The Great 2004 Catch-Up Attempt Part One

The recent paucity of posting on this blog is by no means indicative of a lack of quality music. In fact, the situation is quite the contrary as I am currently collapsing under the weight of recently acquired CDs and vinyl. There is so much to review that I will inevitably have to spread it across two, possibly even three posts. In a no doubt futile attempt to pick up all the key albums of the year before I have to complete an albums of the year list, I’ve been feverishly spending in the last couple of weeks!

Neko Case – The Tigers Have Spoken (Anti)

Whilst this quite charming live album has on the whole been blessed with good reviews, I’ve also been dismayed by some slightly snobbish comments as well. Apparently, as it’s a live album, it’s merely an adequate stop-gap before Neko Case returns next year with her next ‘proper’ album (i.e. a studio recording). Some have also been critical of backing band The Sadies, claiming that they fail to recreate the mysterious and ethereal atmosphere of the excellent ‘Blacklisted’ album. I say both arguments are nonsense. Perhaps it’s simply because live albums are becoming increasingly de rigueur these days that critics have become slightly jaded about them - witness entirely unnecessary cash-in DVD tie-in products from Busted, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Robbie Williams et al and Pearl Jam releasing virtually every concert they play. Naturally, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ is not one of those albums. The Sadies may not be as boisterous as The New Pornographers or The Boyfriends, nor do they pile on too much reverb to attempt to recreate the ‘Blacklisted’ sound. Instead, they adopt a different approach, providing a rich and textured backdrop for Case’s stunning vocals – a sound appropriately steeped in country music history, but also with plenty of elegance and glamour.

One very simple reason why this live album feels special is that it contains a plethora of previously unreleased material, including new compositions as well as carefully selected cover versions. It demonstrates conclusively that Neko Case is both a gifted singer-songwriter and an interpretative performer of real quality, a rare commodity in the industry at the moment. It’s gratifying that such a spirited version of Loretta Lynn’s ‘Rated X’ can sit comfortably alongside a nuanced and balanced piece of songwriting such as the title track. Whereas sometimes records with a ‘classic’ sound can come across as self-conscious or antiquated, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ shows that Case and her musicians have a real passion for the music they deliver. One of the best examples is opening track ‘If You Knew’, which has energy and emotional depth. It has an appealing twang to it, and Case’s vocal is filled with the soulful resonances of Patsy Cline or Tammy Wynette. Equally brilliant is the rendition of Buffy Sainte-Marie’s ‘Soulful Shade Of Blue’, which features some brilliant pedal steel guitar playing courtesy of John Rauhaus. Here, Case sounds perfectly in tune with her source material, committed and full of character.

Every track here charms because they all capture, with considerable success, the intimacy of small club live performance. This is particularly true of the ballads and traditional material, which Case handles as well as more uptempo contemporary styles. The closing ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ is compelling, and makes for an intriguing feminine counterpoint to Johnny Cash’s much darker, masculine recent version. Sometimes the sound quality is slightly muddy, as on the lilting ‘Hex’, but rather than being a limitation, this actually adds warmth and immediacy to the music. An album of considerable merit in its own right, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ by no means feels like a stopgap release. Listening to this album, I find myself again enchanted by Neko Case’s haunting, hypnotic and graceful music.

The Arcade Fire – Funeral (Merge)

Here is a quite superb album, and a serious late contender for album of the year. And, behold, they are Canadians! This is one of those albums that, whilst ostensibly an ‘indie-rock’ record, also manages to veer beyond classification. There are elements of other critically favoured bands – the relentless chug of Grandaddy, the arty sensibilities of Franz Ferdinand and the cinematic scope of Mercury Rev spring most immediately to mind. Yet there is also much more than these somewhat superficial comparisons. The Arcade Fire have that brilliant ability to produce the best results from their material through intelligent arrangement and deft employment of studio technique. ‘Funeral’ rivals recent landmarks from Doves and Broken Social Scene for inventive use of the resources of the recording studio. It is also positively brimming with original ideas and carefully orchestrated myth-making, not least through the packaging, which looks more like a mediaeval manuscript than a CD inlay. Clearly a band after my heart!

Nearly half of this album is devoted to four songs under the banner title of ‘Neighbourhood’ – a song cycle with the motorik drive of Can and the angular qualities of Talking Heads or Gang of Four. These songs also have something more refreshing and possibly more unfashionable than these undeniably modish influences as there is an unashamed and keening romanticism. Neighbourhood #1, subtitled ‘Tunnels’ is located in a post-apocalyptic space where the neighbourhood has been buried in snow, and two lovers meet in tunnels connecting their homes. It has grand ascending keyboard chords and dense layers of guitars and it sounds rousing and engaging. Neighbourhood #2 begins with a comfortingly familiar groove with rumbling tom drums and lightly plucked high guitar chords. After just a few seconds though, it reaches a new level with the highly unpredictable entry of an accordion. Neighbourhood #3, subtitled ‘Power Out’ is about as close to dance music as rock gets, with its wiry, tightly controlled groove. The fourth and final song in the cycle is ‘Kettles’, which is softer and more reflective, demonstrating that this extraordinary band are as adept at constructing slow-burning, less lavish orchestrations.

Elsewhere, there is also a palpable melodic sense, particularly on ‘Une annee sans lumiere’ and ‘Crown of Love’. The vocals are have that slightly cracked vulnerability that inevitably evokes memories of Mercury Rev or The Flaming Lips. The Arcade Fire can also extrapolate ideas that initially seem merely intriguing into colossal statements. ‘Crown of Love’ and ‘Wake Up’ almost have too many ideas, but somehow all the disparate elements are brought together to make a weird kind of logical sense. The songs are enhanced by the different tones and timbres the band manage to eek out from their instruments. ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ builds on a remarkably simple harmonic foundation with lush strings (in part courtesy of Owen Pallett and Mike Olsen from The Hidden Cameras), handclaps, infectious backing vocals and chiming guitars. It’s repetitious, for sure, but also completely irresistible.

‘Funeral’ is consistently inventive, defiantly romantic and also shamelessly memorable. It is one of those rare albums that manages to be simultaneously mournful and uplifting. Whilst intended as a collection of songs for the departed, it also sounds fresh and energised. It ties together all of the qualities needed for great pop music in a way that seems distinctive and, most importantly, genuinely thrilling. Unfortunately, it’s only available on US import here at the moment (although at an unusually reasonable price). A UK bidding war for next year seems more than likely and some live dates simply cannot come soon enough.

Califone – Heron King Blues (Thrill Jockey)

I’m only about ten months behind the times with this one – but in a way it’s gratifying to know that there are still some good records from earlier in the year that I have somehow managed to neglect. ‘Heron King Blues’ is a somewhat abstruse document from a highly unusual band that, given time, reveals itself as a quietly compelling juxtaposition of old and new. In essence, this is a refashioning and modernisation of traditional blues forms but whereas The White Stripes frequently opt for piling on the distortion and thrashing drums, Califone opt for a more subtle, if no less minimalist approach. Much of this music is built upon drone and repetition, and with its dependence on lightly plucked guitars, Waitsian percussion foundations and twanging banjos, it comes across like a countrified Steve Reich or Gavin Bryars.

