Sublime or Ridiculous?

Lots of albums to write about, I've been building up quite a backlog over the last couple of months. I'll try and be brief, but I'm not very good at being concise!

It's good to see that the ever-prolific Jason Molina is showing no signs of slowing his work rate. There's a new limited edition solo album called 'Let Me Go, Let Me Go, Let Me Go', which I haven't heard yet, but I understand is stylistically similar to the intense, stark minimalism of his Pyramid Electric Co. set. In addition to this, there's another new Magnolia Electric Co. collection. 'Fading Trails' isn't actually intended as a new album proper, but rather a compilation of tracks from a handful of sessions for various projects. There are two new full lengths scheduled for release in 2007 ('Nashville Moon' and 'Black Ram'), from which some of these selections are drawn (presumably in alternate takes), and the album also features selections from the 'lost' 'Shohola' album, much talked about among Magnolia cognoscenti. Unfortunately, the inlay is at best perfunctory, and gives no information as to which tracks come from which sessions. It's difficult to make an informed judgement then as to the progression or development of the band's sound, although much of this sounds like a continuation of the more accessible, but no less impressive country rock of last year's 'What Comes After The Blues'. Molina's voice continues to strengthen, and it's now hard to believe he was ever dismissed as a Will Oldham copyist. As Molina's melodic sense has developed, it's arguable that some of the mystery and illusion of the Songs:Ohia work has been lost, but it's been replaced by a carefully attuned and sensitive songcraft, and with a vocal presence that sounds equally comfortable on rockers such as 'Don't Fade On Me', or more abstract pieces such as 'The Old Horizon'. Best of all is when melody and arrangement are kept decidedly simple, and combine to great effect, such as on the stunning 'Talk to Me Devil, Again'. For the best introduction to Molina's work, I'd still recommend the double whammy of Songs:Ohia's 'Didn't It Rain' and 'Magnolia Electric Co.' albums, but this is an excellent summation of the space Molina has been occupying for the past couple of years. It's just a shame that it doesn't give too many pointers toward the next step.

Hot on the heels of last year's promising 'Picaresque', there's yet another new album from The Decemberists. Given their manifest influences drawn from both the English and Irish folk traditions, it's hard to comprehend why this excellent band haven't been given more attention in this country, especially as their releases are now widely available via the Rough Trade label. 'The Crane Wife' certainly rewards repeated listens, and is steadily worming its way into the upper reaches of my albums of the year. It's easily their most coherent work, in which they have widened their sonic armoury without compromising their inherent strangeness. The lyrics remain preoccupied with history and folklore, bloodshed and violence, and there's a thematic harmony to 'The Crane Wife' that makes it work best as a conceptual song cycle. This notion is supported by the album's sequencing, starting as it does at the end, with a lushly romantic part 3 of the title track, with parts 1 and 2 placed in the latter stages of the sequence. You'll need a high tolerance for whimsy (it's whimsical more than twee), and Colin Meloy's fey vocals may be something of an acquired taste. Whilst it's sometimes tempting to proclaim that these are people who have never been in civil wars or murdered fair maidens (at least I hope not...), it's worth noting just how successfully they have crafted their own singular vision here. There's now more than enough musical drama to match the extravagant pitch of some of the lyrics, particularly on the grandiose medley that makes up 'The Island', a track that manages to incorporate a Crazy Horse-esque swampy groove, Canterbury folk style pluckings, and even a slight borrowing from the more inventive offerings of The Doors. The band also now seem capable of drawing intrigue and sophistication from the bare minimum of constituent parts. 'The Perfect Crime #2' mostly sits on one chord, but drives along relentlessly with a rhythmic sophistication worthy of Talking Heads. 'When The War Came' is the loudest they've yet been, a clamouring surprise with brilliantly sustained intensity. They can also be genuinely anthemic, and 'O Valencia' is a gorgeous sugar rush of romantic pop brilliance, whilst parts 1 and 2 of the title track are richly melodic. This album is something of a triumph - already missing from Uncut's premature review of the year, will it be noticed by anyone else outside the blogosphere?

Another superb record I have to thank the blogosphere for (most specifically the excellent really rather blog - http://www.reallyrather.blogspot.com) is 'Precis' from the mysterious Benoit Pioulard. It's widely available here on Kranky records, but seems to have had no attention from the UK press whatsoever (until this month's Plan B magazine anyway, there's a track on the cover mount CD). I simply would not have heard about it without resourceful and independently minded internet writers! The album is another bedroom recorded kitchen sink fantasia, with an unusual tapestry of sound that defies categorisation. As such, it's a bit fatuous to make comparisons, but there's something of the fractured psychedelia of Animal Collective and Ariel Pink here somewhere. The lyrics are frequently rendered obscure by the recording process and by the deployed effects, but this doesn't prevent emotional connection with the music, as the overall effect is warm and enveloping. In fact, it frequently verges on the mesmeric or slightly sinister as a result, with a similar impact to Boards of Canada at their best. It all holds together beautifully, and is pleasantly concise, leaving at least this listener wanting a whole lot more.

I desperately want to join the Observer Music Monthly in hailing Jarvis Cocker's first solo album as an instant classic. It's not, but don't let that put you off. If anything, it's even more dour than Pulp's final two albums and those who, like me, admire those albums and feel them deeply underrated (surely the recent reissues provided a real opportunity to at least reassess 'This Is Hardcore'), should find plenty to revel in here. If there's a problem, it's simply that there's a little too much at one pace here - it starts off doggedly plodding (although not in a bad way), and ends up slower than it began! Only the characteristically sharp and caustic 'Fat Children' breaks the mood, although it's a little harsh and simplistic musically. 'Don't Let Him Waste Your Time' demonstrates that Jarvis hasn't lost his touch for a simple but effective melody - a shame therefore that he elected to accompany it with an outrageous piece of plagiarism. Those familiar with Dion's 'Born To Be With You' album will recognise the song's backing instantly. We'll call it an homage - at least it faithfully captures the classic Phil Spector sound. 'Black Magic' pulls off a similar trick, albeit with more originality, and its vigorous drama is impressive. Elsewhere, 'Baby's Coming Back To Me', originally written for Nancy Sinatra, is compellingly arranged, whilst 'From Auschwitz To Ipswich' probably represents the most effective coupling of lyrical invention and melodic sensibility on the album. There are some superb lines: 'You don't have to set the world to rights, but you can stop being wrong' from 'Tonight' and the delightful image of apocalypse in 'From Auschwitz...' ('Not one single soul was saved/I was ordering an Indian takeaway') stick in the mind particularly, along with the pointed denounciation of Asbo culture in 'Fat Children'. The piano ballad with a twist, 'I Will Kill Again' (surely Morrissey must have already bagged that title?) is a crisp portrayal of the evil that lurks in ordinary people. Where I can't agree with most critics is that the album hits its stride at the end - 'Big Julie' is dynamic enough, but I can't help feeling that its lyrical territory is really traversing any new ground. The closing 'Quantum Theory' is a little elusive, and it's concluding lines proclaiming 'everything will be all right' can't help but feel a little banal in light of what has come before. It's also hard to resist the notion that 'C*nts Are Still Running The World', saved for a secret track some thirty minutes after the end of the album proper, is the pithiest and most necessary statement here. It is, however, more than enough, that Jarvis remains our most relevant and essential pop commentator. It seems shameful that he has been allowed to sink back into indie outsiderdom when he really should be a perfect pop star.

