R.E.M. - Around The Sun

After a body of work that has been stunning in its consistent artistry, it seems that R.E.M.'s thirteenth album has proved to be the unlucky one. I have defended this band at length against a media backlash that started around the release of 'Up' in 1997 and never quite seemed to dissipate. It seemed to me that the majority of critics completely failed to recognise that 'Up' was a corageous and powerful redefinition of the band's aound following the departure of Bill Berry. Most opted to ignore Michael Stipe's dramatic shift to more open, less elusive lyrics on this album, and therefore missed the entirely aposite juxtaposition of compelling honesty against stark, more electronic backdrops. The songwriting on 'Up' ranked with the band's very best work, and despite personal difficulties at the time, they sounded awesome on the supporting tour. 'Reveal' at least partially continued the new dynamic following Berry's departure, but this time the electronic textures felt more hazy and unfocussed. Still, the bulk of 'Reveal' was still excellent, with some emotive melodies and some of the most powerful vocal performances of Michael Stipe's career. Unfortunately, I find it difficult to offer much of a defence for 'Around The Sun'.

With this album, the band seem to have built on the more unsatisfactory elements of 'Reveal' and built an entire album around them. It is almost entirely comprised of ballads, a handful of them undeniably powerful, most of them nondescript, meandering and rooted firmly to the ground. The use of electronics on 'Up' created a palpable atmosphere and added drama, but here the endless use of swathes of synth pads feels like an attempt to cover up shortcomings in the songwriting department. Yet, this is probably the least notable fault among many in the arrangements of these songs. For the most part, Peter Buck's trademark Byrdsian folk twang appears to have been banished, and the guitars (mostly acoustic) seem content to strum blandly. Whilst the band seem to have spent much of the time following 'Automatic For The People' trying to escape the southern gothic folk sound they so masterfully created, this is the first post-Automatic album that really feels stuck for ideas.

It's not all bad, though. Many of the songs here are growers. First single 'Leaving New York' has a similar charm to 'Daysleeper' and benefits greatly from a fantastic vocal arrangement in its chorus. It's one of the few songs here that really hits emotionally. 'The Outsiders' at least sounds interesting, with its unusual rhythms and eerie atmospherics, although I'm not convinced that letting Q Tip rap over it was the smartest move. 'Make it all Okay' is shamelessly schmaltzy, albeit in a grandiose, Jimmy Webb-esque way. 'Final Straw' disappointed me on first hearing last year, but stands out amongst the drab company here. 'I Wanted To Be Wrong' is at least pretty.

Elsewhere, though, the results are less successful. 'Electron Blue' aims for the same electronic territory as the wonderful 'I've Been High' from 'Reveal', but entirely lacks that song's enticing textures. It sounds forced and strained. 'High Speed Train' has a somewhat aimless melody, and its background effects swoosh and swoon without really adding or detracting from what is essentially an entirely unremarkable song. It's topped off with some of Stipe's least convincing romantic lyrics, and, oh God save us, a Spanish guitar solo. Both 'The Worst Joke Ever' and 'The Boy In The Well' have promise (and great titles), but are constricted by relentlessly strumming guitars and pounding piano. They at least have some of the more inventive melodies here.

The real problem is the consistently leaden, plodding pace that this album has assumed. It seems that the band made a conscious decision to expunge the rockier tracks recorded at the sessions (which, lest we forget, have taken two years for the band to complete). Whilst many of the lesser songs here might be interesting or diverting in isolation, in the context of the entire album, they sound completely inauspicious. The only break from the slow stride comes with the almost unfeasible jaunty 'Wanderlust', which bears a strong resemblance to 'Smile' by The Supernaturals (and therefore also indeed to 'Crouch End', one of this writer's less impressive musical ventures!). It is at least a departure for the band in terms of sound, but even in its bouncy form, it sounds tentative and unconvincing. R.E.M. songs in the past have tended to grow, both lyrically and musically, from start to finish, but the songs here seem to lack emphasis, purpose and direction. 'The Boy In The Well' and 'The Ascent of Man' are both bolstered by some electric guitars, but again sound afraid of being beefed up too much lest they offend anyone. 'New Adventures in Hi Fi' or 'Document' this is not.

Which brings us to the final issue to consider. Whilst the band recently seem to have grown more than a little tired of answering questions about their politics, Michael Stipe did make a point in interview about this record being inspired by the current state of the world. Most of the songs again seem personal and intoverted, occasionally characteristically enigmatic and frustrating. Only with 'Final Straw', their strangely muted response to the Iraq war, and with a telling line from the title track ('I wish the followers would lead with a voice so strong it would knock me to my knees') can any political motivations really be intimated. The righteous anger that fuelled their mid-eighties work certainly does not seem to rage here, despite the obvious easy targets.

Listening to this album again as I'm writing this, I feel compelled to offer the caveat that many of the more nondescript songs do seem to offer greater reward on repeated listen, and the whole album may well be one that needs time to work its magic ('Up' certainly did, and many critics were not prepared to afford it any). This time round, however, that does feel like the R.E.M. fan in me attempting to defend what is ostensibly a patchy and unmoving record. As a mature, late-period work, it certainly does not seem to offer the same excitement and humour as the excellent new Nick Cave albums, which I shall get round to reviewing shortly....

Elvis Costello - The Delivery Man

Sometimes it feels like John Kell and I are the only people left on the planet who still await every new Elvis Costello album with keen anticipation. Not even last year's admittedly treacly 'North' has lowered my high expectations of this new project, for which Costello has concocted a song cycle based on a central character (Abel - the Delivery Man), and his relationship with three different women. Sometimes these women are given their own voices, which has given Costello the opportunity to collaborate with two of his favourite female singers, the gutsy Lucinda Williams and the heavenly Emmylou Harris. Given this information, I have to admit that I was expecting 'The Delivery Man' to be a return to the rootsy country sound of 'King of America'. In fact, it transpires that there are plenty of moments that sound closer in spirit to Costello's other landmark release of 1986 'Blood and Chocolate', a visceral masterpiece and one of the finest albums of the 1980s. 'The Delivery Man' is therefore the follow-up proper to Costello's first release with the Imposters, 'When I Was Cruel'. Given its five-star rating in Mojo, and broadly positive reviews elsewhere, this is an album that has forced critics usually indifferent to Costello's later work to finally start recognising his quality.

Where 'When I Was Cruel' deployed production techniques, drum loops and adventurous arrangement to modernise Costello's approach, 'The Delivery Man' is notable for the rawness of its sound. It is hard-hitting, clattering and immediate, characterised by the rampaging energy of its backing bands. Even its ballads sound pure, striking and stripped of affectations. Costello's voice, still beoming more convincing with each album he releases, is frequently left exposed. There are some occasions where it cracks slightly, and therefore lends the material an appealing vulnerability. The drum sound is particularly riotous, rough and boomy, and reminds me a little of the clattering skeletal kit used so effectively on 1994's 'Brutal Youth'. In essence, the production is bare and unobtrusive, and there are numerous hints of earlier work. Like all Costello albums, however, 'The Delivery Man' coheres marvellously, and stands as another distinctive work in one of the most impressive catalogues in pop history. It would be stretching the truth to proclaim 'The Delivery Man' as one of Costello's most original albums, but it certainly packs a powerful punch that allows for both highly positive first impressions and a lingering sense of its achievement. It is an album with clear reference points, both to the popular music that Costello admires, and also to certain points in his own mighty back catalogue.

If the blast of distorted pop that was '45' served as an opening statement of intent on 'When I Was Cruel', 'Button My Lip' outperforms that function for 'The Delivery Man'. It is based on a minimal arrangement and forceful vocal presence, underpinned by some rampant drumming, guitar outbursts, and an impressively unrestrained Steve Nieve's, whose unpredictable stabbing chords and ingenious quotations from Bernstein's 'America' make this one of the album's most entertaining cuts. It is followed, somewhat uncomfortably, by the soul-tinged country of 'Country Darkness', which is bolstered by some wonderfully lilting pedal steel from John McPhee and a chorus of exceptional quality. The juxtaposition sets up the dual personality that characterises 'The Delivery Man'. Perhaps more than any other Costello album, it seems consciously divided between raucous explosions of energy and emotive white soul ballads. One of the more negative comments I've read about this album came in a review in Time Out, which claimed that Costello desparately wanted to occupy the hybrid country-soul territory so brilliantly claimed by Dan Penn, but that he had neither the songwriting instincts nor the vocal chops to manage it. Whilst Dan Penn is undoubtedly fair reference point, I would more than dispute the claim made by the reviewer - and this is my cue for a somewhat lengthy digression....