The seven tracks here, most of them lengthy, display simple harmonic ideas which are extended to their logical conclusions. It frequently works very well, such as on the percussive ‘Trick Bird’ and ‘Sawtooth Sung A Cheater’s Song’ although the approach to melody is abstract and occasionally frustratingly elusive. There are times when the tracks require a more concrete, identifiable melodic feature. Nevertheless, the sound is fascinating, combining swampy blues textures with electronics and modern rhythmic interventions. The fourteen minute epic ‘2 Sisters Drunk On Each Other’ is clearly intended as the major track here. It’s certainly full of ideas, and it veers from a funky improvised groove to a repeating banjo loop. It’s a track that would have been ripe for analysis in the excellent (if characteristically dry) feature on the riff as a compositional tool that dominates the current issue of The Wire magazine. ‘Heron King Blues’ demonstrates considerable potential and is definitely worth investigating.

Khonnor – Handwriting (Type)

This is an intriguing debut from seventeen year-old Connor Kirby-Long, and in some quarters he is already being hailed as some kind of prodigy. I’m not sure that excessive hyperbole will help him much, as ‘Handwriting’ is more a set of skeletal ideas that could benefit from bolder realisation next time. It is the coherent and distinctive sound of the album as a whole that most impresses – a combination of acoustic strum and laptop textures that loosely resembles the current breed of electronic improvisers such as Christian Fennesz, although these ideas are filtered through more conventional song structures.

It’s relaxed and hazy almost to the point of being soporific but many of the songs here do repay close attention. With its mix of cascasding guitar, fuzzy drum loop and layered backing vocals, ‘Crapstone’ sounds hypnotic and otherworldy. The stark piano chords of ‘Kill2’ are haunting and mysterious. Best of all is ‘Phone Calls From You’, which is remarkably direct and moving in its own fuzzy way. On most of these tracks, Khonnor has left his muted voice hushed and low in the mix, giving it a feeling of impassive distance and detachment that seems appropriate for the calm melancholy of the music. Occasionally, it feels a little tentative, but with the benefit of experience, such quibbles will no doubt be ironed out.

Slightly more problematic are the lyrics which are sparse and unpoetic, almost like Haikus. Sometimes this approach works well, conveying emotions in the simplest and most direct of terms. The lyrics are certainly best when they do not rhyme, when Khonnor does reach for a more conventional approach, the results are somewhat forced, notably on ‘An Ape Is Loose’ which has the unfortunate opening image: ‘The night I called you on the phone/Your eyes were sealed with styrofoam’. Much better is ‘A Little Secret’ which sets an elusive tale of an unnamed person reading the contents of a letter and crying to a New Order-esque strum and electronic backbeat. It is all the more successful because we do not even the name of the central character in the song and we are not allowed to discover the contents of the letter. We are left only able to imaging the devastating contents of the letter.

There’s certainly a somewhat maudlin quality to the album as a whole, and Khonnor would appear to have learnt a great deal from his heroes Morrissey, My Bloody Valentine and Radiohead. Personally, I hope that the follow-up to this record employs some humour or irony to balance the wistful regret and slight tinge of self-pity, but for now this distinctive debut will certainly suffice.

Various Artists – Dave Godin’s Deep Soul Treasures Volume 4 (Kent)

It was with tremendous sadness that I opened this month’s Mojo magazine to discover the sad news of Dave Godin’s death. I was saddened first of all for the loss of one of the most passionate and genuine voices in music promotion, but also because the news of his death had not been more widely reported. It is such a shame that Godin remained a largely unknown figure. Godin ran a record label dedicated to publishing great rare soul music which otherwise would have remained unheard, and also owned his own record store. Most importantly, in his influential column for Blues and Soul magazine, Godin coined the terms ‘northern soul’ and ‘deep soul’. Whilst the first term refers to a genuine movement centred on the mod rare soul clubs of Manchester, the latter term arguably refers to something more spurious. It is this sub-genre that has provided the focus for his more recent tireless work as a compiler. The Deep Soul Treasures CDs are essential purchases for anyone with even a passing interest in classic soul music. By setting some rare gems alongside more familiar artists, they have enabled me to collect some of the very greatest soul singles whilst also introducing me to a plethora of soul vocalists of which I was entirely ignorant. Godin’s own liner notes reveal the tragedy of the vast number of hugely talented vocalists left languishing without funding or label backing. Many of the greatest records on these collections ended up being one-offs.

It’s arguable that Volume 4 of this collection is blunted slightly by familiarity, and by the fact that Godin had already spread so many great sides across the previous three sets. Still, there’s still a wealth of great stuff here, from neglected versions of established classics (Roy Hamilton’s take on ‘Dark End Of The Street’) to complete unknowns (Jaibi’s ‘It Was Like A Nightmare’, Matilda Jones’ awesome ‘Wrong Too Long) to the almost over-familiar (Clarence Carter’s ‘Slip Away’, Irma Thomas’ classic original version of ‘Time Is On My Side’ and The Miracles’ utterly peerless ‘Tracks Of My Tears’). The latter selections seem a little perverse as they are already on countless other soul compilations, but ‘Tracks of My Tears’ is one of my all time favourite singles (if not the very greatest), with its mercilessly concise but overwhelmingly brilliant lyric and an arrangement that is as close to perfection as pop music can get. Any compilation can only be enriched by its presence.

Volume 4 does benefit from containing a more diverse range of selections. The pace is still largely slow and mournful – with Godin favouring the emotional sweep and grand expression which characterises the deep soul movement., but this is also a collection filled with resonant, deeply powerful music delivered with character and gusto. Some of the very best singers are here, from the towering but vastly underrated voice of Garnet Mimms (‘My Baby’ is just one of the many tracks that demonstrate him to have been the true heir to Sam Cooke’s gospel soul crown). Bobby Bland delivers the gutsy, bluesy ‘I Pity The Fool’ and from Gladys Knight and the Pips there is the colossal ‘Giving Up’.

or the most part, these recordings sound pure, free from the interventions and impositions of developing technology. There is a rawness and spontaneity to the best tracks, despite their frequently lavish orchestrations. The rhythm sections of these soul house bands contain dynamic and tightly controlled playing that also helps to highlight the emotional gravity of the material. Most significant though are the brilliant vocalists, who frequently exert mastery over their instrument, expressing anguish whilst also reigning in the more tempting excesses. These are kitchen sink epics of love and loss that build to staggering heights, proving that pop music can capture universal themes with profoundly devastating impact. Godin’s final liner notes again demonstrate the range and depth of his passion for the music, as well as his vast knowledge of the field. This collection stands as a final great addition to a classic series of compilations. As an introduction to the most nakedly emotional styles of soul singing, they are indispensable.