Is there anyone on the planet not currently salivating over the 'genius' of Joanna Newsom? Her new album 'Ys' (apparently pronounced Ees) has received more column inches than an artist of her relative obscurity might usually merit. In some ways, this is encouraging, and it would be gratifying to see the mainstream media take more risks with challenging and uncompromising material. It's possible that I like the idea of this record more than the reality - it's great to have a harpist in pop music, isn't it? You can't argue with that, neither can you really argue with a work whose supporting cast includes Van Dyke Parks (who provided the lavish, occasionally intrusive orchestrations), Steve Albini and Jim O' Rourke. It's a dream team! It's also hard for a former Medieval Historian to resist an album which is packaged with a CD inlay replicating an antique book, complete with ornate scripts and gold leaf, and where the artist appears in strange medieval garb on the cover. 'Ys' contains only five tracks, but they are bloody long, and there's barely a minute when Newsom isn't singing. She has composed some dense, wordy and allusive prose-poetry for the lyrics (incorporating words such as 'hydrocephalitic', 'mica-spangled', 'spelunking' and 'asterisms' in bizarre and perhaps inappropriate contexts). She deploys alliteration wilfully, and it's a matter for debate as to whether this makes for beautifully flowing verse, or something more clunky and forced ('Then the slow lip of fire moves across the prairie with precision/while, somewhere, with your pliers and glue you make your first incision/And in a moment of unbearable vision/doubled over with the hunger of lions/Hold me close, cooed the dove/who was stuffed, now, with sawdust and diamonds.'). Her voice is certainly quirky to say the least. At its most restrained, it is an impressive instrument, but when she squeals like a strangulated cat, she can sound horribly mannered, as if from the same faux-kooky planet as the ghastly Devendra Banhart. The opening 'Emily' is the track that works best, and where the orchestrations combine with the basic melodic template most comfortably. Like the other songs here, it's very linear, and Newsom takes us on a peculiarly compelling journey through a strangely romantic landscape. The most difficult track is 'Only Skin', where she is unadorned by the orchestrations, which do serve to detract from the harsher realities of her voice. There's definitely an ambitious and singular talent at work here - and the defiant rejection of conventional structure in these songs is admirable. Newsom is making a genuine attempt to reinvent the wheel, and she has achieved some degree of success here. I'm just not convinced this is fully fledged genius yet. It's when she makes a record this wild and unhinged that actually demands repeated listens that she will have reached her full potential.

Another record not to have received enough press attention in recent months is 'Roots and Crowns' from the dependably magnificent Califone. This is their most accessible record yet, but one which still displays a genre-crossing ambition and sonic invention worthy of kindred spirits like TV On The Radio. 'Roots and Crowns' has all the elements of great music - a strong connection with the blues and the American folk tradition, carefully constructed harmonies, turbulent, twisting rhythms and a wildly unpredictable set of electronic interventions. It somehow all hangs together, and production trickery is used with subtlety and dexterity. Underpinning it all is Tim Rutili's delightfully wistful vocal and superb songwriting. I particularly admire the combination of Brian Wilson-esque lush harmony and Tom Waits-esque clattering on the majestic 'Spider's House' or the atmospheric mystery of 'The Eye You Lost In The Crusades' and 'Our Kitten Sees Ghosts' (some of the song titles are worth the price of admission alone). The mastery of these songs became more readily apparent when hearing them performed by just two members of the band's shifting line-up at The Windmill in Brixton last month - the melodies stand up even when the accompaniment is stripped back to acoustic guitar and countrified fiddle. The album itself takes a while to lodge itself in the mind but, once there, it becomes something far more than the sum of its impressive parts. It's a dazzling and intoxicating concoction.

Subtle is yet another project from the various members of the Anticon Collective (Clouddead etc), although this time released with the full backing of EMI (who, with Hot Chip also on their roster, seem to be taking more calculated risks than most of the independents these days). Anyone who has so far been agnostic about Doseone's superficially dazzling but ultimately meaningless stream of consciousness rapping might at least note that 'For Hero: For Fool' provides the most complementary foil so far for his verbal torrents. The music rarely settles, instead constantly shifting between rock and disco influenced sounds (occasionally it sounds most like 80s R 'n' B pioneers like Cameo). This restlessness might be irritating from any other group - but it at last helps Doseone's extravagant wordplay make some kind of sense. This is a far better match than Dose's other rock group, 13 & God (with members of The Notwist), that sounds positively conventional by comparison. This is a rare example of where tetchy musicality and a refusal to define a coherent sound can actually reap extraordinary rewards. Whilst this album is certainly challenging, it's also ceaselessly thrilling.

Stephin Merritt's imagination continues to work overtime. Not content with already having released the wonderful collection of his work for musical theatre on 'Showtunes' this year, he now resurrects another of his many pseudonyms The Gothic Archies. 'The Tragic Treasury' comprises a series of songs composed to accompany audio versions of the Lemony Snicket books for young children. I've not read the books but even with limited knowledge it's hard to imagine a better way for Merritt to apply his splendid wit. He has traversed adult territory with a childlike candour and playfulness with The Magnetic Fields and Future Bible Heroes, veiling his songs in so many layers of irony that it doesn't matter one jot whether they are ironic or not. Musically, this covers little new ground for Merritt, sticking with the gleeful marriage of the acoustic, the synthetic and the unfathomably infectious. His dry humour is in overdrive though, as he unpicks the books' array of weird and wonderful characters. He also has a keen eye for the child's attraction to risk, and the warning of 'The World Is A Very Scary Place' makes for one of his best songs. This album certainly captures the dark side of fantasy in its more peculiar moments ('The Abyss' , 'A Million Mushrooms'), but it's also wildly funny ('I go gray, then bald with chagrin/When you play the violin/How I pray for death to begin/when you play the violin') and even characteristically camp ('Have you no dignity?/Have you no sense of style?/You'll never be pretty until you smile!'). Some have questioned whether Merritt's music will actually appeal to children - I think there are numerous pleasures here for child and adult alike.