...Costello has received so much criticism over the past fifteen years or so for distancing himself from his volatile, angry and spiky past from critics seemingly desparate for him to remake 'Thie Year's Model' every time he releases a new album. The easiest target have been his excursions into classical music and 'jazz' (although I would strongly debate that that term really applies to either 'North' with its dinner club, sugary balladry or 'Painted From Memory', with its admittedly schmaltzy, but mostly successful orchestral arrangements). Over the course of a restlessly inventive and consistently intelligent career, it's hardly as if he hasn't earned the right to embrace unfamiliar forms. If they are not always successful, they are at least healthy signs that Costello is an artist disinclined to remain static. Anyone who has read his greatest albums article in Vanity Fair will appreciate the tremendous breadth of his musical knowledge, and this undoubtedly makes his more recent endeavours make much more sense. He has also taken a great deal of flak more generally for his concentration on the ballad form. These criticisms first started to rear their ugly head with the release of 'All This Useless Beauty'. This album was widely criticised because it consisted mostly of songs written for other people, but I would argue that it is a more cohesive work than many gave it credit for, and the first time when Costello's love of soul music was really given free reign. It contained a number of stirring mid-tempo ballads, particularly outstanding were Why Can't A Man Stand Alone', 'Poor Fractured Atlas', and 'The Other End of the Telescope'. If 'When I Was Cruel' largely eschewed the ballad template, Costello has returned to it again with considerable success on 'The Delivery Man'. The connection between the ballads of 'ATUB' and 'The Delivery Man' is brought home to me by the presence here of 'Either Side of The Same Town', a song co-written with the Stateside records writer and producer Jerry Ragovoy, who helped pen a number of hits for the sublime Garnett Mimms in the 1960s. It is highly reminiscent stylistically of 'Why Can't A Man Stand Alone', a song originally written for soul legend Sam Moore. Also present is a version of 'The Judgement', a song originally penned for the gigantic presence that is Solomon Burke.

Some of the best tracks here feature the peerless harmony vocals of Emmylou Harris. Whilst her recent albums have established her as an outstanding singer-songwriter in her own right, its easy to forget that she remains one of the very greatest duet vocalists in the world. Costello has gone on record to state his admiration for the duets Harris recorded with the legendary Gram Parsons, and its clear that these tracks at the very least represent a tip of the hat to those timeless songs. I was a little concerned that the Costello/Harris collaboration could result merely in two utterly distinctive voices battling to be heard, much like the harsh conflict between the voices of Joan Baez and Bob Dylan. This fear thankfully proves to have been completely unfounded. Harris remains a deftly controlled and ethereal presence, complementing Costello's compelling vibrato with consummate ease. 'Heart Shaped Bruise' is simply gorgeous, a touching and affecting lament with carefully controlled vocal performances. 'Nothing Clings Like Ivy' is, true to its title, also a song that lingers powerfully in the mind. Both strive for the same timeless quality that informs the duets of Parsons/Harris or George Jones and Tammy Wynette. 'The Scarlet Tide', another duet with Harris, closes the album, but sounds slightly incongruous, stripped back to just ukelelee and voice. It has an appalachian feel, but also bears a striking resemblance to the sound of the Magnetic Fields on their recent album 'i'.

Elswhere, there is rollicking clamour and clang. 'Bedlam' rattles along with an insistent energy and drive, with the same kind of spirit that made '15 Petals' one of the highlights on 'When I Was Cruel'. On 'There's A Story In Your Voice', Costello duels with a marvellously slurred and drawling Lucinda Williams. 'Needle Time', whilst only marginally less rancorous musically, features a wonderfully snarling vocal. These tracks once again demonstrate that the ensemble playing of the Imposters is simply peerless. Steve Nieve is particularly outstanding, his piano playing informed by gospel and blues and lending both a learned and attacking quality to the music. Those critics who have chastised Costello for decaying into 'soft' maturity ought to take note, and then return to 'Brutal Youth', 'All This Useless Beauty' and 'When I Was Cruel' and discover how excellent they all are. Perhaps best of all is the title track, caught somewhere more unusual between the ballad and the belter and defined by its steady shifting of time signatures. It's a story song of sorts, and it casts a mysterious and brooding shadow. The playing is subtle and distinguished.

It's also worth pointing out that Costello is mostly on winning form lyrically as well. 'When I Was Cruel' certainly had its fair share of mordant observations and impassioned snarls, but it also occasionally suffered from laboured rants and muddled metaphors ('she had the attention span of warm cellophane' springs to mind). Here, both when in character and when not, he demonstrates his talent for writing barbarous, pithy diatribes on human relationships. and tension between the sexes. It's not without humour too - 'Monkey To Man' is an inspired update of Dave Bartholomew's 'The Monkey', and 'The Delivery Man' contains the line 'in a certain light he looked like Elvis'. There is nothing here that seems forced or unnatural, and even when he is clearly referencing established greats, Costello's own distinctive voice cuts through. He has gone on record to state that 'The Delivery Man' contains some of his best recorded singing. He is right. His voice has developed into a versatile and convincing instrument, with impressive power and range.

In essence, 'The Delivery Man' is a dependably excellent album, which sees Costello extending his reach, often looking backwards in order to move forwards. It is packed with outstanding ensemble performances and tenacious, compelling songwriting. Rant over. Go buy it.

Old Film - New Soundtrack

Squeezing into Trafalgar Square for a screening of Sergei Eisenstein's masterful 1925 film The Battleship Potemkin was one of the strangest experiences I've had this year. This is a silent movie - one of the early giants of the cinema, and a film that still regularly makes critics' top 100 lists. Nevertheless, it is a film that is not regularly screened in cinemas anymore. Were it to be screened in one of London's dwindling number of arthouse cinemas, it would probably struggle to get an audience of a few hundred. Shown on an enormous screen in Trafalgar Square - it drew an audience of thousands.

Of course, this was not really due to the film, but more because the Pet Shop Boys had composed a new soundtrack for it, and would be performing it live with an orchestra. The large crowds still strike me as a bit incongruous - the publicity had made it quite clear that the band would not be performing any of their hits, and their recent albums have been their least inspired and least commercially successful. In essence, it has been some time since Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe were big pop players. Perhaps this new project, commissioned by the ICA, could offer them a new opportunity to connect with a mass audience, whilst also regenerating their art.

Well, not quite. Arriving late and missing the first twenty minutes of the film proved to be an unwittingly clever move. Whilst those packed into the square apparently struggled to see the screen, we had a clear view, albeit from a distance. Despite considering myself something of a film buff these days, I had not seen the movie before, and watching its succession of violently powerful images left me genuinely moved. I was aware of the famous staircase massacre sequence, but had not prepared myself for its devastating effect, or of the balletic flow of its staging, or the technical brilliance of its editing. I have little conception of how Eisenstein managed to make a film with such masterful craft in 1925.

I had more mixed feelings towards the music. I've always seen the Pet Shop Boys as one of the more arch and intelligent 80s pop acts, but the few lyrics that Tennant had composed for this work seemed reductive, perhaps even bordering on inane. You could argue that the repeated chants of 'all for one for freedom' captured the sloganeering, propagandist fervour associated with revolution, but for me they did not really chime with the images of the film, which seemed to transcend the restrictions of simplistic language. The reprise of that particular section for an encore proved to be complete overkill (it had already appeared at least twice during the film) and merely cemented this impression.

It's arguable that there was also too much music. The few moments of silence were agonisingly brief. Sometimes the mechanistic electro pop worked well, particularly with the motions of the ships or the images of the initial uprising. Elsewhere, the sounds tended towards the intrusive. From a distance, it was difficult to tell the extent to which it was being performed live - the band and their musicians were there, but it all sounded a little too perfect, not least Neil Tennant's voice, which had been heavily processed with effects. Perhaps the band intended to give the sounds an ethereal gloss, but I often felt that the images demanded something more visceral or emotionally affecting. Nevertheless, there were moments when sound and image worked harmoniously - and these proved to be the moments that still linger in the mind - the shock shooting of mother and baby on the Odessa steps, the fleet of smaller ships sailing elegantly, one man 'murdered for a bowl of soup'.

If this was not entirely successful - it was exactly the kind of event which should be encouraged in London's public spaces. It was free for all, a valiant attempt to introduce something of artistic value to a wider audience, and also a creative enterprise to produce something both challenging and stimulating. I do hope that the organisers rise above some of the more banal criticism from the public and the press, address some of the logistical difficulties, and organise more similar events in the future.

