinctly uncomfortable. Nancy Olsen is vibrant and energetic as the young pretender who comes between them. The performances are pitched perfectly, coping admirably with the demands of an intelligent and powerful script and the tone is tightly controlled. The final conclusion has a grim inevitability which lends it more power. An essential and timeless classic of the cinema.

I'm not sure that I would describe Neil Jordan's The Company of Wolves as a classic, but it certainly compelled me. It's one of those fairytales for adults, where every scene is imbued with psycho-sexual tension, and the world is seen from the primitive gaze of a young girl on the cusp of adolesence. Dreams merge with stories and stories merge with reality, and the structure of the film reflects these themes by being elusive and occasionally confusing. It looks fantastic, there is snow and mist - eerie darkness, and some stunningly nasty visual effects when humans mutate into wolves. This is a nightmarish world where everything is threatening, and where an innocent must confront her innermost fears. The symbolism is occasionally overbearing, and some may balk at the implicit sexualisation of youth. Nevertheless, the film benefits greatly from a confident performance from its young lead and also the commanding presence of Angela Lansbury, who is in her element as the girl's storytelling grandmother. It's not the most subtle piece of cinema, but it is extraordinarily well designed, and for that reason alone both distinctive and impressive.

Film Round-Up

Easter holidays - everything pretty much quiet. No new music in my bag this week - although I've been tempted by the prospect of the new album from Tortoise, may pick that up later. Instead, I've spent most of the week glued to a TV set - and one that, it must be said, is starting to show its age. Most of the films I've watched this week have been bathed in a rich blue light, because the contrast on out TV is so terrible. Anyway, I've always found that holidays are a great time to catch up on classic movies on VHS, so here are just a few that I've seen....

Laurent Cantet's wonderful Time Out definitely stands up to repeated viewings. I saw it in the cinema on its initial release a couple of years ago and found it to be a very striking picture that poses very serious moral questions about the expectations which society places on individuals and the expectations which individuals place upon themselves. The film concerns a man who has lost his job who, rather than face up to the prospect of lengthy unemployment, pretends to continue to go to work, concocting non-existent meetings and business trips in phone conversations with his family. He invents a new, elite position for himself with the UN. He does his research meticulously, and is able to speak convincingly about his role, albeit with a slightly sinister reluctance that does not go unnoticed by his considerate wife. Eventually, his story spirals out of control, as he cons some of his closest friends out of considerable sums of money to fund lavish spending sprees on his family.

The film relies on Aurelien Recoing's extraordinary central performance for its captivating quality. Somehow, he is able to radiate warmth, vulnerability, despair and ruthlessness in equal measure. His character and actions are complex and it is therefore impossible for the audience to jump to swift moral conclusions about his methods or his madness. He is able to communicate a great deal with very minimal actions, and in his conflict between devotion to his family and his inability to confront his fears, he elicits sympathy and revulsion in equal measure.

The quality of the performance is more than matched by the exemplary confidence of Cantet's direction. He is not concerned with sentimental emoting or even the overuse of technique. Instead, he creates dynamic scenes with coiled tensions, and allows them to run for as long as they need to. The pace of the film is remarkably unhurried, and Cantet allows himself to create a sustained and powerful mood. Visually, for me, the best moment in the film came when Recoing's character becomes involved with smuggling contraband goods (watches, designer clothing) across European borders with a kind petty criminal who takes pity on his situation. Their quietly revealing conversation takes place against a night-time journey through heavy snow, set to a deeply affecting string score from Jocelyn Pook.

In writing about the film in The Observer, Philip French claimed that it was ostensibly more about deception than not working. To my mind, this misses the point entirely. At the core of this film is a deceptively simple, remarkably perceptive and entirely valid point. For most people lucky enough to have secure employment in the modern world, work characterises their very existence. It provides routine, order, and constant activity. When it is suddenly and harshly removed, someone's very purpose and character may go with it. The market-driven world in which we live sees human resources as expendable and transferrable - and we regularly expect ordinary working people to endure indignity and move on. Not only this, but we expect them to continue their contribution to society - working their debt nine to five with another grinding routine. The film's closing scene arguably spoils the ambiguity of the preceding climax - but it is there for a purpose. It demonstrates clearly that work is something none of us can avoid for long - this is a world of life experience, transferrable skills and CV points. The final words - 'I'm not scared' are quietly devastating.