If it's not too embarrassing, can I also confess that I might actually quite like the My Chemical Romance album? Combining the grossly simplistic but brutally effective pop-punk of Green Day with the bombast of Queen is an idea so utterly absurd that it ultimately deserves a modicum of respect. This is an indulgent, over-produced, ludicrous extravagance of a record and it's concept (something to do with a dying man) is more than a little silly. Still, there's something inherently compelling about its pomp and majesty. I'll get me coat....

On that bombshell, I need some sleep, but stay tuned next week for some more reviews and some comments on this year's London Jazz Festival.

Another Report From The London Film Festival

The Alternative Closing Night Gala

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wisdom Of Daniel Johnston

The title of this post is probably a touch misleading, but the remarkable songs of Daniel Johnston are the thread that links two utterly superb gigs from the last two weeks.

First up was Jason Pierce of Spiritualized, performing in his J Spaceman guise at London's Queen Elizabeth Hall. It's a bit worrying when you have to describe a nine piece band as 'stripped down', but with just string quartet, keyboards and small gospel chorus as backing, this was a world away from the extravagant, grandiose sound of 'Let It Come Down', and equally far removed from the crass garage rock of the disappointing parts of the 'Amazing Grace' album. After a brush with life-threatening illness last year, there's every indication that this is a rejuvenated Pierce, ready to recapture some of the transcendent glory of Spiritualized's best work.

First, however, a quick word about the support act, Lupen Crook. Exactly how seriously do you have to take yourself to get up on one of London's major concert hall stages to perform this utter tosh? The first gripe is that he has a lovely twelve string acoustic guitar but simply proceeds to strum it aggressively and disrespectfully, ensuring that the overall sound is decidedly unmusical. Second gripe comes in the form of the lyrics. No doubt Crook is aiming for some Jonathan Swift-esque satirical bite here (I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, because if many of these songs were taken at face value they'd simply be offensive). He is outrageously savage ('You f*cking Jew, you won't get anything from me, I'm not paying'), and tediously whiny ('where are my f*cking keys/I haven't had sex in weeks' - poor lamb). There are no songs without some unnecessary expletive, and they all have pretty much nothing of value to impart. A large part of the audience seemed as uncomfortable as I was, not knowing whether to laugh or die with embarrassment. Utterly rubbish.

Lucky then that Pierce was on superb form. In this acoustic setting, he seemed more relaxed than usual, even addressing the audience with a couple of words of thanks. The less elaborate arrangements also allowed him to focus on some rarely performed Spiritualized songs. In 1998, at the Royal Albert Hall, my voice was forever captured for posterity at the end of Spiritualized's justly legendary gig, shouting for 'Cool Waves' with all the strength in my lungs. Eight years later, Pierce finally granted me my request, with a sensitive and affecting performance. We also get B Sides ('Going Down Slow') and some Spacemen 3 classics ('All Of My Tears', 'Amen', 'Walking with Jesus'). There's also plenty to indicate that 'Let It Come Down' is an album where the highlights outweight the lows, with fantastic versions of 'The Straight and The Narrow', 'Stop Your Crying' and 'Lord Can You Hear Me'. There's also a clever medley of 'Anything More' into 'Ladies and Gentlemen...' that has led me to completely reassess the former. Pierce also includes the Elvis section in the latter that had to be removed from the album version for legal reasons. It might even be time to revisit 'Amazing Grace', given how rich 'Lay It Down Slow', 'Hold On' and 'Lord Let It Rain On Me' sound.

The two or three new songs are not a retrenchment to the minimal, drone based atmospherics of early works, as I suspected they might be, but rather continue the trend towards lush, Bacharach-style melodies. They're not as lyrically clunky as some as the worst of the last two albums, so their success seems likely if Pierce doesn't over-egg the pudding with the production of the new album, due in early 2007. The real highlights came with three Daniel Johnston covers - the bizarre 'Devil Town', in which the singer casts himself as a vampire, the touching 'True Love Will Find You In The End' and the mysterious lament of 'Funeral Home'. There is wisdom in these unusally skeletal, emotionally simplistic songs, and I need to seek out some more of Johnston's work (although I suspect he may be a singer best approached through the more nuanced interpretations of others). The encore is a predictable but welcome rendition of 'Oh Happy Day'. The only downside is really that this gig reveals Pierce's limitations as a guitarist, as well as the harmonic simplicity of his back catalogue. Many of the songs remain locked in the same key (perhaps due to Pierce's limited vocal range) and the relentless chordal strumming limits the cumulative impact of this performance. Still, minimalism has always been Pierce's stock in trade - an extra lead guitarist, or allowing Doggen Foster to be more adventurous on the Fender Rhodes (still one of the loveliest sounding instruments in the world) would have added welcome texture.

This week, it was the turn of Neko Case and M Ward, in a joint-header at London's Koko venue. Luckily, the sound problems that marred The Pipettes and Hot Puppies gig there a few weeks back seem to have been dealt with, and this show was every bit as superb as it had promised to be. Without his backing band this time, Ward turned in a solo set full of twists and turns, with lovingly recreated selections from the 'Post War' album sitting next to some unfamiliar material, and the obligatory Daniel Johnston cover. I particularly relished the song about O'Brien and his guitar with twelve-year old strings, one of a handful of numbers that demonstrate Ward's warmth and humour as much as his distinctive feel for blues and the American folk tradition. He's a superb guitar player, and even manages to make effective use of loops and effects on this occasion. It helps that he's also an unconventional performer, bent in what looks like terribly uncomfortable posture and lurching unpredictably between two microphones. It's thrilling to watch.