Back in the glorious winter of 1997, I remember staying up to the small hours with a good friend and musical collaborator composing a song we then considered to be a mini-masterpiece. In the cocksure spirit of late adolescence, we named it 'The Sound and The Fury', after William Faulkner's great novel, one of the classics of twentieth century American fiction. I remember being dismayed when, on performing it (albeit with the slight reticence that comes with such intimate airings of new songs) to friends and relatives, many seemed perplexed. They thought that it had 'too many sections'. Actually, it only had a verse, a chorus, an instrumental bridge back to a second verse and chorus and an extended coda with silly guitar solo at the end. It was hardly Bohemian Rhapsody. Actually, I still maintain that the melody was really quite accessible. The song was probably much more conventional than I wanted it to be. It certainly had nothing on the songs on 'Blueberry Boat', the gargantuan second album from The Fiery Furnaces. If ordinary folk were baffled by our magnum opus - well, lord only knows what they will make of this.

The first album from this maverick duo was quirky - with its rudimentary percussion, peculiar fairytale lyrics and tremendous sense of fun. 'Blueberry Boat' is something else entirely. First of all, at 76 minutes, it's extremely long. Most acts would not be able to come up with this much material for a greatest hits collection. It is an audacious, confusing, rapid fire outpouring of ideas. Many of the songs seem to be composed of several sections or more. Often the songs switch style or mood without warning, as if multiple sections from different songs have been edited together to create freakish musical collages. Sometimes this cut-and-paste approach reaps tremendous rewards. Live favourite 'My Dog Was Lost But Now He's Found' is brilliant - a tremendously silly song, a wild story of searching for a lost pet with the wonderful final lines: 'I went to church on Wednesday night/The guest preacher said I bark but I don't bite/I saw my dog but he'd seen the light/My dog was lost but now he's found.' The song retains the same infectious melody throughout, a disarmingly basic vocal line that sounds almost like a nursery rhyme. Musically, it veers all over the place, with Brill building piano giving way to phased guitar and ragged drums.

More typical is the opening 'Quay Cur', which expands from Eleanor Friedberger sings of losing a locket into a vivid adventure, even incorporating a section which appears to be sung in Inuit. It's very difficult to grasp hold of, given that it extends over ten minutes, from slow, languid beginnings into insane strummings. There are so many ideas in this song alone that it's hard to know whether to give them credit for their masterful imaginative powers or to chastise them for not being more restrained and considered. This everything including the kitchen sink approach characterises the entire album. The contrast between the childlike simplicity of their melodies and the madcap ambition of their arrangements gives a peculiarly paradoxical focus. Lengthy excursions such as 'Chris Michaels' are not without appeal, but are also rabidly unpredictable. I've only listened to this album a few times at the time of writing this, but I'm far from certain that it will ever make any kind of logical sense. If you suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder, this album is ideal for you. If not, you will certainly have to persevere. It has a perverse kind of coherence in that all of it exhibits a tendency towards the insane. I have also read about the whole project being based on the idea of the blueberry boat as symbolic of American cultural imperealism. It's an appealing notion, but almost certainly over-analytical. It certainly risks sidelining the band's wacky breed of humour, which remains a significant feature here despite the loftier ambitions/pretensions of guitarist and songwriter Matthew Friedberger.

The naive innocence of Eleanor Friedberger's voice is their one major asset. It is childlike and pure, a bit like Emma Pollock from The Delgados but with an almost Dylanesque emphasis on phrasing. Given that she is also delivering hypnotic, otherworldly story-poetry, it's easy to become immersed in their singular fantasy world. Maybe there's something narrow, restrictive and retrogressive about the atmosphere they create. I've often argued that a lot of the least interesting 'indie' music seems to be characterised by a strange desire to return to the womb, and this album seems just as guilty of retreating to an infantile world as anyone else. Yet, that world is so unusual - both with the twists and turns of the music, and in the narrative compulsion that drives their lyrics, that it is difficult to resist. There's certainly not much chance of them being lazily compared with The White Stripes anymore.

A while ago I wrote somewhat cynically about the myth surrounding acoustic minstrel Devendra Banhart. A similar legend surrounds Micah P. Hinson, who was supposedly rejected by his Texan family and left homeless and peniless at the age of nineteen. Whilst Banhart has crafted an initially entrancing, but somewhat one-dimensional folk sound, Hinson has produced a debut of real quality and grandeur. Whilst his voice sounds close to that of Bill Callahan, his music moves with a cinematic sweep. Sometimes it sounds anguished, as on the unrestrained howl of 'Patience'. At its most controlled, it is both commanding and touching.

Hinson is backed on this album by The Earlies, who, possibly unwittingly, now seem to have helped Hinson surpass their own collection as best debut album of the year. They bolster the songs with thick arrangements that build from delicate subtle beginnings into beguiling, grand epics that also manage to retain a sense of vulnerability. It's unusual to find a debut album with a sound this ambitious. Typical of the approach is the closing epic 'The Day Texas Sank to the Bottom of the Sea' which, even in its quasi-orchestral glory, somehow manages to sound natural and unforced. It's one of those cyclical, repeating song, where the sound just gets bigger and more affecting each time the cycle is repeating. This album seems to be a most effective meeting of minds - Hinson brings the torch and twang, whilst the Earlies bring their forward-thinking, all-encompassing arrangements. The opening 'Close Your Eyes' grows from a languid, unhurried opening into an accelerated, dynamic military rhythm. 'The Nothing' begins with delicate and beautiful piano chords, before Hinson's vocal enters and carries it into grander territory. The emotional impact of this music is frequently striking - it captures feelings without becoming sentimental or turgid. Typical of the approach is 'Don't You' which appears in two parts and builds from a deceptively skeletal opening into a huge, powerful epic. It's hard to think of the earnest, worthy emoting of, say, Keane, ever resulting in music with this sweeping grace - yet they will no doubt remain the more successful. It's appropriate that Hinson has dubbed this 'gospel' - as there is a notable uplifting quality to even the most anguished tracks, a quality which Hinson shares with the striking desolation of Mercury Rev or Spiritualized at their broken hearted peak.

The songs themselves are romantic, occasionally frustrated, always full of palpable human emotion, and articulated in unpretentious language that occasionally hits on a disabling, stop-in-your-tracks image. In 'The Day Texas Sank..'. Hinson sings about waiting 'at the top of the trees, trying to hang myself with thoughts of you'. The approach also sometimes falters, as there are times when Hinson sounds a little too morose. Hinson is perhaps not the most poetic of singer-songwriters, but he seems more interested in texture, atmosphere and sound. He has crafted an engaging, assertive and compelling debut.

I bought 'Love Songs For Patriots', the first album from American Music Club in over ten years on the strength of an impassioned, if a little patronising, review in Uncut Magazine. Until fairly recently, I had always found the music of AMC and Mark Eitzel impenetrable and difficult. If melodies were there, they often seemed to be buried in the ether, or oversung in cloying, miserabilist mantras. I've decided to try again though - partially because it's interesting to see what new elements are brought to the table when a band reconvenes after such a long period away from duty, but also because so many people seem to think that they were/are a band worth investing considerable energy in. I must concede that this new album does go some way in convincing me of their merit.

Immediately, the sound and production seem to be much more considered than their late eighties/early nineties work. This dynamic, coiling, twisting sound more than matches the intensity and energy of Mark Eitzel's singing. The opening track 'Ladies and Gentlemen' seems like a radical statement of intent. It bristles with passion and fury, with a driving fuzz bass line at its core pitted against jazzy rhythms and asymmetric piano chords. It sounds like the band is imploding, albeit in a remarkable way. Further evidence of this comes with the barely controlled snarl of 'Patriot's Heart', possibly inspired by the trauma and misdirected energies of post-9/11 America. It works by cumulative effect, with its rolling, repetetive cycles becoming increasingly devastating. In between the two is a much more conventional piece, the delicately rustling 'Another Morning', effectively underpinned by sustained synth effects. In fact, it's worth pointing out that the addition of new recruit Marc Capelle on a vast array of keyboard instruments has considerably bolstered the band's sound.

Despite the ambitious arrangements and atmospherics, Eitzel's voice remains the main focus, and it's worth noting the variety of his tone and sound. Whilst some rock singers, say, Thom Yorke, have carved a niche for themselves with singularly distinctive voices, it's sometimes hard to believe that it's Eitzel singing on every track here. Sometimes he is furious and relentless, as on the aforementioned 'Patriot's Heart', at others he is wistful and whispery. More often than not here, he manages to remould his vocal to suit the mood of the song, which is a particularly impressive quality. His skill with a twisted lyric has remained intact, despite the rather unfocused nature of his solo career thus far. Perhaps reuniting with his old band has reinvigorated him. When the results are as stunning as closing track 'The Devil Needs You' with its mysterious and elusive instrumental coda, it's a timely reminder that not all reunions have to be a matter of simply going through the motions.