Beyond a Reasonable Doubt is the last film the great German director Fritz Lang made in Hollywood. The blurb on the video case proclaims it to be 'a masterly exposition of American justice', whatever that might actually mean. The film itself also seemed slightly uncertain, vascillating between being a bold critique of complacent state prosecution, where manipulative movers and shakers seek convictions and executions above finding the truth, and being a confused thriller, full of twists and turns. Even the central premise of the film - whereby a writer struggling to overcome writer's block frames himself for a murder (with the assistance of a pernicious newspaper editor), is slightly implausible, but forgiveable as a plot construct to make the essential point that it is possible for entirely innocent men to be sentenced to death row. The courtroom scenes are charged with a poweful inevitability and the performances are appropriately steadfast. Perhaps unsurprisingly for a Hollywood film from the 1950s, the female parts are slightly underwritten, with Joan Fontaine's suffering but dutiful wife only finding her own space towards the end of the film. The directing is assured, with some careful staging and subtle editing, but any moral point made by the film is surely undermined by the final twist. (If you intend to see the film - I'd avise you to stop reading now as I will only spoil it for you).

It eventually turns out that, despite planting evidence at the scene necessary to condemn him, that the writer did have a former connection with the murdered club girl and had killed her after all. Of course, he did it to protect his loving wife -but this final scene is hurried and entirely unconvincing. There will of course be no final pardon - and he is marched back off to death row. The concluding implication therefore seems to be that the death penalty system is fine if it condemns genuine murderers, but problematic only when it convicts the innocent. It would be churlish to expect enlightened liberalism in Hollywood during this era, but the preceding hour of the film had seemingly attempted to show how difficult it is to establish truth beyond a reasonable doubt. Maybe this final undignified flourish adds effectively to our confusion - but I can't help feeling that it poses more questions than it answers, and at less than 80 minutes, the film is slightly too brief to deal adequately with such weighty issues. A much more successful crime film from Lang is 1939's 'M', which is a genuinely chilling and supremely measured presentation of a child killer and the violent reactions to his killings in a German city.

I felt it was about time I saw a John Cassavetes film, having read a fascinating article in Sight and Sound magazine about the two considerably different versions of 'Shadows', considered by many to be his masterpiece. I picked out a copy of The Killing of A Chinese Bookie, admittedly enticed by its unusually convoluted title. This is certainly extremely different from any kind of American film I'd seen before. It is utterly distinctive in its aversion to style and technique. There is atmosphere for sure - a number of the scenes are dark and moody, but more often or not the look of the film is refreshingly amateurish - with jerky camera motions tracking characters through corridors and darkened rooms. Ben Gazzara gives a naturalistic and affecting performance as Cosmo Vitelli, a strip club manager who is forced to murder to repay his debts to the mob. His face eludes perennial sadness and regret, and his big personal compromise is convincingly played. It's certainly arguable that the darkened appearance and mood of the film appropriately reflects his own dark personal dilemma.

The problem for me is that the film is simply too existential. There is really only cursory examination of Vitelli's relationship with those who work for him and thos he is close to. His final speech is moving - but has he really earnt our sympathy. After all, he has committed murder. Some have praised Cassavetes for his character development in this film - but I couldn't really see too much of it outside Vitelli's own personal nightmare. It has an elusive visual narrative - but, despite its feature length, the full force of the plot seems strangely compacted. Many of the extended scenes seem more concerned with atmosphere and tension than with actually exploring the moral issues at the heart of the film. It's worth watching for its distinctive approach, but it has as many flaws as virtues.

Part 2 of the Great Easter Film Round-Up will come tomorrow....

On The Cusp of History

One of the most exciting things about being an historian (stop laughing at the back) is finding a document that gives strong indication of transition or change, maybe even revolution. Sometimes these changes are not even conscious - they are just implied in texts produced at a precise moment in time. Change and development through history is rarely linear, often cyclical, and it rarely happens overnight - but it's a real pleasure to find clear examples of it.