Neko Case and her wonderful backing band are nothing short of a revelation. The gig has also reminded me that I've completely failed to mention anything about her 'Fox Confessor Brings The Flood' album here, despite the fact I first received a copy back in February! It's a superb work which sees Case refashioning a traditional country sound in her own distinctive way, whilst also crafting a collection of songs that are mysterious, oblique and thoroughly compelling. If anything, the sound is richer and fuller in a concert hall than it is on record, and that album's finest songs really come to life here. Case's voice is an instrument of some power and dexterity, and she's one of the few singers who can really revel in reverb, effortlessly elegant throughout. Her lyrics are filled with unusual allusions and a poetic sensibility, frequently veering off at unexpected tangents. Her forceful but measured delivery accentuates the distinctive nature of the material. The band play with genuine sensitivity and class, with some lovely banjo and pedal steel flourishes and a drummer with the resourcefulness to play quietly! Case is also in fine humour, worrying about her heels and bemoaning the fact that they missed Halloween here by a day, and doing impressions of lines from The Birds between songs. Highlights for me included a stormy 'Deep Red Bells', a faithfully rendered 'Star Witness', a rather touching take on Bob Dylan's 'Buckets Of Rain' (a song easily forgotten as it seems like the least significant song on 'Blood On The Tracks, but Case imbues it with new feeling), and an energising version of 'Hold On Hold On' to round off proceedings. For the encore, Ward joins the band for a rousing version of yet another Daniel Johnston song ('To Go Home'). Despite both sets being quite short (did the venue need to open the doors at 7pm and keep us waiting until 8.45?), the resounding feeling is one of enlightenment and satisfaction.

Turning The Clocks Back

Another brief rant: There has been some really bizarre journalism regarding the imminent release of an Oasis 'greatest hits' compilation. Some of it has been simple revisionism, ignoring the fact that 'Be Here Now' received the most universal acclaim of all the Oasis albums on release, and became the fastest selling British album of all time. However, some of the conjectures in these reviews are simply false. In Uncut magazine, John Robinson claims that 'during the 18 months they burned brightest - this band effortlessly outshone everything and everyone around them'. Now, I'll confess that I still have a mildly irrational fondness for 'Definitely Maybe' and the better parts of '(What's The Story) Morning Glory?', and when the band released 'Be Here Now' on my GCSE results day I fell for the marketing trick hook, line and sinker, but this statement is surely only true in retrospect. Some of us can remember, at the very least, the intensity of the PR-aided battle with Blur, or the fact that a number of other British bands (e.g. Pulp, The Boo Radleys, Supergrass, Teenage Fanclub) made superior records that, whilst selling less, gathered similar critical plaudits and have perhaps even endured just as well. In 1995, for better or for worse, many were equally interested in the ill-feted Stone Roses comeback.

Even more absurd is Pat Gilbert's argument in Mojo that Noel Gallagher is an underrated lyricist, blessed with an ability to capture simple emotion, and a gift with spiritual, perhaps even Biblical imagery. Excuse me while I choke on my chicken - but if Oasis' songs have any lyrical appeal at all, it's largely due to the nonsense rhyme schemes. Just because Noel captured a zeitgeist with phrases like 'make me shiiiiiiine', doesn't mean he knows anything about light and darkness. Indeed, a light can shine - but a person cannot.

The 'Stop The Clocks' compilation understandably favours the earlier material, but also opts for B sides and album tracks over singles. The gravity of the group's decline is conveniently glossed over - and in ignoring 'Be Here Now' completely, they miss out two of their best songs, 'D'You Know What I Mean?' (perhaps their only single to really pay attention to sonic detail) and 'Stand By Me' (to my mind a superior anthemic ballad to any of the Morning Glory staples).

Somewhat Premature

Why, for a second year in a row, have Uncut magazine published their albums of the year list in the first week of November? It's complete madness, and it's difficult to tell how many gems have been ignored through this ridiculously early polling. Albums that rely largely on word of mouth over a period of months have inevitably been cruelly ignored. It also wouldn't exactly take a genius to predict top placing for Bob Dylan's 'Modern Times' here.

To be fair, there are some interesting and worthy selections this year - Scritti Politti at 2, Comets On Fire an unlikely 3, Hot Chip at 8, Ali Farka Toure at 17, Burial at 20, Scott Walker at 25, TV On The Radio at 26, Neko Case at 30, Donald Fagen at 42, Band Of Horses at 46.

There are some blatantly absurd selections too though - Neil Young's cringe-inducing and hamfisted take on the 'protest' album 'Living With War' is at 5 (a prime example of a great artist being indulged - has Neil Young made a decent record in the last ten years?), Scissor Sisters at 36 (do they need the publicity?), Lily Allen at 38, the horrendous Kasabian at 44, The Walkmen's hugely disappointing Dylan impressions at 45, the ever-pompous Muse at 48,Belle and Sebastian's cloying radio 2-lite at 49.

The Belle and Sebastian inclusion is interesting, as it represents virtually the sole entry for conventional indie-pop in this list - there's no room for either of Stephin Merritt's fine albums, the excellent Camera Obscura record or The Hidden Cameras.

The rest of the omissions are too numerous to list - and given that I'm holding back my own end of year lists until Christmas, I don't want to give too much away at this stage!

In a top 50, there's never enough breadth and depth of coverage - at least Mojo publish some specialist charts in their end of year review, although it's always a shame that many of the year's best records are included in these charts and omitted from the main round-up. This list inevitably ignores jazz and soul, but the lack of coverage for electronic music and hip hop is also hugely frustrating.

A Report From The London Film Festival

Please note that my thoughts on Red Road contain significant plot spoilers. I really hate doing this, but it's impossible to convey my judgement on the film without discussing the plausibility of its conclusion.

The opening weekend of the London Film Festival saw premieres of two significant works, one lovingly restored, the other brand new. Terence Davies' Distant Voices, Still Lives, originally released in 1988, has been a regular in numerous critics' polls of great British films yet it has, until now, been virtually impossible to see. The original print had apparently suffered severe degradation, to the point of being unintentionally sepia in colour, and no transfer to VHS or DVD has yet been attempted. I've been wanting to see this film for some time, particularly after watching Davies' extraordinary adaptation of Edith Wharton's The House Of Mirth, in which he elicited a moving and nuanced performance from Gillian Anderson, the kind of performance that her more famous work on The X Files gave no hint at whatsoever. I'm also an admirer of Davies' The Neon Bible, generally considered his least successful work, but which to me seems another great example of his ability to conjure a mysterious and sporadically terrifying mood.

On paper, Distant Voices... would seem like a deeply unappealing prospect. It's essentially another dour British film about working class family life, involving a brutal father and compassionate, downtrodden mother. However, Davies' method is so unique as to render all 85 minutes of this meticulously controlled work visually fascinating and conceptually haunting. It is one of the best films about the cumulative impact of memory that I have seen, and a prime example of how form can be made to impact on content, with real success. With its series of songs, it perhaps most closely resembles a Dennis Potter drama (Pennies From Heaven, perhaps?), but it is genuinely unlike anything else in modern British cinema. The brilliance of the approach lies in the way the songs trigger and enhance the various memories, which come in the form of a series of vignettes. As such, there's no plot, consistent narrative or even much in the way of dialogue - yet the dynamic performances and constantly inventive camerawork and photography (which imbues the film's main location, the family home, with a palpable and paradoxical sense of foreboding and warmth) not only sustain interest, but create a wonderfully compelling mood.