Worth The Waits? - Tom Waits at the Hammersmith Apollo, 23/11/2004

'I know, I know - seventeen years...' Tom Waits sighs in a speaking voice even more singular and peculiar than his singing one. 'And do you know what I've been doing all this time? - yeah, traffic school. It's a graduate course. I think they might have a job for me if my singing career falls through.' This is one of the more straightforward comments during a gig which proves to be as memorable for surreal comedy as it is for the extraordinary dynamism of its music.

Whilst London has waited a long time to see another Tom Waits gig (most of the audience, myself included, had probably never seen him perform before), we have all had ample opportunity to familiarise ourselves with his distinctive vocal rasps and madcap musical approach. Since his return to recording with 'Mule Variations' in 1999, he appears to have entered another prolific phases, following it with the dual releases 'Alice' and 'Blood Money' in 2002, and now with the relentless, clanging primal blues of 'Real Gone'. Could the fact that the Waitsian oeuvre has now become so ubiquitous (and so influential) dilute the impact of finally seeing one of the greatest living songwriters live and in person?

Mercifully, the answer is absolutely not. Waits has moaned at length in interviews about how little he likes performing and travelling - but none of this is in evidence tonight. On stage, he cuts an imposing and wildly eccentric figure - slightly hunched, but animated with theatrical gesture and exaggerated expression. His voice too is extraordinary, and he also demonstrates tonight that he is adept at controlling and manipulating it. It can veer from a savage growl to a tender, emotive whimper. For all his experimenting and adventurous arranging, Waits brings plenty of the more emotive and affecting side of his musical personality to the show tonight. As mentioned above, he also brings bizarre stories - such as the auction of a cheese sandwich containing the impressed image of the Virgin Mary, and relating fascination with the sound of a spider strumming his web 'to attract the female spider'. He is as raffish and bohemian a character as his myth would suggest.

The Apollo is larger than the theatres that Waits prefers to perform in, yet it retains a sense of intimacy and occasion that is sorely absent from most of London's major gig venues. Brixton Academy this is not. It provides an apt atmosphere for Waits' sense of drama and performance. Even though my seat is near the back of the stalls, I don't feel distant from the action - in fact, I feel immersed and completely involved in the whole experience right from the outset. The opening 'Hoist That Rag', one of the best tracks on the new album, is an exhilirating rush of bare bones percussion (provided by percussionist Brain Mantia and Waits' youngest son, seemingly only about twelve years old), thrumming upright bass and the Cuban-inflected guitar of Marc Ribot. This stripped back sound provides the blueprint for much of the gig - and it is simply thrilling to hear such expert musicians make so much of so little. 'Make It Rain' has only the most fundamental of harmonic and rhythmic structures, but it sounds brutal and insistent, a sense only heightened by Waits' singing of half the song through a giant megaphone. Brain plays only a skeletal drum kit, but the range of sounds and timbres that emerge from it are constantly fascinating. Ribot is one of the world's greatest guitar players, and he is given ample opportunity to show off his chops during the show. His often lengthy solos are never anything less than engaging - a refashioning of blues forms characterised by a staggering ability to switch between languid fluidity and crisp stabs. There simply are not enough superlatives for his playing tonight.

Unsurprisingly, the set certainly favours the more recent material, with the lionshare of the evening being devoted to 'Real Gone'. I've been quite critical of the album elsewhere on this blog, but in live performance, I found the songs to be engaging and compelling - particularly the quieter, more reflective moments such as 'Sins of The Father' and 'Trampled Rose'. The primitive rhythmic thrust of the main set closer 'Shake It' and the foreboding of 'Don't Go Into That Barn' also made for captivating listening, even if they are merely extensions of a blueprint Waits had mastered before.

Set next to older material, the new songs also felt less remonstrative and overbearing than they do on what remains a slightly overlong album. I could never have predicted just how entertaining this gig was. When the audience started clapping on during 'Eyeball Kid', I thought oh no, this won't be appreciated, Waits is far too serious an artist for this. Of course, though, the song is one of Waits' most humorous, and he was happy to lead the audience through call and response chants of 'Hail Hail!' and 'Hallelujah!' which were splendid fun. He also plays 'Jockey Full Of Bourbon', one of the most familiar selection from his pioneering eighties period, and reworks the melody with little respect for the original tune. It's a demolition and reconstruction act worthy of Bob Dylan - except with Waits, you can still make out the words. In combining the rhumba and swing versions of 'Straight To The Top', one of the key tracks from 'Frank's Wild Years', his conceptual cabaret musical, he effortlessly combines the theatrical with the musical. He never falls into the trap of keeping a safe distance from his audience, or indeed patronising them. This is a consistently engaging and satisfying performance.

We also get a plethora of ballads that include some of his most moving songs. Marc Ribot moves from guitar to horn for a most welcome rendition of 'Fish and Bird', which provided one of the set's two great moments of emotinal intimacy and vulnerability. The other came with 'Day After Tomorrow', the quiet, plaintive and utterly brilliant concluding track on 'Real Gone'. It's tale of a soldier at war offers something more than arguments or analysis - it offers a real human perspective on war, something that has frequently been lost in recent debates over weapons and terror. It is brilliantly apt but also has that timeless quality that divides great songwriting from the merely adequate. Almost as good is the distinctive rendition of 'Alice'. Whilst on the album of the same name, this song was dominated by Waits' woozy barroom piano, it now assumes a new character thanks to Ribot's remarkably elegant acoustic guitar picking. With Waits hissing at the end of every verse ('there's only Alicccccccccce') it also has a slightly sinister edge.

For the encore, the stage crew wheel out an upright piano and we get a raft of Waits' blues and gospel tinged ballads. To combine all these songs together at the end feels like a somewhat stilted conciliatory gesture towards those Waits fans who prefer his piano playing to his maverick cabaret act. Whatever the motive, it's still great to hear these songs. 'Come On Up To The House' is as rousing as the old spirituals it shamelessly emulates, whilst 'House Where Nobody Lives' and the wonderful 'Invitation to the Blues' are positively gin-soaked. It's invigorating to hear Waits recapture this sound, despite his current status as teetotal family man. If Waits usually appears a frustratingly elusive character (a notoriously difficult interviewee who spends his life in splendid rural isolation with his wife and children), tonight he appears charismatic, enthusiastic and brimming with life. It's just a shame that the venue stubbornly stuck to the 10.30 curfew and wouldn't allow a second encore. After all this time (and the excessive ticket price), I think we all deserved it.

I can only really add two caveats to all this lavish praise. Whilst this was an outstanding concert - so were recent (and lengthier) performances from Brian Wilson and Bruce Springsteen, for which the prices were not quite so extortionate. It was also a stripped back show, where the focus was on the band and subtle lighting effects, rather than on props and theatrics - so I fail to see why such a staggering price was really necesssary. Also, the audience proved frustrating, from the hugely irritating obsessives behind me - 'but in Berlin there was cheering before he came on stage - surely they are going to start cheering now'. No, you twat. We'll cheer when the lights go out and when we want to if that's OK with you - and stop bragging about how many shows you've managed to attend. I'd rather savour the one and keep it special. Even worse were the seemingly endless flow of boho fools in pork pie hats and suit jackets. Just because you like the music does not mean you have to pretend that you are Tom Waits for goodness sake! Unsurprisingly the place was full of the great and good - Thom Yorke, Guy Garvey from Elbow and many more were apparently all present. I didn't succeed with any celeb spotting unfortunately. Actually, there weren't even any decent lookalikes, but the great lookalike game should probably be reserved for another post!