Such is the feeling I get when listening to the latest edition in the ongoing Bootleg Series of rare material and live concerts from Bob Dylan. In fact, Live 1964: The Halloween Concert is almost as fascinating for its value as a historical document as it is for the wonderful music it contains. It captures a young Dylan on the cusp of a major transition, one that would completely revolutionize music. Here, he performs the old protest songs so admired at the time for their courageous sermonising, but he also plays many of the love songs that had offended many on the 'Another Side of Bob Dylan' album. He delivers tentative versions of wildly original new material that would later appear on the acoustic side of 'Bringing It All Back Home' album. It was this album where Dylan first introduced an electric band to his songs and started to forge what he called 'that wild mercury sound'. Dylan would return to Britain to play an acoustic tour in 1965, but by then 'Subterranean Homesick Blues' had already created shock and awe among the Dylan fanbase, and the snarling, sniping sturm und drang of 'Positively 4th Street' and 'Like A Rolling Stone' were just around the corner. The film of that tour shows a confrontational, intelligent, but uncompromisingly facetious Dylan, clearly bored with much of the material he was performing.

That confrontation is not apparent on Live 1964. Certainly, by playing unfamiliar material such as 'It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)' and 'Gates of Eden' he challenges his audience to wade their way what must have sounded like epic poetry in stunned silence, but he is also in deeply playful spirit. At this show, he had an extraordinary rapport with his audience. 'Don't be scared', he says at one point - 'it's just Halloween, and I've got my Bob Dylan mask on. I'm masquerading!' What a characteristically brilliant remark that alerts us to the fact that this is not Robert Zimmerman, but Dylan, a master songwriter and entertainer. He frequently laughs, even forgets the first line of 'I Don't Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met)' and has to get audience members to help him out. The audience love it - from the big cheer that greets 'Who Killed Davey Moore', a song that had not even been issued on record, to the roars of liberated hilarity during that masterful song of seduction 'If You Gotta Go...'. The Bob Dylan of today is a much more elusive figure - still iconic, but largely unprepared to interact with his audience in such a playful way.

The new songs are extraordinary performances, despite some of the lines being fudged. 'It's Alright Ma' is slow and full of twists and turns, the vivid lyrics phrased in a way that is both innovative and controlled. 'Gates of Eden' is mystical and enigmatic - the performance here is full of clarity and tension, even if the audience may have been confused about just what the hell their hero was singing about. He gets huge ovations at the end of both, indicating that this audience was prepared to let him progress from singing political protests, even from singing love songs.

The first half of the concert gives free reign to the literary, poetic Dylan with his baffling images and imaginative phrases that now such a part of modern vernacular. The second half of the concert is perhaps more crowd-pleasing, although the melody to 'Don't Think Twice' is given a fearsome reinvention. Joan Baez contributes to four tracks that today sound a less impressive, and somewhat of their time. Their harmonising together is consistently uneasy, occasionally even painful, at its best on 'Mama You've Been On My Mind', at its worst on a hurried 'With God On Our Side', which largely buries the moving quality of the recorded version. For the encore, Dylan gets numerous requests, even one for Mary Had A Little Lamb. 'God, did I record that?' he sniggers, 'Is that a protest song?' In light of that final serio-comic repudiation of his spokesman status, the most appropriate song may well have been 'My Back Pages'. Instead, Dylan plays a howling, hilarious take on 'All I Really Want To Do', his language at its most inventive, his voice at its most harsh and untamed. How wrong his critics were at this point - the songs on 'Another Side...' were complex, but simultaneousy hugely affecting. He had just begun to emphasise the more individual, human side of his art. They remain highlights of his catalogue.

This album is unlikely to convert any people that find Dylan's untechnical, nasal singing unpleasant - although his claim in 'Don't Look Back' that he hit all the notes he wanted to hit seems justified in the light of this superb performance. His phrasing is precise and clear, his voice carried by a striking power and conviction. It is deeply fascinating to hear Dylan captured at the point of no return - soon he would alienate old folkies forever and deliver the body of work that still mesmerises today. In the performances he gives here, there are the signals of a consummate performer who, whilst looking back to his folk heroes such as Woody Guthrie, had no choice but to follow his ceaseless inspiration. It's a marvellous package, with personal and informed sleevenotes from Sean Wilentz and many evocative photographs. The sound is excellent, and the recording captures the atmosphere of the occasion with masterly authority.