That this was also an autobiographical work adds to its poignancy. At the Q and A session afterwards, the colourful and theatrical Davies admits 'it wasn't like you saw in the film - it was infinitely worse'. Whilst it is undoubtedly harsh and occasionally miserable, it is leavened by passages of real warmth and humour, and to me it captured the innate wonder (and, as Davies himself would have it, the poetry) of everyday life with honesty and candour.

That Davies has only made four feature films in his career, and has failed to receive any funding for planned projects since the unfortunate commercial failure of The House Of Mirth, is an indictment of the disastrous approach to the Arts in modern Britain. It's fine for lightweight comedies such as Bend It Like Beckham, because they present a rose-tinted feelgood view of Britain which can easily be exported. Apparently, it's also fine for the dreadful likes of Sex Lives Of The Potato Men, a film so bad it didn't even register commercially. Against this backgrounds, one of the real masters of modern film making, who makes distinctive, unconventional but hardly offputting masterpieces, can no longer get a film made. What's going on, exactly?

Many will point to Andrea Arnold's highly acclaimed Red Road as a sign of a revival in original British cinema, yet the more I think about this film (and it certainly provides plenty to ponder), the less convinced I am. This is first because of its unusual background. The film exists not in isolation but as part of a wider project commissioned by Zentropa, the production company of that ludicrous charlatan Lars Von Trier, in which three different film makers must produce films centred on the same seven characters. They will be played by the same actors across the three films, but Arnold, being fortunate enough to 'go first', got to select her own cast. It's difficult to make a judgement on this until all three films have been shown, but my gut reaction is that it's probably another ultimately pointless formalistic experiment from the Von Trier staple. There are small mercies, however - at least Arnold didn't have to make it according to the Dogme rules. Still, my reservation here is that, in spite of Arnold's short film Oscar success, her first feature came only with the influence of a major European arthouse staple, so it's not entirely fair to credit our funding moguls with much initiative here.

To its credit, Red Road is technically superb. The central performances from Kate Dickey and Tony Curran are candid and intense, whilst the overall mood of the film is fraught with genuine tension. The integration of specially prepared CCTV footage and conventional filming is intelligent and intuitive and Arnold obviously has an instinctive feel for mood, as the film's party sequence demonstrates superbly. The whole work carries the claustrophobic atmosphere that seems appropriate to its themes of surveillance and revenge.

Unfortunately, perhaps, it's the latter theme that comes to dominate. From the minute we first find CCTV operator Jackie singling out a figure from her past, we wonder what her motives are. We learn that the man has been released early from prison, and clearly he is deeply entwined with Jackie's past. Clues are planted throughout the film until we finally realise why Jackie proceeds to follow Clyde around the harsh environment of the Red Road estate, leaving her comfortable safe haven to encroach on an entirely different, sometimes violent world. Eventually we learn that Clyde killed Jackie's family in a car accident whilst high on crack, and it is for this that he spent time behind bars.

This brings two problems. Is it really convincing that Clyde would completely fail to recognise Jackie, even to the extent of being sexually attracted to her? We are supposed to believe that he refused to look at her in court, which is conceivable, but would this not have been a major case receiving a fair amount of local media attention too? Even less plausible, but certainly intriguing, is the means of Jackie's revenge. Stalking Clyde around the estate, gatecrashing his party and becoming familiar with his friends, she contrives to have sex with him, subsequently retrieving the used condom and applying herself with his semen in order to accuse him of rape. Although this whole sequence is stylistically and dramatically superb - genuinely explicit but also, thoroughly unusually, wholly realistic (at least in its physical aspects), it just doesn't quite seem real. Could a mother who has lost her partner and child at the hands of a dangerous driver really force herself to have sex with the perpetrator of the crime? The film at least partially addresses the moral implications of her actions with a taut final confrontation between the two figures, but it stops short of a full analysis. In its outcome, it fails to venture far beyond the conventional confines of the revenge thriller.

Whilst the whole film is distinctive and thoroughly compelling, it never quite achieves emotional resonance. Who should we empathise with more - the criminal trying to 'go straight', whose privacy and intergrity have been so horribly violated, or the criminally distressed and bereaved mother? Perhaps it's better that the film leaves questions like this somewhat open and unresolved, but along with the fact that the film doesn't attempt to say much about Britain's surveillance culture (foreign audiences have struggled to believe that the CCTV operating centre depicted in the film is real, and not some sci-fi invention), I can't help feeling that it's simply too elusive. Does Jackie operate as a benevolent monitor of her community, hoping to protect others, because she can't cope with the loss of her own loved ones? Is Arnold's experience of CCTV as a benevolent, helpful tool really the case across the country, given the number of cases where CCTV has proved largely useless in preventing or deterring crime? Red Road is a provocative, challenging and brilliantly crafted film that shows tremendous creative promise - but its flaws linger in the mind as much as its undoubted achievements.

Climbing A Mountain Pt 2

Back to the great catch-up....

I want solo albums from the members of the Manic Street Preachers about as much as I want a pot of piss for Christmas, but I do have to concede that there's a ramshackle grandeur about James Dean Bradfield's 'The Great Western' that I rather admire. With its marriage of Phil Spector-sized arrangements to rather tacky drum programming, the album captures both the epic quality of 'Everything Must Go'-era Manics (bloody hell, can it really be ten years since that album was first released?) with the roughshod, DIY ethos of the solo side project. More importantly, the quality of songs on offer here demonstrates that Bradfield easily has a long term future outside the band. As ever his voice is tremendous - bold and bellowing, and many of the songs here benefit from really huge chorus melodies. The songs have the real emotional depth that characterised the best moments of 'Everything Must Go', and there is little of the clunky bluster that marred 'Know Your Enemy'. 'Run Romeo Run' and 'On Saturday Morning We Will Rule The World' are the real highlights - potted epics which sound almost soulful. Bradfield gives a creditable and appropriately melancholic rendition of Jacques Brel's 'To See A Friend In Tears', although he perhaps comes unstuck with 'An English Gentleman', a tribute to the Manics' sadly deceased manager which sounds uncomfortably jaunty. Still, this album is thoughtful and compassionate - and where recent Manics albums have seemed like considered reactions to their predecessors, this is a mature work occupying its own space.