Catch-Up

It's been too long since I posted anything here, so there's a fair amount to catch up on in terms of new albums, even though the heavy burden of house deposits and rent has considerably reduced my purchasing power. Roll on a time when I can get access to free promos again.

Imagine my delight when the lovely Snowstorm record label prepare a compilation from one of my favourite 'lost' bands, the archly intelligent Animals That Swim. Now imagine my considerable frustration when it gets delayed for three weeks in a row and I can't find it anywhere. Eventually, a cheap promo turns up in the Music and Video Exchange in Camden, and I snap it up. I don't intend to say too much about it here as I have just finished a longer piece on the band for the forthcoming issue of The Unpredictable Same fanzine (which any regular reader of this blog would do well to order - see http://www.kingofquiet.tk/ for more details). It has a slightly eccentric tracklist - I can't really fathom why they have neglected 'The Greenhouse' and 'Kitkats and Vinegar' in favour of 'The Longest Road' and 'Dirt', but you can't have everything. Still, this serves as a very welcome chronicle of their distinctive brand of pub melodrama. The songs are intelligent, witty and often deeply strange, whilst retaining a touching but unsentimental brand of storytelling. They don't neglect to write tunes either - and 'Faded Glamour', '50 Dresses' and 'East St O'Neill' are particularly powerful. They may have been just a little too clever for the Britpop bandwagon. It's a quite wonderful album. The time must surely be ripe for re-evaluating this neglected and underrated band.

Whilst Animals That Swim are deeply entwined with England (or, at least, London), Mark Lanegan, formerly of The Screaming Trees and guest-for-hire for Queens of the Stone Age and the Twilight Singers, seems to have fashioned his solo career on traditional American songwriting. His latest, 'Bubblegum', seems to have more in common with Tom Waits than with the grungey rock of his former group. Predictably, there are an abundance of drug metaphors on this album, and it all gets a little murky and tiresome at times. Musically, however, it's a dense, fascinating web of ideas. In some ways, it's one of the more incoherent albums of the year, veering as it does from ramshackle rock n' roll to lo-fi homespun blues. It wins out because it is consistently engaging, and because the thick, deep timbre of Lanegan's voice imbues the album with a lived-in sense of wisdom gained through experience. In fact, at times he almost sounds haggard. Even the louder songs seem slightly restrained, with a dirty, effectively under-produced sound. Polly Harvey provides an inspired supporting vocal on 'Hit The City', one of the album's most immediate moments. However, the most inspired moments here are the most unusual. 'When Your Number Isn't Up' makes for a particularly effective opener, with its rudimentary drum machine and skeletal guitar lines. The vocal is rich and resonant, giving the song the dark edge it clearly demands. Many of the songs here, such as 'Like Little Willie John' or 'Strange Religion' sound like another logical step in the great lineage of American folksong. 'Bubblegum' must surely be ironically titled - it's not lightweight at all.

If you haven't heard of the trials and tribulations of Pete Doherty of The Libertines, then you must surely be living on a different planet. The Libs, as they are affectionately known, are one of those bands that I have tried desparately to hate. I certainly get frustrated by the way the media has constantly fed their myth, attempting to make them into a group that defines an entire generation after merely two albums. Only time will tell whether or not they have any real longevity, but right now they certainly make an endearing racket; a ragged, spirited noise inspired by seventies punk and the greats of English pop songwriting (Weller, Morrissey and Marr, Ray Davies). Their critics lambast them for being derivative and uninspired but, even on first listen to their eponymous sophomore effort, it's clear that there is an extra spark to them. Even on the most basic of songs, the guitars always sound interesting - with strange, Chuck Berry-esque licks trading off each other. This is a band not content to chug along safely. Also, the chemistry between Carl Barat and Pete Doherty is so tense and energised that it inevitably results in moments of genuine inspiration, even if they try their hardest to bury their talents on this riveting but intentionally imperfect document, much of which has the energy and flaws of first-take performances.

The album opens and closes with arguably their best songs to date. These are songs that perpetuate the myth surrounding the fractured friendship between Barat and Doherty. They are songs in which they trade off lines with conviction, determination and bile. They are also notably crisper than anything else here - spiky and sharp, with a thrillingly brutal drum sound. 'Can't Stand Me Now' is one of the best pop songs of the year, an entertaining and touching stand-off between the two frontmen that also has something rather camp about it ('oooh, I can't take you anywhere', 'you can't take me anywhere' etc). 'What Became of the Likely Lads' is more wistful, and an ambiguous close to the latest chapter in the Libertines saga. There are hints of forgiveness, but also hints that this could easily be the last Libertines record. There's a sense of longing nostalgia for better times here.

In between the two, there's a complete riot. 'Last Post On The Bugle' starts off as a parting love song with appropriately thunderous drums, but then disintegrates into a beguiling mess of murmured vocals and bum notes. 'Music When The Lights Go Out' develops from a slightly whimsical acoustic introduction into a full-blooded singalong which borders on being funky. 'Narcissist' and 'Arbeit Macht Frei' are raucous, full-throttle punk thrashes. By means of contrast, 'What Katie Did' is a doo-wop inspired retro pop song. 'Tomblands' is another snarling rant, in which they spit out the great lyric: 'Didn't wanna be the one to tell you/she was only fourteen/sussed out your dirty sordid little scene'. Throughout, there are mistakes which even the tone deaf or pathologically unobservant could not fail to identify. There is also considerable charm which, in this case, proves to be considerably more effective than technical proficiency. The most polished moments here, all of them surely destined to be massive hit singles, give a hint of what the Libertines could achieve given a more sensitive producer. Nevertheless, there is still something thrilling in hearing a band full of the dynamism, spirit and energy of rock and roll, without the rough edges smoothed off. By comparison with this dangerous, defiant album, Razorlight and even The Strokes sound bland and tame.

'Medulla', the latest album from the perpetually extraordinary Bjork is the first album I've heard this year that truly transcends the ordinary and sounds like a significant statement. I'm reluctant to hail it as a masterpiece because, for me, it lacks the peculiar introspection that gave 'Vespertine' its entrancing coherence. Occasionally, it even sounds a little studied and forced. Nevertheless, it's still an engrossing, uncompromising album well beyond the boundaries of commerical pop. Bjork's solo career to date seems to have followed a similar trajectory to that of Kate Bush - a precocious and highly successful debut album, followed by a series of increasingly inventive steps away from the mainstream. 'Medulla' is arguably her boldest statement of intent to date. There are no instruments here - instead, all the sounds are produced by the human voice. Bjork has always worked best in collaboration with others, but this album is particular has demanded an even more co-operative approach. Guests include Faith No More singer Mike Patton, Icelandic human beatbox Rahzel and the peculiarly voiced pioneer Robert Wyatt. In some ways, the emphasis on voices is not necessarily radical, but more the logical conclusion of the choral approach she adopted for 'Vespertine'.

I'm slightly disappointed that this album employs conventional electronic beats that stutter and splurge in a largely predictable pattern. The beats on 'Vespertine' seemed less like unwelcome interventions and served more to enhance the atmosphere and mood of the songs. 'Who Is It', whilst infectious, is a pop song (and conceivable hit) that seems a little out of place here. There seems to be enough syncopated rhythm in the phrasing of 'Where Is The Line' for it not to need the additional emphasis of the manipulated human percussion. Some of the more effective tracks are free from this cumbersome baggage, and sound like they belong in an entirely different century, echoing monastic chants or plainsong. Some of them appear to be in Icelandic, or possibly, like the incomprehensible murmurings of Sigur Ros, they are simply nonsense songs. Either way, they are characterised by Bjork's paradoxical icy warmth - they sound like winter songs with a beating human heart.