The Scotch

A friend of mine with a misanthropic sense of humour has recently taken to transferring the comic vitriol usually directed against Jews and homosexuals to the Scots. I don't think he really hates 'the Scotch', any more than he hates Jews or gays (hey, he even has some very close Jewish friends), it's just easy to use them as targets for his hyperactive wit. Aside from the fact that they seem to be able to decide government policy in England whilst apparently leaving us very little power to influence anything on their side of the border, I would rather not be so bold as to attack Scots or their fine land. In fact, having just returned from north of the border, I can say I've been very much refreshed by my weekend break - some coastal fresh air and sunshine is always welcome. In fact, I'm refreshed enough to write about Scotland's best export.....

No, not Scotch whisky, but Teenage Fanclub of course. Anyone who knows me will no doubt attest that they are one of my favourite bands. Why? Not because of their musicality - they are more than adequate players, but not particularly audacious or inventive. It's because of their sublime songwriting - which is as honest, affecting and touching as anything I've heard. They are a band I hope never try to reinvent themselves - they don't need beats or samples to make their music sound fresh. Instead, it's a chiming, timeless sound, strongly influenced by great American pop music - The Byrds and Big Star particularly. Their critics find them too close to Big Star's sound for comfort - but they miss the fact that, initially at least, they found favour in America with the same community that lauded Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. Their critics are also blind to the subtle evolution in their sound - from the melodic but grungey sound of 'Bandwagonesque' and 'Thirteen', through to the full harmony and country-tinged melancholy of 'Grand Prix' and 'Songs From Northern Britain'.

Like the Beatles, they are blessed not just with one or two great songwriters, but three. Norman Blake has been the most consistently and dependably marvellous, from early classics like 'God Knows It's True' and 'The Concept', to the quietly ambitious 'Did I Say', a beautiful new tune recorded for their recent greatest hits collection. He has always been able to capture straightforward emotional truths with a sincerity that always seems natural, never earnest. A simple declaration of love in a Norman Blake song never sounds trite or sentimental, just joyous and life affirming. 'I Don't Want Control Of You' is arguably his most direct and most successful song, with a glorious melody and crystalline production that not even an unnecessary cheesy key change can ruin. Gerry Love has been more unpredictable - occasionally edgy, otherwise direct, he often reaches similar results to Blake through a more roundabout process. His advice for us to 'Take The Long Way Round' is worth heeding, 'Going Places' has a delightfully catchy arrangement and 'Sparky's Dream' was a rare and much-deserved chart hit. Raymond McGinley has tended to be more obtuse. enigmatic, even occasionally more aggressive. He has taken longer to really impress as a songwriter. On 'Grand Prix' he produced two gems, the strident opener 'About You' and the slightly bitter 'Verisimilitude'. His best song is, unsurprisingly, his least convoluted and most shamelessly direct, 'Your Love Is The Place Where I Come From'. I simply adore this song - from the delicate vocal harmonies that only come in during the second voice, to its subtle modification of traditional pop song structure, even its comedy golckenspiel part is heartwarming, and is always visually exaggerated during gigs. His contribution to the greatest hits package -'The World'll be OK' is also brilliant - a slow-burner for sure, McGinley's songs always seem slightly more intellectual and deliberate, but it features some genuinely excellent guitar playing and a touching lyric.

I love this band because they are reliable. When you go to a TFC gig, you know what you will get - there will be no confrontational shunning of popular songs, there will be spirited performances, exhuberant guitar solos that buzz with energy rather than ego or virtuosity, even some amusing onstage banter. There will be no visuals or performance art. Just the songs, which surely speak for themselves. It's criminal that these songs have always been so undervalued and under-promoted. 'Grand Prix' looked like it might join the Britpop bandwagon - and it was so much more worthy of gold or platinum status than Menswear, or even Supergrass and Oasis. Event though it sold respectably, there were no number ones. Nevertheless, they soldier on, despite lack of record label support, and are currently making a new album. I simply can't wait.