One album I've been eagerly anticipating for some time is 'Nashville', a country record from the king of rock 'n' soul Solomon Burke, a record being heavily marketed as the third in a trilogy since he returned to secular music with 'Don't Give Up On Me'. Since these three records have all been released on different labels, and have benefited from the input of very different producers (Joe Henry, Don Was and Buddy Miller respectively), it's hard to see much of a link between them other than their consistent quality. 'Nashville' is a good deal less slick than last year's 'Make Do With What You Got', and Miller has captured a sensitive, dry and unfussy sound that serves these excellent performances well. There is, at least to these ears, the first evidence that Burke is finally suffering some form of vocal degradation (and it would be surprising if his age and relentless recent touring had not had some kind of impact), as the upper end of his range is beginnning to sound a little forced. His phrasing and dynamic control remain unrivalled though. As on the previous albums, he transforms relatively lightweight material ('Ain't Got You' could never be described as one of Springsteen's major works) into riveting performances.

This collection is another timely reminder of the close links between country and soul, emphasising that, far from being the conservative genre that it is frequently caricatured as, Nashville country music can be rich in emotion and full of genuine grit. This is certainly the case for most of this album, which comes with a fervent passion that not even several inevitable guest appearances can quash. In fact, a handful of the duets are genuinely superb. 'Valley Of Tears' places Burke alongside Gillian Welch and David Rawlings for a touching acoustic lament. Even better is the lovely 'Tomorrow Is Forever' with Dolly Parton, her tremulous lip quivering put to particularly effective use. Whilst sometimes these 'songbook' albums can seem a little scattershot, 'Nashville' flows effortlessly, always focussed on the sheer mastery of Burke's vocal presence.

'Dreamt For Light Years In The Belly Of A Mountain' is a truly ghastly title for the new Sparklehorse album. I wonder now if critics are beginning to over-indulge Mark Linkous a little. I've tried listening to this album several times, but as yet it has completely failed to engage me. The songs seem slippery, elusive and one-dimensional, and Linkous has not really expanded his sonic armoury since 'It's A Wonderful Life'. Sparklehorse albums used to have a somewhat scattershot charm, but this one seems to be resolutely stuck in the middle of the road. It is genuinely difficult to see exactly what innovations co-producer Dangermouse brought to the table, especially given the audaciousness of his own work with Gnarls Barkley. The songs lack immediacy or melodic hooks. This slipperiness might not be such a problem were the arrangements more varied or compelling - but Linkous settles time after time for wishy washy atmospherics in place of genuine tension. The most memorable songs are heavily indebted to The Beatles - and I for one have no desire to hear any more songs built on the template of 'Dear Prudence' or 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds'. There is more to musical history!

Hard to believe that the excellent Junior Boys have been supporting Hot Chip on tour in the UK this month - surely they should be headlining similar shows of their own by now? 'So This Is Goodbye' is one of those atypically warm electronic albums, characterised by feeling and sensitivity as much as bleeps and loops. It's first half is faultless, coming bolstered with one of the very best singles of 2006 in the form of 'In The Morning', with its almost pornographic sounding backing vocals and hummable vocal melody. It's perhaps a little disappointing that it's by far the most audacious moment here, although there is plenty more to savour. 'Double Shadow' and 'The Equaliser' actually recall some fairly unfashionable 80s synth influences - more OMD than New Order perhaps, and the understated vocal delivery melds effortlessly with the atmospheric music. It's mostly a very serious concoction though, and the album drifts somewhat aimlessly in its second half, becoming increasingly tiresome and challenging. So, whilst it's not a masterpiece, its first half is sublime, synth pop with emotional gravitas and the potential for longevity.

Covering Up

What with Bruce Springsteen delving into the Pete Seeger songbook and Joe Lovano revisiting Miles Davis' legendary Birth of The Cool music (more on this in a forthcoming post), there's been a fresh impetus recently for artists to delve right back to their source material. On her last album, Erin McKeown attracted some degree of criticism from UK critics (mistakenly, in my view) when she opted for slicker production values. With the outstanding 'Sing You Sinners', she has now veered in the opposite direction, emphasising naturalistic small ensemble performances on a range of songs from the standard repertoire (along with one deferential original composition). It will be interesting to see whether critics here see this is as a welcome move, or as a sign that she is running out of songwriting ideas, but as she appears to be criminally undervalued here, it may simply be that this album gets neglected altogether. This would be a great shame, as 'Sing You Sinners' is a quite exceptional record. With little formal jazz training, McKeown demonstrates an instinctive understanding of her chosen material - understanding that the key to its success lies in its wit and playfulness, and also in phrasing and delivery, two key aspects of vocal performance few singers these days can truly master.

Those familiar with McKeown's back catalogue will immediately see the link between these songs and her own work, particularly on the Judy Garland-inspired 'Grand' album. The range of material selected is impressively broad, from the almost-too-obvious (the opening 'Get Happy'), to simmering and subtle ballads ('They Say It's Spring'), to classic rhythm and blues ('Thanks For The Boogie Ride'). There's also a small helping of the weird and wonderful in 'If You A Viper' and the splendidly camp in 'Rhode Island Is Famous For You' ( a song McKeown has been performing at her live shows for some time now).

The playing throughout is superb, with Sam Kassirer proving understated and sensitive on piano and Alison Miller a really quite tremendous drummer, always concerned with bringing out the full range of sounds from her kit. She is an adventurous player, which helps this album to avoid any accusations of being merely mired in nostalgia. The clattering percussion on the versions of 'Paper Moon' and 'I Was A Little Too Lonely (You Were A Little Too Late)' provide an intriguing link to the more rhythmic work evident on 'We Will Become Like Birds'.

Most of these songs have a timeless quality to them, but McKeown manages to make every single one of them her own with the natural confidence of her delivery. Recorded quickly over one weekend, McKeown has admitted letting her band dictate the feel of these songs, and she has wisely resisted the urge to pile on overdubs (save for some very classicist horn arrangements), instead allowing the original performances themselves to thrill and captivate. The end product is a dynamic collection, alive to new possibilities whilst characterised by an obvious knowledge of and enthusiasm for the classic American songbook.

'Melody Mountain' from Norwegian duo Susanna and The Magical Orchestra is a rather different kind of covers album, often striving to be as unfaithful to its source material as possible. The selections veer from the strangely predictable (Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah', Joy Division's 'Love Will Tear Us Apart'), to the frankly baffling (AC/DC's 'It's A Long Way To The Top (If You Wanna Rock 'n' Roll', Kiss' 'Crazy, Crazy Nights'). Somehow they manage to impose the same process on all the songs - with Susanna's eerie , mysterious voice accompanied by exceedingly minimal, atmospheric backings from former Jaga Jazzist member Morten Qvenild on unusual instruments (church organ, autoharp, vibraphone etc). The Kiss and AC/DC covers are the most fascinating, as rather unsubtle, intentionally brash originals are completely transformed in sensitive and mournful interpretations. Susanna makes 'Crazy Crazy Nights' sound like a lament for lost youth, and as such it becomes profoundly affecting. 'It's A Long Way To The Top' gives a stern lesson in music industry realism, but in Susanna's hands it is delivered with what sounds like regret and sadness, rather than the sly glee of Bon Scott's delivery.