There is a good rumour going around that Waits will be back in London next spring for a week long residency at a smaller venue. If you can afford the prices, make sure you get there, you really won't regret it.

Lots of album reviews to come when I find a gap in my currently hectic schedule!

The London Film Festival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's been a while, so I've been saving a great outpouring of rage for this post. First of all, let's get the obvious subject out of the way first - the U.S. Presidential election. It may just be that I'm naturally pessimistic, but the result came as no surprise to me. It had been clear for some time that John Kerry had placed far too much emphasis on his personal war record, and far too little on developing a coherent vision, both in terms of foreign policy and domestic issues. Not only that, but the Bush team mobilised the evangelical vote with considerable relish and vigour, and Bush has now been re-elected on the deeply hypocritical platform of promising greater 'freedom and democracy' abroad, whilst offering the most intolerant and restrictive set of policies at home. I don't want to spend too much time here analysing what this might mean for the next four years - but it's enough to say that I don't expect Bush will modify his stance on the environment, the economy, or healthcare provision. I also don't expect too great a change in the U.S. approach to what Bush has liked to call 'rogue states'. This is, after all, a President whose perspective on the world lacks any kind of nuance or finesse, and he is only capable of viewing the world in contrasting extremes. It's doubly depressing that the death of John Peel and the re-election of a moron to the greatest seat of world power had to come within the same week.

Whilst the election result is not surprising, it remains dismaying, and I only hope that the most vital political voices in America continue to protest and speak out. Bruce Springsteen's first reaction to the result has been to place a newly recorded version of The Star Spangled Banner on his website - a statement characteristically designed to appeal to American pride as much as post-election despair. Springsteen at last took a risk with his commitment to the Vote for Change tour - although his politics can easily be gleaned from many of his songs, he has always been careful not to ally himself with either political party. R.E.M. have already spoken in interviews of their dismay and fear. Perhaps the most vital political voice in American music right now, Steve Earle, appeared in the UK this week. The concerts were sure to be energised and brimming with conviction - the songs remain as relevant as ever with Bush still in power.

I was particularly depressed by several comments on the REM and Springsteen messageboards bemoaning the 'arrogance of the liberals' and, using far more expletives than I'd like to use here, instructing their favourite musicians to keep out of political debate. Leaving aside the question of how these people can identify with Springsteen songs and yet still support Bush's tax cuts (a policy designed to benefit only the very rich, with little or no broader economic justification), it's depressing that so many seem to think that musicians have no right to a democratic voice. Nobody has to follow the advice of Springsteen and REM et al - the American population have proved more than capable of ignoring them altogether. Yet I value these performers precisely because they are prepared to go beyond simply entertaining a crowd, and are prepared to use their celebrity to status towards what they feel are good ends. I'm no fan of U2 - but at least Bono is prepared to rise above banality and put his celebrity to some positive use, even if he could substantially reduce third world debt quite easily by donating some of his vast personal fortune!

Frankly, we need voices as harsh and plain as Steve Earle more than ever now. The election campaign finally directed me towards his album 'The Revolution Starts Now', which I had been meaning to pick up for some time. I can't really place it in context, because the only other Steve Earle album I'm really familiar with is his excellent bluegrass set 'The Mountain', recorded with The Del McCoury Band. Unsurprisingly, 'The Revolution...' packs a much weightier punch. Written and recorded within a matter of weeks, it actually benefits from its slightly hurried process. The need to get the record out before the election has given it an energy and urgency that might otherwise have been compromised. I very much doubt that this is Earle's most subtle collection - but the thumping and insistent drum sound, and crisp, crunchy guitars seem appropriate for the cause. The album is bookended by two broadly similar versions of the title track, which makes for a rousing rallying cry, set to an infectious melody and driving straight-ahead rock n'roll groove.

Earle is particularly adept at using localised, personal stories to illustrate a broader political picture, most notably on the anti-war songs 'Home to Houston' and 'Rich Man's War'. The former is a rollcking country shuffle, while the latter is quite brilliant - a plaintive and quite moving exposition of both how the Iraq war has wasted American lives and merely perpetuate a cycle of violence and fear. Earle's voice is snarling and forceful against the acousticm guitar picking. These songs share Springsteen's ability to craft refined character studies, but are more politically charged and less compromising.

'The Revolution...' is importantly not without humour either. At the centre of the album are two hilarious and riotous tracks. 'Condi, Condi' is a, presumably ironic, love song to Condoleeza Rice, set to an angular, almost reggae-flavoured backbeat. 'Oh she loves me, oops she loves me not/People say you're cold but I think you're hot!' Earle sings with considerable relish. 'F The CC' requires little exposition, and certainly makes its defence of democratic freedoms abundantly clear. It's context is undoubtedly the criticism that has been dealt out to those who have spoken out against the Bush administration, along with the restrictions on civil liberties introduced with the Patriot Act. It makes for a highly entertaining rant.

Elsewhere, a duet with Emmylou Harris on 'Comin' Around' is plaintive and affecting, proving that Earle is just as capable of handling traditional country material as he is at producing ranting rock-outs. It's not all perfect - 'The Warrior' sees Earle attempt a more poetic lyric, with mixed results. Much of the imagery and the alliterative devices seem a little forced. The closing tracks are enchanting - but more personal, perhaps even sentimental. Whilst it is by no means the most subtle or nuanced album ever recorded, it does present an eloquent, forceful and determined opposition to the Bush administration, as well as some powerful songwriting. It's just a shame that protest statements such as this haven't managed to secure a result.

An arguably more surprising voice of protest is that of Eminem. It's deeply disappointing that his record company have not had the courage to release 'Mosh' as the first single from his new 'Encore' album, now brought forward to be released today following another internet leak (surely Interscope must realise it will still be on the net after its release?!?!). Instead, they've opted for the comfortingly familiar puerile cartoon rap of 'Just Lose It'. 'Mosh' really is a different beast altogether. So far, Eminem's capacity for righteous anger has only really been channeled on somewhat tiresome 'leave me alone I'm so famous it's terrible' rants. Here, for arguably the first time, he channels this anger towards something more productive and valuable.

Whatever you think of its sentiments, 'Mosh' is an incredible piece of work, a passionate and furious anti-Bush invective, underpinned by rhythmic insistence and considerable intelligence. It is a vitriolic outpouring of frustration and indignation, with a video that illustrates the lyric in even starker terms. Its images and statements are devastating alone 'no more blood for oil, we've got battles to fight out on home soil', strap an AK47 to the President and make him fight his own war, 'this weapon of mass destruction we call our President' - but their cumulative impact is strangely moving. It's partially Eminem attempting to mobilise his fanbase to vote, but it's also an impassioned broadside - with Eminem proclaiming his own leadership, guiding a whole audience to 'mosh' against the President. Intelligent and articulate are words that have often been used about Eminem by gushing critics. In this case, they may well apply.