Bjork's songs are at their most effective when they are shamelessly erotic. 'Coccoon', from 'Vespertine' is one of the most inspired songs about sex I've ever heard - in its minimalist arrangement, it actually sounded naked. It was extraordinary in its intimacy and absorbtion in the moment. On 'Medulla', the best songs are erotic in the broadest sense, in that they awaken the senses and induce a staggering synaesthesia. Opening track 'The Pleasure Is All Mine' is like musical temptation, a perfect soundtrack to the Garden of Eden, whereby multi-tracked Bjorks sound otherworldly and inviting. 'Mouth's Cradle' is brilliant, a succession of seductive images set to a complex musical arrangement that seems to be constantly seeking new and fascinating sounds. The single is 'Oceania', a song that Bjork composed for the opening ceremony of the Athens olympics, and it's a sensurround delight - a piece of music that somehow manages to sound visual. 'Submarine' is particularly weird, and it's fascinating to hear how well Bjork's voice integrates with that of Robert Wyatt - it sounds harmonious in more ways than one.

On the first few listens some of these songs seemed to wash over me, particularly tracks such as the penultimate 'Midvikudags' or the entirely accapella 'Show Me Forgiveness'. After a few listens, I think this is because the vocal arrangements manage to achive a strangely floating, almost hypnotic quality. This could have been a most effective mood for the entire album - but the more pulsating tracks interrupt the flow. 'Medulla' is an album of compelling imagery, from using the teeth as the gateway to the mouth's cradle, to the rolling of the stars like dice in the quietly superb 'Desired Constellation'. It also demonstrates that Bjork is an artist far more concerned with following her own increasingly individual pathway than with pandering to commercial concerns. Even this album's most tuneful moments will probably never make it to daytime radio playlists. This is a real shame, because 'Medulla', like all of Bjork's remarkable solo output so far, is an album that demands to be heard. Whilst a vocal-only approach sounds potentially restrictive, Bjork's has once again proved that her voice is the most versatile instrument of all.

Village of the Damned

A trip to see M. Night Shyamalan's The Village proved to be an expensive, and deeply unrewarding experience. To be honest, I was not expecting cinematic alchemy as Shyamalan has been on a distinctly downward spiral since 'The Sixth Sense', but I had not prepared myself for anything quite this terrible. If I was Shyamalan, I'd have taken a long hard look at the finished product, and quickly renamed it Alan Smithee's 'The Village'.

The film is set in an unspecified time and place, and features a small community dressed in bizarre nineteenth century garb. Their 'village' is enclosed by woods, and villagers are forbidden enter the woods due to some peculiar creatures in distinctly unscary red costumes referred to only as 'those we do not speak of' (thus ensuring that the most frequently recurring line in the entire movie ends with a preposition). Everyone speaks in ridiculously verbose language that renders even the most basic sentence as portentous nonsense (they cannot say 'what do you mean', only 'what is your meaning?', not 'I like dancing', but 'I do find dancing very agreeable').
The characters are distinctly one dimensional, the atmosphere entirely forced (with blandly dim photography and a predictable score) and the performances uniformly stilted. Joaquin Phoenix spends the first half of the picture with a persistent expression of pained consternation, as if he is trying to hold in a particularly troublesome bowel movement, and spends the second half of the movie in his death-bed. William Hurt and Sigourney Weaver are uncomfortably serious, newcomer Bryce Dallas Howard (daughter of director Ron) is unbearably earnest and small parts for the likes of Michael Pitt are particularly thankless. Worst of all is Adrien Brody's bumbling village idiot - a character almost offensive in its lack of originality and inspiration - and a terrible move for an actor of Brody's quality (although it will no doubt only enhance his bank balance).

I have a taste for the supernatural - indeed, I've even spent quite a lot of my time researching it (or at least the preternatural - but that semantic distinction is better saved for another time and place), but this really is guff. It lacks any real suspense or dramatic purpose, and any interest in its supposedly supernatural elements is surely undermined by a string of increasingly ridiculous plot twists. Shyamalan has made this his trademark (along with his own wryly amusing cameo appearances), but the formula has arguably begun to wear thin even by 'Unbreakable'. The ending to that film was easily intuited, given that it was actually the only possible conclusion to a somewhat plodding film, weighed down by inevitability. The denouement to 'The Village' is completely ridiculous - and only serves to leave more questions posed than answered. Anyone who discovers this supposed 'twist' before seeing the film will no doubt be completely baffled, and wisely elect not to part with their hard earned cash to view the picture.

'The Village' is pretentious, self-indulgent, tedious and artless. Anything this silly should at least be entertaining - but this is so completely boring. It is the worst film I've seen so far this year.

A Game of Two Halves - Badly Drawn Boy at the Royal Festival Hall

First of all I'm fucking pissed off. I have a spare ticket for this show that nobody seems to want - £21 down the toilet. I try and sell it to a tout, and am offered £3 for it. That's a total insult. For a start, a Badders gig is worth a hell of a lot more than that. Secondly, £3 won't even buy me a decent pint in a plush South Bank arts venue like this. Ho hum.

So I sit on my own, and read Richard Ford's wonderful novel The Sportswriter to pass the time whilst waiting for the support act. The support act shuffle on surreptitiously, looking somewhat uncomfortable, afraid that the venue might swallow them off. I think they are called Dukes but I didn't hear the announcement properly, and I have absolutely no prior knowledge of their music. They are surprisingly marvelous - crafting a rich and mysterious sound that is enthralling and entrancing. They benefit greatly from the presence of a female singing drummer, who is blessed with a voice with a distinctive timbre, full of alure and mystery. On stage, their posture was somewhat rigid, and as performers they remained steadfastly unengaging - but this may well have been the most appropriate approach for their languid, hypnotic sound.

After a remarkably efficient twenty minute turnaround, Badders shuffled towards centre stage and put both his fists in the air. Given the rather rabid critical reaction to new album One Plus One is One - he needs this to be a good performance. The gigs that followed 'Have You Fed The Fish' were fantastic fun, and genuine restorers of faith. He played two lengthy sets, with a perfectly judged balance of good tunes and arsing about. To be honest, I've never understood why critics have always reacted badly to these lengthy shows - with fine songwriting and genius comedy combined, Badders usually offers us more than value for money. Tonight proved to be a slightly more complex affair.

The first half of the show consists of the new album in sequence. He announces that they had played it all the previous night, and that he had disliked the experience so much that he vowed to do it all again, but with more success. I still find this a deeply unsatisfactory way to deliver a live performance, especially for an artist like Damon Gough, whose stage character is innately shambolic and unpredictable. Knowing exactly what is coming next is maddening, especially when most of the songs are delivered faithfully to the original script, even the endearingly brief instrumental interludes.

To be fair, it's immediately clear that this is one of the best live bands that Gough has assembled. Many critics reacted rabidly against the excessive use of flute in the new material, claiming it resembled Jethro Tull. What an unimaginative critical response! To my mind, the flute mostly adds extra colour (definitely a benefit in the new album's more drab moments) and represents a completely logical step from a songwriter clearly preoccupied as much with arrangement and mood as melody. Even more welcome is a deliciously lively and inventive rhythm section that helps to energise the material. This is particularly true in the case of 'Four Leaf Clover' - a song that sounds disappointingly flat in its recorded version - but is extended with enthusiastic abandon this evening.

Gough clearly cares deeply about this album. It is characteristically whimsical, with strong links to his family, his life in Manchester and his personal heritage. At times, it is genuinely touching - but occasionally it is more than a little bit icky ('Year of the Rat' sounds much less grating without the child's choir, but it remains steadfastly lightweight - one of his least engaging songs). Yet in spite of this personal emotional investment (or perhaps because of it), this performance is weighed down by the burden of seriousness. There are brief moments of fun - such as when the audience make him collapse with laughter over the into to 'Another Devil Dies' and he confesses he did exactly the same the previous night. Most of the set feels rigid and restrictive - a deliberate statement rather than a natural act. Whilst 'One Plus One is One' is a typically endearing collection of songs - it doesn't have the stature or coherence of a 'Forever Changes' or a 'Pet Sounds', and cannot withstand the full sequential treatment, especially in the somewhat cramped and stuffy atmosphere of the Festival Hall. The audience seem somewhat nonplussed and, really, who can blame them?

Of course, he redeems himself valiantly in the second half. He plays a ramshackle acoustic version of 'Once Around The Block' with the now traditional additional narrative at the beginning. The string section bring extra warmth to a sincere and affecting rendition of 'The Shining'. He plays B-Sides, and a couple of tracks from the early EPs with I must confess to never having heard before. There are also a generous number of tracks from 'Have You Fed The Fish', an album he defends by stating: 'It's not my LA album for fuck's sake - it's my being in LA wondering how everyone is back home album!'. There are positively groovy performances of 'Disillusion' and 'Silent Sigh' that at last get people shifting in their seats. And he pays homage to Bruce Springsteen by singing a gospel style monologue over the final track. 'Just bring it down a little', he instructs the band, before singing 'I never wanted to be here, I never wanted to be on the stage!'. Someone in the crowd shouts 'bollocks!' to which, Badders, always the master of the anti-heckle, retorts (in song) 'Don't say bollocks, I only speak the truth! I always wanted to be behind the scenes....but I ended up one of the most influential rock and roll stars of all time!'. It's a moment filled with good humour and fun, and a pleasing end to what, by its conclusion, has been an excellent evening.