Even the less daring choices are handled with aplomb. There have been so many covers of 'Hallelujah' recently (and the song has become so closely associated with Jeff Buckley's astonishing rendition), that one wonders whether another can really be necessary or useful. Yet Susanna's reading is quietly superb, with her upward progression in pitch demonstrating her capable vocal range and creating a gradual heightening in intensity and drama. Bob Dylan's 'Don't Think Twice, it's Alright' also lends itself naturally to the reflective mood, and it's pleasing enough to hear a female voice other than Joan Baez tackling the song's nuances of tone and sentiment.

Although 'Melody Mountain' is not a lengthy album, the sublime mood and glacial pace is so cohesive that it becomes something of a challenge to listen to it from start to finish. Still, though, it's a powerful and intelligent work that, like Mark Kozelek's album of AC/DC covers from a few years ago, deftly avoids the potential novelty of some of its selections.

Proper Pop

It's been so long since the last update I'd almost forgotten my Blogger login details. Oops.

The highlights of the past week have been two very special gigs - The Hidden Cameras (with My Latest Novel and Piney Gir in support) at the Union Chapel, and The Lemonheads at The Forum.

It's great to see the Union Chapel back in business as it makes for a refreshing change from your regular London club or theatre venue. The sound is unsurprisingly full of natural reverb, and, as I remember from seeing Hot Chip support Smog there three years or so ago, particularly unforgiving on opening acts when many of the pews are still unoccupied. As a result, the otherwise excellent Piney Gir Country Roadshow suffered a little bit from this, with a good sound mix in terms of levels being rendered exceedingly muddy by the acoustics. Still, Piney transcended these problems with a characteristically amiable and entertaining performance, and I actually felt her singing was slightly superior to her performance at the Kings Head in Crouch End a few weeks ago. The band remain both supportive and full of vigour - and her songs capture the country idiom with instinctive humour and sensitivity.

My Latest Novel has setbacks galore, not least the lack of a functioning van and, therefore, any of their own equipment. So, it was an acoustic set on unfamiliar instruments, with persistent electrical problems with the bass guitar. This band, signed to Simon Raymonde's Bella Union label, have the elements of a great band - beautiful and carefully arranged harmonies, delicate but expressive melodies, and a wistful, mysterious sound. Yet somehow it initially didn't amount to much. The problem could not be explained simply by the absence of a bass, for when it worked, the lead singer/bassist didn't exactly play anything that added all that much. I think it's perhaps simply that they had a slightly dour demeanour - the female singer/violinist insisted on playing mostly with her back to the audience, and the singer mumbled all their introductions (there's nothing more annoying than a 'hello, we're 'something incomprehensible', and this is a song called 'something equally incomprehensibe'). Luckily, as the set went on it started to make more and more sense, and the elegiac, quietly touching music had some kind of cumulative impact. They are probably ones to watch - not yet fully formed, but with some grand ideas, and a lot of potential.

I've written enough about The Hidden Cameras for regular readers to know that I think they're great, but it's worth emphasising just how superb this set was. The whole performance seemed carefully plotted, beginning with 'the quiet songs', and gradually building to a deliriously entertaining climax. Wisely emphasising the new album, the brisker moments are delivered with real urgency (even to the extent of Joel Gibb breaking strings on both his guitars), whilst the tender songs at last display the subtlety and romantic candour that Gibb seems to have been striving for over the last few years. The opening 'Death Of A Tune' retains its melody and powerful string line, but it is radically transformed from a rollicking Buddy Holly meets Eddie Cochrane rumble into a mournful lament. It's stunningly beautiful, and immediately demonstrates just what a powerful instrument Joel Gibb's voice is in the live context. Elsewhere, there's plenty of fun and games involving, er, 'minimal' glockenspiel parts and unrepeatable punchlines. It's unusual that new songs strike such an immediate chord with audiences, but it's clear that the likes of 'Hump From Bending' and 'For Fun' are already established gems. The closing 'Ban Marriage' is a timely reminder of just what an excellent song it is. The only issues are the lack of an encore (enforced due to the stringent terms of the Union Chapel's license agreement) and the almost complete passing over of the 'Mississauga Goddamn' album. It's probably fair that this is the most inconsequential of their three albums proper, but there are a handful of songs here that would stand up with the best (the title track, 'Fear Is On' and perhaps 'Music Is My Boyfriend', although I prefer it in the less frenetic version on the CBC Sessions EP).

Could last Friday really have been the first time I've seen The Lemonheads, in any incarnation? I saw an amiable if largely unremarkable acoustic set from Evan Dando at one of the Fleadh Festivals, but I've never managed to see his band, a particular oversight given their undoubted importance during my formative years. This show at The Forum was much like going through adolescence all over again, only neatly compacted into the space of 90 minutes. I was slightly wary that we might get an obscurantist's set - the whole of the new album plus some pre-hits material or something like that. Hell, no! Ripping into 'Down About It', it's at least 20 minutes before we get anything at all from the new record, and all Evan Dando seems concerned with tonight is giving the crowd exactly what they want to hear. So the set encompasses a substantial portion of the classic 'It's A Shame About Ray' and 'Come On Feel The Lemonheads' albums, as well as a select few from the slightly overlooked 'Car Button Cloth'. The whole evening is a testament to just what a superb songwriter Dando is - far from the junkie layabout of popular mythology, he is warm and endearing, and a real master of melody.

This line-up of The Lemonheads is remarkably crisp, emphasising taut musicianship above the ragged glory of previous versions of the band. Bizarrely though, it's not the same line up that recorded the recent album, as it certainly wasn't Bill Stevenson on drums! Still, this latest period of the Lemonheads may be the first as notable for the quality of the playing as it is for the quality of the songs. The inevitable solo acoustic set is rapturously received, and notable not just for charming renditions of 'Being Around' and 'The Outdoor Type', but also a nimble medley of some of the more superior selections from the 'solo' album 'Baby I'm Bored'. The encore is slightly odd - just Dando acoustic again, and with no return from the rest of the band. After a few favourites provide a bit of a singalong, Dando asks for requests, before launching into an unpolished version of new song 'Steve's Boy'. He then appears to have had enough, and leaves the stage shambolically without any further word. Even without 'Big Gay Heart' or 'It's All True', he'd still managed to give us pretty much all we could have hoped for.