The second issue to have angered me this week is considerably more trivial, but one that I still feel compelled to write about. I've read a great deal recently about 'changing listener habits' and 'changing attitudes towards music', and other such bland mediaspeak in the past few weeks. Apparently, only the over 40s are buying albums now (how then does that explain 300,000 sales and counting for McFly, and triple that for Busted?). The rest of us apparently prefer to listen to single tracks, most likely downloaded from the internet, than purchase expensive albums which consist of fifty per cent filler. I'm certainly not going to argue with the conjecture that albums are too expensive, especially when CDs now cost so little to mass produce. However, it does undoubtedly depend on what you buy and where you buy it. If you are a regular internet user, then Amazon, Play and other such sites sell CDs at increasingly reasonable prices. Some independent shops - such as Fopp, Selectadisc and Rough Trade are also mostly affordable, albeit only accessible if you live in London or another major city. I increasingly find that, if I shop around, I have little reason to spend more than £12 on a CD, unless it's jazz, which remains sadly marginalised and overpriced.

As for the quality issue - I can't help feeling that comment is more than slightly demeaning to the great wealth of excellent albums that have been released this year. In the first half of this year, I felt I might the year looked like being a little disappointing - I've now completely revised that opinion. Sure - if you waste your money on industry manufactured pap, you're best sticking with singles. The genres of hip hop and R&B are particularly guilty - there are numerous singles in these genres that are innovative and hugely exciting, but the albums are invariably overlong and tiresome - so it becomes harder to sort the wheat from the chaff. If you're open minded, and are prepared to look further to the margins, read more and listen to more, there is plenty out there that is worth the investment of hard cash. Believe me, I wouldn't be writing this blog if there wasn't.

Yet still there is a prevailing trend towards downsizing, compartmentalising and just plain old dumbing down. Nowhere has this been made starker than in the new NME yearbook (don't worry I haven't bought it - I just flicked through it at work). Here, the learned staff of the NME give us their 336 best tracks of the year. First of all, 336 is a strangely arbitrary number, and the exercise seems somewhat pointless to begin with (I find it hard enough to organise a top 50 into any kind of order). What makes it worse is that the tracks are grouped into sub-sets with vacuous and presumptious titles like 'ten for the pensioners' and 'ten floor-shakers'. The NME have at least retained John Mulvey, Dele Fadele and a handful of other writers I trust to make reasonably informed judgements on new music. Yet, these writers now seem entirely marginalised in their polls, instead making way for a youth wing keen to abandon all knowledge of musical history and start proclaiming even the most banal bands of the moment as life-changing revolutionaries. Judging by this list, they also seem to be entirely at the whim of prevailing fashions.

Just as vinyl remains sacred for DJs and collectors, so the recorded product will remain cherished by fans and obsessives for some time to come. Whilst I value the internet as a means of seeking out new sounds - I regularly read music sites and blogs and seek out streaming media from bands and artists who have caught my attention - I would never be entirely satisfied with owning music as a file on a hard drive. For one, it's even more likely to get damaged or go missing than if my CD collection is stolen (my worst nightmare aside from going deaf). I still value the time, art and craft put into a package - including lyrics, artwork and sleevenotes, and I get angry when record companies take my cash for poorly conceived products. I also, believe it or not, still value 'the album' and 'the single' as valuable entities. The only compilations I really trust are ones I've made myself, or mix tapes handed to me by friends. There are odd exceptions of course (Charlie Gillett's outstanding Sound of the City series, Dave Godin's deep soul collections, Rough Trade shops' peerless sets etc etc). Still, there's simply no better feeling than going to a record store, purchasing something that I've never heard just because I've had a tip about it, and finding that it's brilliant. Long may those days continue. That's why if you return to this site a little closer to Christmas, you'll find my selections of albums and singles of the year - I can't resist a good list making exercise.

John Peel 1939 - 2004

An immense loss to both broadcasting and music - John Peel was a true legend whose passion for seeking out new music meant that he was able to survive through numerous management changes and radical programming reforms at Radio 1. I haven't listened to his show as much as I should in recent years - yet I still find it hard to believe that I will never hear another festive fifty or Peel session. Quite simply, there has never been another broadcaster of his dedication, enthusiasm and talent. A number of crucial bands may never have achieved critical and commercial success were it not for the early exposure he offered them. He never patronised his audience, fostered diversity (something increasingly rare in today's formatted radio world) and was a consummately relaxed and skilful presenter. RIP...

Leonard Cohen - Dear Heather

Even by Leonard Cohen's singular standards, 'Dear Heather' is a very peculiar album indeed, possibly his strangest since 'Death of a Ladiesman'. His second post-Zen album predictably retains the muted atmospherics, melancholic tone, glacial pace and 80s synth-dominated production values of his last set (2001's 'Ten New Songs'), but it is arguably even more personal, and certainly less mechanised. Less characteristically, many of the songs are mercilessly concise. Cohen's lyrics have often beguiled and entranced through dense layers of mystery and allusion. There are times here when Cohen does not appear to have written enough words to sustain an entire song. The extremely bizarre title track is just five lines long. Instead, much of the beauty here comes through the impact of repetition. His recent work has been characterised by a collaborative process - producer Leanne Ungar and vocalists Anjani Thomas and Sharon Robinson seem to lend an even greater presence to these deceptively skeletal songs. Cohen has also adapted the work of others for many of the tracks here. He's no stranger to this, of course, having translated Lorca for 'Take This Waltz', one of his very finest songs. 'Dear Heather' contains a Byron poem, a poem by Frank Scott, a live rendition of the country standard 'Tenessee Waltz' and a song based on a Quebecois folk song. In many ways, 'Dear Heather' sees Cohen adapting and expanding his reach, whilst coming to terms with the twilight years, and inevitable mortality.

Given its weighty themes and considerable economy, 'Dear Heather' contains some of the most beautiful songs in Cohen's illustrious catalogue. His new setting of Byron's 'Go No More A-Roving' makes for an outstanding opener, a deeply moving exposition of the encroachment of old age. With its wistful arpeggios and cooing backing vocals, it is a real delight. Also, its line 'And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest', makes for a sly and effective reference to an earlier song ('Love Itself' from 'Ten New Songs'). 'Nightingale' and 'The Faith' sound comfortingly familiar, despite their ethereal atmosphere, and come tinged with finality. Though the lyrics remain poetic, they are disarmingly direct ('Fare thee well my nightingale/'I lived but to be near you?Tho' you are singing somewhere still/I can no longer hear you'). These are the stark and profoundly moving highlights.

There is a similar grace and dignity to 'On That Day', Cohen's gospel-tinged response to September 11th. It's an affecting piece of music, but I'm not sure that its deliberate ambiguities really elucidate that much ('Some people say it's what we deserve for sins against g-d, for crimes in the world/I wouldn't know, I'm just holding the fort/Since that day they wounded New York'). Like many of the songs on Springsteen's 'The Rising', it seems less concerned with making a grand political statement and more with capturing a sense and feeling of loss.