Smile? I Was Positively Beaming!

Financial struggles have meant that I've missed Brian Wilson on all the occasions he's been to London's Festival Hall....until now that is. Last Friday, I bit the bullet and bought a ticket just a couple of hours before the show was due to start. Perhaps familiarity breeds apathy (this is now Wilson's third stint of shows in London) but I was still surprised to find lots of empty seats. I'd heard plenty of reports of these shows being momentous, joyous, perhaps even quasi-religious experiences, but I remained sceptical given Wilson's apparent frailty. I have also questioned the merits of playing special sets devoted to one particular album, especially when your band is committed to replicating the original material note for note in a way that seems excessively precise and slavishly pointless. I still question this way of constructing a live set - but whilst, for me and many others, 'Pet Sounds' remains sacred as the greatest example of how pop composition and studio technique can combine to create pure magic, 'Smile' has more mystique. Wilson's breakdown left it unfinished back in '67, but both in its raw form and its new seamless completion as a 'rock opera in three movements' (no - don't make it sound like Tommy - an infinitely inferior and smug piece of petty posturing if ever there was one), it is both flawed and deeply fascinating.

Wilson keeps us waiting for what many still believe is his masterpiece. To my mind, the electric and acoustic sets that precede it are just as significant. The lights dim, and from behind a curtain we can hear a lot of shuffling around and murmuring. Then an anouncement: - ' We are The Pilgrims!' and a bizarre toast (Brian: 'Will we have a good show?', Jeff Foskett: 'Yes we'll have a good show!). The whole band (and it is sizeable, at least thirteen musicians by my rather hasty count) are gathered together on one side of the stage, clustered more like an extended family than a musical collective. The opening few songs have the intimate, informal feel of a campfire singalong. They start with 'In My Room', and the exquisitely arranged harmonies are immediately striking. It is a wonderful joy to hear this kind of close singing in a live setting - it is all too rare in popular music today. Many more Beach Boys classics follow, including a superbly jaunty take on 'Wendy', a great song that I had not expected to hear.

The electric set begins with a robust, enthralling version of 'This Whole World', one of Wilson's best songs and one of the highlights of the somewhat neglected 'Sunflower' album. The band sounded metronomically tight, but still seems to have an exhuberance and spirit necessary for a convincing live performance. Some of these songs, touching and whimsical in their original forms, become genuinely moving this evening - 'Add Some Music To Your Day' and 'California Girls' are particularly enchanting. A lot of credit must go to Jeff Foskett, an arranger and bandleader of remarkable skill, for he has developed the sound of this band so it is both reverent to the distinctive Beach Boys sound, but also alert and alive. There are an obligatory handful of songs from new album 'Gettin' In Out of My Head', which has largely received short thrift from the music press, but I felt the songs stood up remarkably well in such timeless and delectable company. They are warmly nostalgic and delicately involving. Brian dedicates 'Soul Searching' (a song also given to Solomon Burke for his recent album) to his brother Carl, and it sounds impassioned and heartfelt. It is followed by a genuine surprise, a sublime rendition of Dennis Wilson's 'Forever', a song that is simple in harmony, but devastatingly affecting in its result. Songs from 'Pet Sounds' are thin on the ground this evening, with merely a slightly botched version of 'God Only Knows' and 'Sloop John B'. The former, save for Brian's faltering vocal, is faithfully rendered from the original template, the latter has more energy. 'God Only Knows' is such an expertly orchestrated, brilliantly composed masterpiece of a pop song that any performance could not really do it justice - and tonight's was probably far from the best.

There is no doubt that Wilson's voice has declined. People in the audience mutter that it was much better last year, but I remember seeing a performance on TV and noticing similar failings then. He struggles to hit high notes, and sometimes gives up altogether, allowing his dependable and impressive band to carry the vocals themselves. What is most fascinating is how he deals with these limitations in the way that he cuts short phrasings and forces out lines. His style is less sugary now, and more aggressive, and it alters the way I hear some of these songs. 'God Only Knows' for example sounds almost possessive this evening. Watching his constant grin and extravagant hand gestures (he sits at a keyboard, but hardly ever plays it) means there is never any shortage of visual engagement on stage - and his genuine commitment to the material and interaction with both band and audience more than compensate for his vocal flaws. Anyway, the voice is at least clear and comprehensible, unlike Bob Dylan's. After a rousing, elongated 'Sail on Sailor', the band disappear for a well-earned break.

Then comes 'Smile' in its entirety. At the risk of sounding somewhat sacrilegious, I must confess to being undecided on the merits of 'Smile'. Bits of it are completely astounding, and it is all technically dazzling. It is undoubtedly one of the bravest attempts at extended composition in the rock canon, and with its use of vegetables and occasionally inane lyrics, it also has the benefit of a self-mocking sense of humour. However, it is also remarkably bitty, and the moments that work best are the by now familiar songs - 'Heroes and Villains', 'Surf's Up', 'Cabinessence' and a triumphant finale of 'Good Vibrations' which gets the whole crowd on their feet. It feels like an outpouring of consistently interesting but loosely connected ideas. The arrangement is deftly handled and the performance remarkably controlled, but I didn't connect emotionally with this music in quite the same way as with the classics in the earlier set. I'm amazed the any band could reproduce this complex work on stage. There was much instrument swapping and athletic movement across the stage. Nevertheless, it may not quite be the masterpiece I had convinced myself it was. It is a deeply impressive composition, but less convincing as a mode of communication.

Still, it's not over yet. Brian Wilson has to be assisted back on stage (he suffers from chronic back pain at the moment), but he still delivers a monumental encore that provides a peerless lesson in how to entertain an audience. Jeff Foskett first introduces the entire band on an individual basis (it seems to take forever), but we then get a continous blast through a number of surf classics, including 'Surfin' USA', 'Barbara Ann', 'I Get Around', 'Fun Fun Fun' and a glorious 'Help Me Rhonda'. By this stage everyone is dancing, and the sense of unrestrained joy is palpable. After two-and-a-half hours of carefully prepared, brilliantly performed pop music, I felt emotionally and physically exhausted. I've been critical in the right places in this review - but I would still place this gig firmly in the top five best gigs I've ever seen. It felt like a shared experience - which means much more than any hope of musical or technical perfection. The innocence and naivety of Wilson's songs perhaps demand a human, flawed performance, and whilst this could have been an evening of grand, perhaps even pompous seriousness - in the end, it felt like a celebration of one of rock's greatest living talents. There is a second encore of the stripped down piano ballad 'Love and Mercy', easily the most candidly idealistic and nakedly naive song in the Wilson catalogue. Had it come from, Damien Dempsey, it would sound dreadful. It is testament to Wilson's considerable charm and honesty that it sounds unfashionable, refreshing, touching - a Hollywood ending for an evening of sweet harmony.

The Mercury Music Prize

Having a pop at the Mercury Music Prize has long since become a cheap shot, and before I launch into my rant at this year's shortlist I would like to make it clear that I have absolutely nothing against the prize itself, or indeed awards ceremonies in general. I see nothing wrong in quality British music being recognised in the form of an award, even if that is usually merely the corollary of some self-congratulatory industry back-patting. I also see absolutely nothing wrong with the token jazz and folk entries and have no problem with radically different strands of music being judged against each other. Quality is quality in any genre - and what the prize should be recognising is an album that has had a major impact. The problem with these token entries is that, as yet, the judges have not had the courage to award the prize to one of them. In 1998, a brave (and arguably accurate) decision would have been to give the award to John Surman's remarkable Proverbs and Songs.