Re:Invention

£150?!?! Think about it, pop fans. Someone is having a laugh at your expense. This is the cost of the best seats for Madonna's one night only show at Earls Court as part of her Re:Invention tour. If you can only afford a mere £50 you'll have to be content to sit at the very back, content to watch a mere speck dancing around the stage. Still, at least the speck will probably change costume quite a lot. Are 101 costume changes really worth that kind of money though - and is it really worth £100 more to be at the very front of Earls Court - that place is a cavernous hell hole regardless of where you're seated. I won't be attending - but I'm hoping the title of the tour isn't a misnomer. For much of her career, Madonna has made self-reinvention a habit, cultivating a perpetually shifting image and persona. In recent years, however, she seems to have settled into a more predictable maturity. She had become consistent and dependable. Occasionally, this has produced fantastic pop music (most of 'Ray of Light' and the less self-conscious moments on 'Music'). The 'American Life' album seems a little staid and graceless - it's no real step forward from 'Music' and doesn't seem to add much to her iconic legend. She's never been the greatest of singers either - she can hold a tune, but has little expression or control. She is therefore better described as an intelligent entertainer. At that price, she had better be entertaining - she had better re-invent herself again.

Another artist seemingly obsessed with re-invention is Prince. And he's back on a major record label. Sony have agreed to distribute his new album 'Musicology' worldwide. It's not as if Prince ever went away - initially his irrational madness and impulsive behaviour made for entertaining speculation, even whilst the quality of his output was deteriorating markedly. More recently, however, he seems to have become an elusive, even marginal figure. Reportedly an active Jehovah's Witness - and making preposterous concept albums such as N.E.W.S. available from his website, he has remained prolific, without connecting with the millions of people that admire his best work. I heard the title track from the new album on radio 2 last night - which was bizarre in itself - it's been ages since I last heard a brand new Prince track on a national radio network. It's instantly recognisable as Prince - and is characterised by his full and adventurous vocal arrangements. Musically, it doesn't sound all that audacious, despite its lack of formal structure, but that's maybe just because Prince pushed the envelope as far as he could during the 80s with his string of classic albums. Nobody else has produced a body of work as consistently astonishing as his albums from Dirty Mind through to Sign O' The Times, certainly not his legions of imitators. It seems that now he's re-embraced the name everyone knows so well, and returned to the commercial world, we'll be hearing a lot more of him.

Reinvention is certainly the name of the game on the new album from Bonnie 'Prince' Billy. Will Oldham has obviously enjoyed confounding expectations here, taking a fan-voted selection of his greatest songs under the Palace moniker, and re-recording them with a selection of extremely proficient Nashville session musicians. Much of this album is remarkably cheesy - there are full vocal choirs, glockenspiels, unashamed lead guitar frills and even sax solos. None of these things are what we have come to expect from the usually stark, darkly humorous songs of the last three Bonnie 'Prince' Billy albums. Some of the songs actually benefit from unrestrained and expansive arrangements. 'Ohio River Boat Song' - essentially a folk song in its original form anyway - works perfectly as a slice of honky tonk Americana, with plenty of rapturous pedal steel. The new version of 'Riding' is as dark as anything he's produced, with a sinister string arrangement from the extremely talented Andrew Bird (check out his album 'Weather Systems' on Fargo records - it's well worth a listen). Elsewhere, Oldham just seems to revel in pushing things to almost comic extremes - the cooing choir on 'The Brute Choir' being the most obvious example. 'New Partner', one of his very best songs, is smothered in brass and guitar for an almost gospel re-take. I find it undeniably stirring, but some people seem to resent Oldham for burying the tune at the heart of the song. Whatever your take on these new recordings - they certainly make for a striking contrast with the sparce, occasionally aimless atmospherics of his last album ('Master and Everyone'). At the very least, they make a convincing case for Oldham as a significant artist, striving not to repeat himself. He is still a genuine original, sometimes deeply moving, often wilfully unpredictable.

So - what am I doing to re-invent myself? At the very least, I'm going to enjoy my trip to Scotland this weekend, which is a well-earned break and a chance to catch up with some close friends. I'm in a state of limbo, not writing or recording music, barely even performing it, certainly not working with it. I need to kick some doors down, create something interesting, vent my frustrations, be more pro-active.