The collaborations with Sharon Robinson could have slotted easily into 'Ten New Songs'. They are subtle, delicate and graceful. 'The Letters' is the more melodic of the two, albeit now characterised my Cohen's hushed whisper and murmur. The melody is more clearly exposed when Robinson takes over the lead vocal herself. 'There For You' is based around the album's lengthiest lyric, although its rhtyhmic and structural simplicity is still its most striking characteristic. Melody here is more elusive, the vocals are thin and watery. Its one of those twisting, elaborate songs that may well require several listens before its mystery can be intimated.

Whilst this review so far has emphasised characteristics familiar to even the most casual Cohen listener, I have yet to pass judgement on some of the more baffling moments on 'Dear Heather'. This is possibly because I've yet to reach my own conclusion. The title track consists of the same lines repeated incessantly ('Dear Heather/Please walk by me again/With a drink in your hand/And your legs all white from the winter') in a chorus of robotic voices. As the 'song' progresses, some of the words are spelled out. I'm not yet sure whether its serious or deeply hilarious. 'Because Of' can be placed more comfortably in the latter category - and its refreshing to see that some of the mordant humour that characterised 'I'm Your Man' making a welcome return. 'Because of a few songs wherein I spoke of their mystery, women have been exceptionally kind to my old age', Cohen muses. 'They make a secret place in their busy lives and they take me there. They become naked in their different ways, and they say, "Look at me Leonard Look at me one last time". Then they bend me over the bed/And cover me up/Like a baby that is shivering.' That's the whole song, but in its brevity it cuts right to the heart of Cohen's power as a poet. Quite simply, nobody in popular music has written so passionately, incisively and beautifully about erotic longing as Cohen. Refer back to the classics - 'Suzanne', 'Hallelujah', 'Ain't No Cure For Love'. Taken together, 'Dear Heather' and 'Because Of' might represent a wry commentary on his past writing, on his role as a ladiesman, and on how women continue to inspire his writing even now.

Cohen's voice is faltering and hushed now - sometimes so quiet that it is barely audible. Many of his parts on 'Dear Heather' are recited rather than sung. This may have served to return Cohen to his formative influences. He was always a reluctant musician, having begun artistic life as a published poet and novelist, and being considerably older than his obvious peers on releasing his debut album. Many find the more recent dated computer and synth backdrops for his poems impede their impact. Cohen has stated that he likes the arrangements and that the quality of the song should always transcend the methods deployed in its production. Fair enough - and frequently his songs have succeeded in doing exactly that. I haven't found the arrangements of his recent albums too much of a problem, although 'Ten New Songs' suffered from being somewhat homogenous. Frequently the stark electronic drums and delicate synths offer the starkest and most intimate setting possible for his best lyrical work. Also, his sense of melody has always been strong enough to predominate anyway. Given his vocal deterioration, melody is often abandoned entirely on 'Dear Heather' in favour of recitations and cantations. 'Undertow', 'Morning Glory', 'To A Teacher' and, most notably, 'Villanelle For Our Time' are the songs that make 'Dear Heather' distictive in Cohen's catalogue, and lend it considerable mystery. The atmosphere evoked here seems to be an open mic night in a smoky jazz bar, perhaps in New York, with Cohen the ageing poet philosophising in spoken verse over muted rufflings. These are unfamiliar and uncompromising, ruminative and unusual.

The real value of 'Dear Heather' becomes clear during the stirring closing moments of 'The Faith' (ostensibly the album's closing track, save for the 1985 live rendition of 'Tennessee Waltz', somewhat inappropriately tacked on). 'Dear Heather' is a powerful and cohesive whole, with a cumulative impact. For the most part, it makes little sense to take its songs in isolation. It's gratifying to hear an album where it is necessary to listen from start to finish, and in sequence, to reap its full rewards. It is reflective, moving, humbling and strikingly honest. Many have stated that it feels like a final testament. At 70, Cohen must be contemplating a retirement from music, but I wouldn't rule out the possibility of there being more to come from his extraordinary mind.

OK, deep breath, this is going to be a massively long post. Working a night shift has not proved conducive to spending time posting my thoughts to the web, so there is quite a backlog of releases for me to comment on.

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds - Abattoir Blues/The Lyre Of Orpheus

What exactly is it with the double album these days? Oh, sorry, I mean two single complete albums packaged together. First Lambchop, then, err, Gareth Gates and Nelly - now Nick Cave, who seems to be experiencing a late career prolific blooming, has joined in the fun. Last year's 'Nocturama' album was unfairly maligned. Whilst it wasn't one of the best of his career, it was a more focussed and less impressionistic work than 'No More Shall We Part', and Cave was at least showing signs of tightning up his artistic control. The encouraging signs on 'Nocturama' are carried forward with dazzling results on these new works. Even better than that, whilst the intense rock blitzes on 'Nocturama' sounded more than a little contrived, 'Abattoir Blues' contains some of Cave's most aggressive and visceral work for years. 'The Lyre Of Orpheus', by way of contrast, continues his more recent preference for piano ballads, although it is worth pointing out that it is far from being a tasteful retreat into the mainstream. The dark spiritualism and predatory eroticism that characterise Cave's best works are still here in full force. Neither do the two albums construct a dichotomy between two distinct sides of Cave's personality. Both also contain some crucial steps forward and it is these tracks which ultimately elevate these sets above being 'just another Nick Cave album'.

On 'Abattoir Blues' there is the almost funky 'Cannibal's Hymn', which sees a tremendous groove gradually give way to a typically swelling chorus. There is also the awesome 'Hiding All Away', with its fractured organ stabs and interjectory chants from the London Community Gospel Choir. Anyone concerned about the absence of legendary guitarist Blixa Bargeld should fear no more. New recruit James Johnston, formerly of Gallon Drunk, lets loose on the Hammond Organ, and the results are a tumultuous refashioning of primitive, animal blues; brutal, immediate and brilliant. On 'The Lyre Of Orpheus', there may be a slight country tinge to the title track and the unusually infectious 'Breathless', although they are still tempered by Cave's gruesome vocal presence.

I had wondered if the addition of the London Community Gospel Choir might represent a somewhat obvious tactic, given Cave's well documented religious faith, and the fact that many other acts, notably Spiritualized and Doves, have already used gospel choirs to transcendental effect. I think I have been proved wrong, mainly because Cave does not seem to be aiming at transcendence here - he is trying to create something more earthy, violent and stark. Opening track 'Get Ready For Love' is ostensibly a gospel song, but it's a song of praise that is snarling and ragged, filled with the passions and rages of modern living. In essence, they have helped Cave reinvigorate his work and place his usual concerns and techniques within new settings. Another album along the lines of 'Nocturama' would have been affecting, but it may have not been enough. On 'Abattoir Blues' particularly, there is an energy that is both righteous and riotous.