My main problem with the shortlist this year is actually in its subtle rejection of the conscious diversity that has made previous shortlists commendable. I concede that dance, R&B, rock and pop are all represented, but only in their most mainstream form. Where Belle and Sebastian were once a whimsical indie cult, they are now a highly successful pop group strongly favoured by radio 2. Much as I admire their energy and intelligence, I still do not believe that Franz Ferdinand is the best British indie-rock album of the last twelve months. It is too one-dimensional a record. As for The Streets and Amy Winehouse, their nominations were the most crushingly predictable and the most banal. Whilst I voiced mere agnosticism towards the first Streets album, I am now entirely convinced that they are the most contrived and overrated musical prospect around. Producing music completely derived from R&B, garage and other urban genres, they are producing a neutered version of these sounds for critics and listeners unable to appreciate the original forms. 'Dry Your Eyes' is tepid, insipid and entirely devoid of merit, whilst 'Fit But You Know It' seems to me to be an utterly charmless novelty record. As for the lyrics, being dumped by your girlfriend with only a rhyming dictionary as a parting shot does not decent poetry make. Winehouse appeals because she is feisty and female - but there must be more deserving female songwriting talent around. Her voice is distinctive only because it is gratingly nasal - her 'feminine' qualities characterised by angst and man-baiting rather than anything more emotionally questioning. The music is merely bland and unremarkable. Are we really expected to get excited about this as music lovers? These albums seem to be alike in their lowest common denominator appeal rather than their cultual and musical diversity.

So where then, are the great achivements in British music in the last twelve months. If The Streets represent an appropriation of urban and electronic forms - why not select an album that pulls off a similar trick with humour and originality - Hot Chip's genuinely marvelous bedroom gem 'Coming on Strong'. There are no real jazz albums on this list - Robert Wyatt's 'Cuckooland' is certainly jazz inflected, but it is not a straight jazz album. Where then are Denys Baptiste's wonderfully swinging evocation of the Martin Luther King on 'Let Freedom Ring'. What about the fine songwriting in the folk tradition on recent albums from Adem and Polly Paulusma? What about Dani Siciliano's debut, which benefits from the production genius of her partner Matthew Herbert (another key figure in British music to be completely ignored by the prize) and very deftly melds jazz, electronica and soul? What about Elbow's 'Cast of Thousands', an improvement on their impressive debut and a record with a very subtle and bewitching mix of influences with unusual rhythms and textures. Even Broadcast's atmospheric and unsettling 'Ha Ha Sound' would have been a welcome inclusion on the shortlist.

As it stands, the list seems horribly biased in favour of hip-young gunslingers with whom critics are uncontrollably besotted. I do wonder whether the likes of Franz, The Streets, Winehouse, Keane et al will really have any lasting influence. There is only one artist on the shortlist whose influence is unquestionable and whose current album is genuinely impressive - and that is Robert Wyatt. 'Cuckooland' is the work of an artist set completely apart from short-term musical trends or patterns. It is set apart from lifestyle genres or the current generation so cruelly patronised by the NME. It is politically astute, brilliantly arranged and strikingly honest. Wyatt is never anything other than self-effacing. He claims it would be a 'disgrace' were he to win. He needn't worry. He will not win the award.

My money is with Amy Winehouse. The Streets and Franz Ferdinand would be too predictable, and Keane are just simply too dull and earnest. I live in hope that Wyatt will win, whether he wants to or not.

Anyway, rant over - I can now get on with the business of writing about more music I've bought recently...

Lots to catch up with in this post - mainly new albums, but I thought I'd break with tradition and start by talking about a couple of fantastic singles that have caught my attention recently. The first is one of the strangest cover versions I've heard in a while - a deliberately slow, considered and miserabilist take on 'Uptown Top Ranking' by the continually distinctive Scout Niblett. I must confess I've been a little agnostic about her music so far. Although her intensity and originality make her a remarkably striking presence, over the course of a whole album, she is just too difficult. This single though is one of her finest achievements to date, a complete refashioning of a well known pop-reggae crossover hit. It's not an easy song to interpret - but Niblett somehow manages to make it her own. Stripped down to just guitar and voice, it now sounds haunting and uncomfortable, rather than infectious and groovy as it was in its original form. It's both intelligent and deeply strange.

The other is 'Single Again' by The Fiery Furnaces, a brother and sister duo persistently (and quite inaccurately) compared with the White Stripes. Whilst the Stripes bludegeon the blues with brutal force, the Fiery Furnaces are an altogether quirkier prospect, as this single demonstrates. 'Single Again' is harmonically simple, but thematically and sonically compelling. Lyrically, it is blackly humorous, an uncompromising tale of domestic violence and marital problems ('he'd beat me and bang me/he swore he would hang me/oh I wish I was single again'). Much of its considerable appeal derives from its insistent repetition, rhythmic drive and intentional simplicity. To my ears, it's one of the best singles of the year so far. It looks like it will not be included on their forthcoming 'Blueberry Boat' album, which makes it a great single in the old-fashioned sense.

As for albums, I've been enjoying 'Mississauga Goddam', the third album from The Hidden Cameras, and for me one of the most keenly anticipated albums of the year. It is dependably brilliant, an extension of the superbly distinctive melding of honest and forthright gay themed lyrics with joyous and infectious melodies. Most of the reviews have struggled for accurate comparisons - often looking to acts like Belle and Sebastian. Whilst B&S have occasionally suffered from an overt tweeness or cloying pretension, The Hidden Cameras seem to have developed music that is both genuine and candid, populist and uncompromising. With hooks this immediate, these songs should be at the very top of the pop charts - but sadly that seems about as likely as me inheriting the throne. As much as we like to think we're a tolerant country, when it comes to gay, it is merely the camp frivolity of the Scissor Sisters or Erasure can shift units. A fiercely independent band who fill their songs with strangely moving depictions of same-sex love sadly seems to make radio schedulers run for the hills.

For the most part, 'Mississauga Goddam' is almost overflowing with joyous, uplifiting melodies. 'Doot Doot Plot', 'Fear Is On' and 'I Want Another Enema' are unashamedly catchy and effectively repetetive, the latter a frank and highly entertaining satire on hygiene obsessives ('removing hair has taken over my life/and I don't know how to stop'). These are huge songs, with arrangements so thick that the drums are virtually obscured. The tunes are mercilessly repeated, but these songs are pleasantly brief and never outstay their welcome. 'Fear is On', particularly, with its na na na na na chorus, should clearly be a massive hit.

Dazzling though these songs undoubtedly are, they are the logical extension of a winning formula established by tracks such as 'Ban Marriage', 'Breathe On It' and 'The Animals of Prey'. Where this album really works best is where Joel Gibb either realises a lyrical idea more completely, or takes a calmer, more reflective approach to composition. The closing title track is a remarkable coupling of style and substance, a delicately lilting melody with a slight hint of country twang, with a lyric sensitively espousing the claustrophobic atmosphere of smalltown Canadian life ('Mississauga people, carry the weight of common evil/ and go about their lives/ with a whisper and a whine about Mississauga Goddam'). It's an audacious songwriter indeed who puns on Nina Simone's all time classic 'Mississippi Goddam', but Joel Gibb has done exactly that, slyly referencing a great work, whilst crafting one of his most simple, direct and affecting songs. Equally powerful is the stripped down majesty of 'Builds the Bone'. Underpinned by some beautiful arpeggiated guitar playing and crowned by positively rapturous strings, this song could touch even the hardest of hearts.

Some of the more familiar, chugging Velvets-meet Spector songs also work spellbinding magic. Live favourite 'Music is My Boyfriend' is a captivating and convincing description of Joel Gibb's younger years, simultaneously coming to terms with his sexuality and discovering music. It's presented here in a much faster version, as if it is hurrying to reach its climax. 'That's When the Ceremony Starts' is the most explicit song here, a strangely muted tale of a torrid sexual liaison. It frequently threatens to erupt into a massively overblown chorus, but always retracts at the last second. I can't resist the temptation to describe it as a cocktease.

My only niggling complaint about this immensely enjoyable album is that Gibb is already displaying a worrying tendency to rely on old material. Three of the songs here have already been released in other forms. 'Music is My Boyfriend' appeared on the limited edition CBC sessions release (albeit in a different version), whilst the wonderfully celebratory 'I Believe in the Good of Life' originally appeared on 'Ecce Homo', the now sadly unavailable Hidden Cameras debut. 'We Oh We' was originally a B side on the 'Ban Marriage' EP. I just hope this doesn't indicate that Gibb has already hit a creative impasse. Still, it's hard to complain when the quality is so consistently excellent. At just over 40 minutes, this is a short, sharp shock - and a delight that simply leaves you wanting more. The Hidden Cameras remain one of the most distinctive bands at work - they feel special, and despite all the critical acclaim, they still seem like a cult act, appreciated by a select few. 'Mississauga Goddam' may rely on their already firmly established 'gay folk church' signature sound - but the music is so delightful that as far as I'm concerned, they can milk this formula for all it's worth.