This is the first post - so perhaps it's understandable that I'm experiencing a little performance anxiety. So far today has been one of those days where minor cock-ups have dominated. I've lost my wallet and subequently discovered I left it in a car. I've spilt water everywhere, spoiling some important documents. Anyway, I'll do my best. What you can expect from this blog is lots about the music and film I like, and most likely even more about what I adamantly dislike (I have to admit that I'm much better at articulating negative reactions than positive ones). So plenty about culture. I'll try and keep politics to a minimum - but there will no doubt come a time when I'll be unable to resist it.

Highlight of my week so far has been seeing Hot Chip live at the XFM X-Posure night at the Barfly on Monday. OK, so I'm biased as I used to play drums for them - and since then, I've seen them play roughly the same set about 100 times. Yet, there is no denying that they keep getting better and better. There's real humour and shameless energy in their performance now, and a genuine sense that they really are enjoying what they do. In a world where the worthless po-faced anthemic indie of Keane can grace the top 10 I find their poptastic synth crusading deeply encouraging. They've been described by the NME as 'gameboy bedroom funk' (or something along those lines). This is clearly meant as a complement, but it's a bit misleading. This is not computer game music - it's party music, with intelligent wordplay and celebratory conviction. When I was in Hot Chip, the band definitely had a split personality - divided between guitar-led mordant reflection (which many people compared with Will Oldham) and Timbaland/Neptunes inspired electronica. With 'Keep Falling' and 'The Ass Attack', they have possibly pushed the latter to a dizzying zenith. Whilst they now integrate together on stage perfectly (all five are staged in a line formation at the front of the stage) the path ahead is surely to re-introduce some of the more ponderous and reflective elements to their music. At the moment 'Krap Kraft Dinner' does this most effectively. At the very least, it has an irresistable chorus. I'm sure there will be many similar gems on the forthcoming debut album 'Coming On Strong', out in June on Moshi Moshi records. Check out their website for more details, they're always gigging (www.hotchip.co.uk).

I've picked up a few interesting records this week. 'The Pyramid Electric Co.' is actually the new album from Jason Molina, who now seems to trade under a variety of enigmatic monikers, including Songs:Ohia and The Magnolia Electric Co. Whereas his previous album was with an electric band, with substantial arrangements underpinned by a defiantly raw production, this is skeletal, underplayed and uncompromising. It contains just seven songs, most of them very long, some of them slightly meandering. All benefit from a palpably eerie atmosphere, and some wonderfully restrained guitar playing. Molina's voice is as striking as ever, and his bleak worldview is conveyed with striking clarity. With the benefit of a few more listens, this may prove to be his most original recording yet. It's available on vinyl (with a free CD version inside the sleeve) from Secretly Canadian records.

The wonderful Sufjan Stevens has returned with 'Seven Swans', unbelievably his first official UK release. Stevens is a musical chameleon who has produced splendid, lavishly arranged orch-pop with his last album 'Michigan' as well as some largely unlistenable electronica. This new venture gathers together the tracks that didn't fit on the 'Michigan' album, and mercifully seems to represent a retreat from his modest proposal to record an album for all 50 US States (after all, he can only stall for inspiration when he gets to Kansas, surely?). It's more economic than 'Michigan', and many of the songs build to cumulative effect. There's a lot of unadorned banjo playing, which is remarkably refreshing. His voice is soft and understated whilst the songs are suitably lilting. What is certainly new here is a religious dimension to the lyrics - a lot of vengeance and divine justice, demons and witches. I've yet to decide whether or not he's striving too hard for profundity. In terms of its sound though, this is as captivating and compelling an album as you might expect to hear all year.

I'd hate to end on a positive note - so I'll sign off today with a rant. Now I'm not a musical snob - I can admire pop music as much as the next man, but how shit is 'Amazing' by George Michael? In our office, we have radio 2 on all day and they seem to be forcing it upon us at least once an hour. It's that horrible leap between notes when he sings 'I think it's amaaaa-zing!' that makes me cringe most. Completely irrational, I know, but it's irksome. That coupled with the fact that the production is so bland and the lyrics so painfully earnest is causing me to suffer unwanted bouts of nausea at all-too-predictable intervals during the day.

A long post - I'll be doing some job applications tonight so no doubt there will be plenty of ranting about online forms in the next few days...