Mercifully, Cave also seems to have rediscovered his sense of humour. Sometimes all the darkness can feel a bit weighty, portentous and foreboding, but many of the songs here are just plain funny. 'The Lyre of Orpheus' itself is a brilliant rewrite of the Orpheus myth, ending with these absurdly silly lines: 'Eurydice appeared bridled in blood/and she said to Orpheus/If you play that fucking thing down here/I'll stick it up your orifice!'
On 'There She Goes, My Beautiful World', Cave has tremendous fun with some famous names: 'John Willmot penned his poetry riddled with the pox/Nabokov wrote on index cards, at a lectern in his socks/St. John of the Cross did his best stuff imprisoned in a box/And Johnny Thunders was half alive when he wrote Chinese Rocks'. This strikes me as some of the finest amd most audacious wordplay of the year.

After the turbulence and energy of 'Abattoir Blues', the moments of simple, affecting beauty on 'The Lyre of Orpheus' are most welcome. The eerie textures of 'Spell' work particularly well but best of all is the quite wonderful 'Babe You Turn Me On', in which Cave makes for a move away from 'pointless savagery' to asserting the lasting powers of love. It may be a cliched theme, but Cave handles it adroitly, particularly in the touching chorus: 'The world is collapsing dear, all moral sense is gone/It's just history repeating itself/And Babe you turn me on'. The song has a natural grace and fascination, and immediately sounds like a modern Cave classic.

Whilst the Bad Seeds have seemed muted on the last three Nick Cave records (to be fair, brilliantly subtle on 'The Boatman's Call' and parts of 'Nocturama'), their full powers are harnessed again here to craft a sound that sounds colossal and entirely unforced. With these albums, Nick Cave seems to have stopped trying too hard and has started to have fun again - albeit fun spiked with faith, malice and more than a little sinfulness too.

Brian Wilson - Brian Wilson Presents Smile

This may well be the hardest review I've ever had to write. It's extremely difficult to comment conclusively on this lavish reconstruction of a work we all know should have been released in 1967. Finally brought to completion, this new 'Smile' certainly presents a major opportunity for some serious debate among the bootleg fetishists. Most of us have only heard 'Smile' in splintered parts, either through the complete songs that managed to see the light of day on other Beach Boys albums ('Cabinessence', 'Surf's Up', 'Heroes and Villains', 'Vega-Tables' etc) or through numerous bootlegs. Despite the reports of Wilson, his collaborator Van Dyke Parks, and musical director Darian Sahanaja trawling through all the original 'Smile' tapes, much of the material has been expunged, and a great deal of it made more palatable - or at least more realisable within the context of a complete work. There can be no denying that the new version of 'Smile' is an impressive achievement. However, I also can't escape the fact that it sounds like a loving recreation of an antique, heritage document, rather than a living, breathing work.

Cases in point are the new versions of 'Heroes and Villains', 'Cabinessence', 'Surf's Up' and 'Good Vibrations'. The latter particularly stands out - it feels tacked on at the end of the final (and most incoherent) movement, and arguably superflous. Given the course of events and the failure to complete the original Smile, 'Good Vibrations' has gained the status of one of the best, if not the very best, pop singles of all time. As the conclusion to 'Smile', it feels more like a compromise. 'Heroes and Villains' is more crucial because it provides a recurring musical theme for the project. It still sounds brilliant, bizarre and unique, but this new version really neither adds or detracts anything from the version that appeared on 'Smiley Smile'.

Paradoxically, this new version of 'Smile' is both fragmentary and cohesive. It is fragmentary because many of the individual pieces are puzzlingly brief, and sometimes still sound like unfinished bursts of creative genius. It is cohesive because of the way Wilson and his painstakingly faithful backing band have merged clusters of music together into three distinct movements, often using surprisingly traditional composition techniques. It's easy to pick out the influence of Bach, both in the vocal harmonies, and in the recurring piano figures, which sound highly unusual within a pop idiom. Equally, Wilson may well have immersed himself in the works of symphonic composers in order to create the three distinct mood pieces he has conjured together here.

The most successful of the three movements is undoubtedly the second, shortest movement. It seems to have a natural fluidity of movement, and a consistent recognisable theme, both lyrically and musically. It is this part of the work where Wilson's original aim of recapturing the inner child is most apparent. This is the part of 'Smile' that most adequately sums up the 'teenage symphony to God'. Its opening segment is 'Wonderful', which contains new Van Dyke Parks lyrics, and is arguably the most affecting moment on 'Smile'. Here, the quirkiness and extravagance is toned down, and we get a real glimpse of Wilson's gifts with melody. The following 'Song for Children' and 'Child is Father of the Man' merge seamlessly, with their cascading rhythms and overflowing harmonies. Whilst the obsession with childhood does seem slightly peturbing, it's worth putting it in the context of Wilson's endearing naivety. There is something refreshing, perhaps even maverick, about his quest to maintain thematic innocence. Compare this with 'Love and Mercy', a much later song which, although trite, can be similarly characterised. The closing 'Surf's Up' is familiar, but still masterful, and Wilson's decaying voice copes admirably with its cadences. It seems to be more his diction and energy than his pitch that is failing. His tendency to snatch at words that was so noticeable in the concerts is less pronounced here, but he still sounds crisper and less mellifluous here than during his mid-sixties prime. Vocal decline if, of course, inevitable, and occasionally it adds new character to the music wisdom gained through long, turbulent life experience.

The first and third movements are more confusing, although the reworking of 'Do You Like Worms?' as the more conventional 'Roll Plymouth Rock' is touching. The first movement, revolving around this track, and 'Heroes and Villains' is dazzling in its play with structure, and in the extravagance of its instrumentation. Wilson clearly remains a masterful arranger, and willing to experiment with a range of styles and sounds. The final movement veers all over the place and includes the comfortingly silly 'Vega-Tables' and 'Mrs. O'Leary's Cow', formerly known as 'Fire!', the instrumental Wilson allegedly once believed could actually start fires. It finishes with 'Good Vibrations' - a joyous pop flourish at the end, although it would have made far more sense to reprise either the opening accapella harmonising of 'Our Prayer' or the cool atmospherics of 'Surf's Up' in order to bring the work full circle. It is this section of the work that seems most bogged down in legend, mythology and history, and it doesn't quite manage to escape from it.

In completing 'Smile' - Wilson, Van Dyke Parks and The Wondermints have shown considerable tenacity and determination. It is a humorous, surrealistic escapade of a musical venture. At times it still, even today, seems slightly absurd. However, whilst it can still dazzle and confound, it doesn't really appear 'new'. This version of 'Smile' feels like a reconstruction of a masterpiece, and not a masterpiece in itself. That doesn't stop being moved, uplifted and touched by it though.