'Young Forever' is the debut album (yet another on the marvellous Rough Trade label) from Scottish group Aberfeldy. It is whimsical in the extreme, twee, immensely cute, cloying, and worthy of the somewhat pejorative 'indie-schmindie' tag. It's also utterly irresistible and wonderfully charming. It's one of those sugary sweet, highly addictive albums that it's perfectly possible to enjoy over and over again, without worrying if it will ever change the world. It is also beautifully arranged acoustic music. There's no chance that this band will rely on a strum-it-and-hum-it formula. Instead we get glockenspiels, violins and tacky toy keyboards as well as the intricately plucked guitars and predictably shaky vocals. The real secret weapon at this band's disposal though are the delicious female backing vocals, which are always deployed intelligently and with real success. It's easy to bask in the naturalistic and rustic warmth that emanates from this music.

Lyrically, it's disarmingly direct - full of love songs, unrequited love songs, and break-up songs. There is plenty of silly rhyming. It's impossible to stifle a laugh when they sing 'The love we had the once was che-rished is pe-rished'. There is something quite refreshing about the deliberate lack of cool here. In a world seemingly dominated as much by image and marketing - bands such as The Strokes, Kings of Leon and Franz Ferdinand have been marketed successfully as concepts (Franz are the art band, Kings of Leon the young family of southern rockers). Aberfeldy have no pretension whatsoever. Much like their Scottish compatriots Teenage Fanclub, they simply write good songs. With strong melodies and unassuming humour (their first single was called 'Vegetarian Restaurant'), they sound like a winning prospect.

The new eponymous album from The Cure is a tedious opportunity for critics to shout 'return to form'. Forgive me if I'm wrong on this, but I'm sure that Robert Smith loudly proclaimed 'Bloodflowers' to be the last Cure album. Perhaps he has come back with another because nobody seemed to care then. If he did, he made a wise decision because interest in the Cure seems to have revived considerably in recent months. There's nothing particularly clever about giving your umpteenth album an eponymous title in the hope that people will jump for joy at the back-to-basics approach. What may be more shrewd is the employment of legendary nu-metal producer Ross Robinson (a lifelong Cure obsessive) as producer. Robinson has worked his magic on crossover successes before - 'Relationship of Command' by At The Drive In was crisp, uncompromising, fierce, if a little confused and unsubtle in its angsty sloganeering. Similar comments might be made about this album. It sounds dazzlingly intense - but sometimes all this exploding rage, anger and teenage psycho-babble just becomes too much to take.

I've always felt that The Cure were at their best when writing pop songs - 'The Lovecats', 'Boys Don't Cry', 'Just Like Heaven', 'Pictures of You', 'Close to Me', a Cure greatest hits album is a great contribution to the art of pop songwriting. Sometimes their eerie atmospherics are also peculiarly affecting, and the dark, dense world of their classic 'Pornography' album, whilst by no means pleasant, definitely made an impression There are moments on this album which are a compelling reminder of their talents. First single 'The End of the World' is catchy and engaging and the only conceiveable radio hit here, whilst 'Before Three' and 'Labyrinth' make a vaguely successful attempt to weave melody into their overwhelming chaos.

Whilst the production is sometimes adventurous, the overall impression is of a band simply trying too hard. Too many of the songs here have little respect for structure or form, and too often resort to clumsy adolescent emoting. 'Never' and lengthy closer 'The Promise' may well be the worst offenders - but, to be honest, you've done well if you get that far. Sure, great music is frequently challenging, but it isn't always this agonisingly self-conscious. There is a sense here of a band deliberately foresaking songcraft for a more extreme sound, and it comes across as rather confused. A lot of it seems heavy-handed and ill-judged. Still, who am I to judge when this record seems to be going some way to restoring the band's eighties and early-nineties popularity?

'A Ghost Is Born', the fifth album from Jeff Tweedy's increasingly amorphous Wilco provides further evidence that this band increase in popularity and find themselves the subject of more column inches as they become more adventurous. Some slightly snide reviews have suggested that this is a more conventional album than its predecessor 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot', and therefore represents a step backwards. This is surely missing the point. Anyone who has followed Wilco from the sprawling double set 'Being There' onwards would recognise Jeff Tweedy's mission to meld traditional songwriting values with challenging arrangements. Where before they relied upon live performance to create their country-tinged rock music, they are now making full use of the recording studio, and their ubiquitous producer Jim O'Rourke. 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' employed clattering, asymmetrical rhythms, feedback drones and radio static to create a mysterious ether into which the band fed their best collection of songs. Aside from some rather dubious rehashing of Lou Reed's 'Metal Machine Music' towards the end of the set, it is the songs rather than the concept placed at centre stage here. For the most part, the experimentation now seems firmly integrated with Tweedy's songwriting process.

The stunning opening track is a case in point. 'At Least That's What You Said' begins so quietly it is almost inaudible, with just some delicately struck piano chords, and Tweedy's mournful, vulnerable vocal. It is laconic and deeply haunting, and it lulls you into a false sense of security before it explodes into a frenzy of riotous guitar stabs and Neil Young-esque fretting. It is a far more effective refashioning of the quiet-loud formula than anything Mogwai have recently attempted. On the awesome 'Spiders (Kidsmoke)', the band concoct a swampy, hypnotic groove strongly reminiscent of Neu! and punctuate it with more stadium guitars. The juxtaposition is unusual, but works brilliantly.

Other songs demonstrate how the most subtle of sonic manipulations can really enhance the mood and impact of a song. 'Handshake Drugs' benefits from ethereal effects that remind me a little of Robert Fripp's guitar work for David Bowie on 'Heroes', and the delicately plucked bassline gives it a similar light propulsion. On 'Muzzle of Bees' and 'Wishful Thinking', the sound is more stripped back, and quiet drums move in and out of the mix, presumably played with mallets rather than wood sticks. 'Hell Is Chrome' is so quiet it floats, but with a pervading sense of menace underlined by its lyrics. It's one of the best ever Wilco songs. Without losing coherence, 'A Ghost is Born' also finds room for some very enjoyable straight ahead rockers. Closer 'The Late Greats' is infectious and would make an effective single, whilst 'I'm A Wheel' is full of energy, with Tweedy tightly controlling his phrasing to fit in all the lyrics. The band sound taut, crisp and disciplined, without sacrificing energy or dynamism.

Whilst there are plenty of guitar theatrics on display here, it's the range of sounds that makes 'A Ghost Is Born' so distinctive. The increasing prominence of the piano makes the sound more elaborate, whilst the use of violin on 'Hummingbird' adds an effective folk twist to what is, appropriately, this album's most immediately hummable song. The arrangements improve what are already intelligent and affecting compositions.

Lyrically, there has been great improvement too. Tweedy has reigned in his penchant for stream-of-consciousness rambles. The meaning now is arguably enigmatic rather than elusive, and the lines have a more comfortable and engaging flow. 'Hummingbird' has one of the most touching opening verses I've heard this year ('his goal in life was to be an echo/riding alone, town after town, toll after toll/a fixed bayonet through the great southwest/to forget her'), vivid, evocative and compelling writing. 'Hell Is Chrome' is a deceptively simple tale of malevolent temptation, concise and controlled. 'At Least That's What You Said' has the devastating couplet 'You're irresistable when you get mad/isn't it sad that I'm immune' - what a perceptive description of an irrational relationship breakdown.

The only sour note on this otherwise superb album is the fifteen minute 'Less Than You Think'. The opening three minutes are wistful and touching, but then, quietly, it falls away into over ten minutes of drones and feedback. I concede that this isn't an altogether unpleasant sound - it's more soporiphic than frustrating. Left for a few minutes, it might have made for an interesting experiment. If you concentrate hard, it's possible to hear subtle changes in the tone and sound. But ten minutes! That could try the patience of a saint, and I have rushed for the skip button on every occasion I've played this album. Naturally, in their recent cover piece on Wilco, serious contemporary music magazine The Wire have rushed to the defence of this pointless exercise in studied musical academia. Apparently, Jeff Tweedy was trying to convey the sounds in his head whilst he was suffering from debilitating migraines and addiction to prescription painkillers. Well, that's a reasonable concept - but he could have written a song about the experience rather than attempt this rather blatant and unoriginal tactic. Anyway, it's forgiveable when it's placed in context - the rest of this album is daring and imaginative, whilst remaining firmly in tune with the strong traditions of American songwriting. The title is apt - much of it sounds ghostly and haunting. I also get the sense that this is just the start of this remarkable band's journey.

Anyway, that's it for now. Keep an eye out for more reviews over the weekend, including a summer round-up of the musical year so far.

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!