Tom Waits - Real Gone

'Real Gone' is clearly supposed to be another significant milestone in Tom Waits' lengthy and consistently excellent career. It will be accompanied by his first tour since 1999, and the first to feature UK dates for over seventeen years. Much fuss has been made in the press about the departures this album represents - it features vocal mouth percussion and what Waits has somewhat opaquely termed 'cubist funk'. In addition to this, Waits has entirely abandoned the piano. The latter is hardly a major shock, as piano-based ballads have been playing less prominent roles on Waits albums ever since 'Swordfishtrombones'. Admittedly, that the riotous clamour of 'Bone Machine' and 'Mule Variations' were tempered with elegiac and affecting piano ballads did allow for some light and shade and variation in texture. 'Real Gone' has to work much harder for a similar effect. Much less has been made about the similarities between 'Real Gone' and the pinnacles of Waits' back-catalogue, despite the addition of mouth percussion and some intrusive turntabling from his son Casey, there is little here that could not have been realised on 'Rain Dogs' or 'Bone Machine'.

Naturally, 'Real Gone' contains moments of madcap brilliance that only Waits could produce. 'Hoist That Rag' is deliriously ragged, with Waits' extreme guttural howl doing battle with the raw, Latin-inflected twang of Marc Ribot's guitar. Ribot remains an unusual and thrilling guitar player - his performances always in touch with a great feel for the music - a primal sense of the blues. We've heard the prophetic warnings of 'Don't Go Into That Barn' before, but the spiky plucked guitars, clattering percussion and screaming vocals remain a potent formula here. The heavyweight clamour of 'Make It Rain' makes for one of the album's more brutal and immediate moments, albeit one that recalls the terrifying growl of 'Filopino Box Spring Hog' from 'Mule Variations'.

Some of the ballads are intriguing - there's a sense that whilst many of these songs might have been performed on the piano on previous albums, on 'Real Gone', Waits and his band have fashioned a lightly blucked, country-tinged sound. It's a familiar Waitsian mode, but one that was not really at the forefront of the musical theatre projects 'Alice' and 'Blood Money'. 'Trampled Rose' is beautiful, whilst 'Dead and Lovely' manages to be both mournful and sinister. The album's key track is 'Sins of the Father', a lengthy and repetetive blues ballad, slightly reminiscent of Bob Dylan's epic 'Highlands', with densely poetic lyrics that allude somewhat obliquely to the current political situation in America. It's undeniably affecting, but it seems almost as if Waits was so proud of his lyrical constructions that he failed to even consider editing them. At over ten minutes at one flat dynamic level, it somewhat outstays its welcome....

...As indeed does the whole album. At over 70 minutes, 'Real Gone' is simply too long. A few tracks could easily have been excised - particularly 'Circus', yet another spoken word mood piece that neither adds nor detracts from any of Waits' previous excursions into this field. Whilst the likes of 'Shake It', 'Top Of The Hill' and 'Clang Boom Steam' dazzle on first listen, their polyrhythmic twists do not really represent much of a radical departure from the blueprint set by 'Bone Machine'. The songs on 'Bone Machine', whilst extreme, had more melodic interest and were, on the whole, substantially more engaging.

'Real Gone' closes, almost perversely, with an acoustic ballad 'The Day After Tomorrow', whereby Waits sings as a soldier at war, accompanying himself with rhythmially free, occasionally inventive guitar picking. It's a delightful song - stately and underplayed, with probably the best vocal on the album. Its impact is almost diminished because it feels like a moment of conciliatory respite after the visceral and confusing nature of the preceding 65 minutes.

'Real Gone' has all the makings of a great Tom Waits album - and yet somehow that is what dilutes its force. It sounds more or less what you might expect a Tom Waits album to sound like in the 21st century. If you are approaching Waits for the first time - you may well find much of 'Real Gone' to be radical, possibly even maniacal. For those already familiar with the back catalogue, it sounds like another album to add to an already essential list. Perhaps, given that Waits and his wife and collaborator Kathleen Brennan have already confounded expectations so many times, it is enough that Waits is still pursuing this relentlessly individual path. The music on 'Real Gone' has little in common with current trends or media obsessions. Whilst it would be refreshing now to hear Waits adopt a completely different strategy, it would appear that, in the words of a classic deep soul song, he's too far gone to turn around.

Panda Bear - Young Prayer

This is a curious and fascinating record. Panda Bear is, together with Avey Tare, one half of the regular line-up of Animal Collective. Not content with already releasing one of the year's most extraordinary and inventive albums with 'Sung Tongs', he has crafted this peculiarly intimate project of his own. Apparently inspired by the death of his father, this is a cyclical construction, alternating between strange mantras and handclap-driven ostinatos. There are no track names, and no deciphrable lyrics. I will concede that this description makes this sound either unlistenable, or merely very pompous. It is actually neither. Whilst I wouldn't go as far as to echo Pitchfork in calling it 'supremely accessible' (I doubt very much that it will get much airplay on Radio 1), it is a refreshingly tender and beguiling listen. At a mere 27 minutes, it has a hypnotic coherence and left me intrigued. It feels like a single composition with a single purpose, rather than a collection of songs. The guitar playing is delicate, and the vocal murmurings are appropriately fragile. At the very least, it demonstrates that wordless murmurings and wails can be as affecting as poetic language. It's very distinctiveness may mean that it's not something I'll come back to all that often, but I'm glad that I've investigated it nonetheless.

Interpol - Antics

I received a free copy of Interpol's dazzling debut 'Turn on The Bright Lights' from Roddy Woomble from Idlewild. He clearly wasn't quite as impressed by it as I was. Sadly, I've had no such luck with this equally compelling follow-up. 'Compelling' is definitely the right word, because there is something definitively alluring about the combination of Paul Banks' deliberately monotonous vocalising and the powerfully intense music that underpins it.

It has to be conceded that 'Antics' makes only the most subtle of progressions from its predecessor. Instead, it seems more concerned with refining an already winning formula. Perhaps due to their insistence on wearing black clothing, and the intellectualising tendency of some of their songs, much has been made of Interpol's similarity with Joy Division and The Cure. To these ears, a much better reference point is The Pixies. The vampiric Carlos D's rhythmic basslines give this music a dynamism and propulsion in much the same way as Kim Deal did for her band. The layers of guitars also create a striking singularity of purpose and distinctive musical vision.

The opening 'Next Exit', whilst a slightly misleading prelude, echoes the shimmering atmosphere of the wonderful 'NYC' from 'Turn On The Bright Lights'. It is an elaborate dirge, and may point the way to the band's future. On single 'Slow Hands', they seem to have incorporated some of the edgy groove of Talking Heads or Devo into their wiry post-punk dynamic. Best of all are the spiky, carefully controlled rages of 'Evil' and 'Narc'. This is a sound more involving and fascinating than the rehashed CBGB boredom of The Strokes or Razorlight.

Paul Banks' tendency towards dense, enigmatic wordplay can occasionally seem like random phrases strung together to create meaningless rants (although I must confess to quite liking a line like 'You're weightless, semi-erotic'). Equally, their compacted intensity may soon start to wear a little thin. They will need to develop more for their next record - but as consolidation, 'Anitcs' is a very fine sophomore effort.

More reviews to come soon - and I'm thinking of introducing an overlooked classics feature.

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.