Kinching Victory

I had the pleasure of attending two superb gigs last week, although the contrast between the two could hardly be more striking.

First off was the launch gig for rising UK jazz star Soweto Kinch's second album 'A Life In The Day Of B19: Tales of the Towerblock'. If that title sounds a little convoluted, it's not all that surprising given the nature of the project. This is Kinch's grand attempt at a concept album, drawing together a variety of styles and approaches. If the Coltrane-influenced fiery blowing will satisfy those who admire his intense, energetic approach to jazz, the increased emphasis on his equally dexterous rapping may well serve to broaden his audience. There's real musicality on display here for those disillusioned with hip hop's dependance on programming and rehashed samples, whilst the humorous wordplay may draw in those who normally find jazz lofty and inaccessible.

The B19 of the album's title is a Birmingham postal code, and Kinch's main objective seems to be to produce a thematically coherent long work, full of rounded characters and fictional events. Essentially, this is as much the witty observational tradition of English pop songwriting as it is a rap record. It's possible to argue that the medium of rap simply allows Kinch to express these ideas more easily and literally than an instrumental collection would - but in combining rap and jazz so comfortably, he has created his own unique space in the current musical landscape. The album takes in all the humdrum mundanities of tower block life, as well as the obvious harships, but Kinch has for the most part deftly avoided stereotyping. There's no sign of any ASBOS this evening anyway.

The tragically romantic is captured neatly in the deceptively simple, wistful melody to 'Adrian's Theme', whilst there's perceptive self-awareness elsewhere. Kinch decries hip hop's slavish materialism in the ironic 'All About The M-O-N-E-E' which inevitably involves some amusing crowd participation. More amusing still is the 'Everybody Raps', in which Kinch gets aggressive, ranting at the ubiquity of hip hop in a fiery style reminiscent of hip hop. It matches the intensity of his ferocious sax playing.

There's very little dynamic contrast in the music, but there's plenty of structural complexities (sudden shifts in tempo and style, from straight ahead hip hop grooves into driving swing) that make for an unpredictable, exciting performance. Occasionally the cross-pollenation of genres doesn't quite work, as when the otherwise excellent 'Adrian's Theme' veers into a strange mock-baroque section. The band is superb throughout, Abram Wilson displaying masterful control of his trumpet's upper register and playing with passion and vigour throughout. The rhythm section is solid and mostly unobtrusive, but Kinch frequently allows them to expand on the groove templates. When they do, the results are thrilling. It all culminates in an impromptu freestyle with guests Jonzi D and Lyric L, during which the bizarre blind musician Raoul Midon (who plays trumpet without the instrument - quite extraordinary) makes an unnanounced guest appearance. Kinch clearly had no idea who he was, but seemed more than happy to let him invade the stage - and if the after-show chatter between the two is anything to go by, we might look forward to a collaboration soon. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to the album's September 25th release. Kinch and Abram Wilson return to London with a special joint show as part of the London Jazz Festival in November.

Then on Sunday it was over to my former local The King's Head in Crouch End to catch a really quite splendid show featuring Jeremy Warmsley and Piney Gir's Country Roadshow.
Little Sparta opened proceedings with some rather tedious strummy acoustic songs that ventured nowhere in particular in lazy fashion. The last track they played was a delightfully melodic, breezy pop gem - the others stubbornly refused to linger in the mind. Apparently they were without the performance poet with whom they've been collaborating - it's difficult to judge whether or not his presence would have made an improvement.

Piney Gir, by contrast, is tremendous fun. Her band have a natural feel for the country stylings she now brings to her songs (a number of them reworked from her electropop debut album). Vocally, she is at times a little shaky and off-key, but there's so much vitality and personality here that any shortcomings don't really matter too much. I enjoyed this spirited and entertaining set. The closing 'Greetings, Salutations, Goodbye' is a particular treat.

"Please can you tell that heckler to shut the f*ck up!" This is the sound of a rather agitated Jeremy Warmsley, during a gig at the Brixton Windmill a couple of years back. Tonight in the King's Head, now a somewhat intimate venue for him, he is amiably ruminating on the pitfalls of being a solo artist (sometimes you have no-one to eat with before the show), admiring his piano, joking with a slightly tipsy Piney Gir ("that's a very strange noise...I like it though") and, bless him, dedicating a song to me (apparently I'm 'Crouch End's answer to Lester Bangs', which makes a change from 'Crouch End's most eligible bachelor' I guess). That Jeremy has always been a guitar player and songwriter of real talent, also adept at finding unusual contexts and means of escaping troubadour pigeonholing, has never been in doubt. His ability to captivate a live audience has, in the past, been more questionable. The transition could hardly be more marked. Where once he seemed aloof, serious-minded, perhaps even self-important, he now seems confident, relaxed and in command of his material.

Along with the onstage persona has come a real development in musicality and control. His voice has always been distinctive but has previously tended towards the untamed. He now exercises more restraint, varying tone and volume to real impact. This is immediately apparent from the opening '5 Verses'. In an acoustic setting, it's more stark than its poppier recorded counterpart, and perhaps all the more effective for that. Jeremy now adds new contours to his already elaborate melody. Another song to benefit from the solo arrangement is 'If I Had Only', where the perceptive, self-questioning lyrics shine through, whereas they are a little murky on the more ponderous recorded version. Where other solo artists are content simply to recreate the recorded environments of their songs onstage, tonight Jeremy breathes new life into these songs. Clearly, in his hands, a song is never finished.

Switching between acoustic guitar and piano throughout, Jeremy seems to have wisely ditched the preoccupation with guitar loops that used to dominate his solo sets. I always found this to be only superficially interesting, and something that occasionally detracted from the quality of his songs. Now songs like 'Dirty Blue Jeans' and 'Modern Children' benefit from some intricate guitar playing (it's rarely ever just a case of strum and sing here) and a stronger focus on the contrast between agression and sensitivity in the vocal performance. The piano playing is equally adventurous, and tonight's intense but warm rendition of 'I Knew That Her Face Was A Lie' is a real highlight.

That Jeremy gets such a warm reception is testament not just to the genuine buzz building around him, but also to his newfound ability to engage with his audience. This augurs tremendously well for the future - he will surely get better and better. Whilst lazy comparisons suggesting he is 'the new Leonard Cohen' might be a little wide of the mark, it looks likely that Jeremy will now cement his reputation and perhaps even achieve longevity. There may only be one Leonard Cohen, but it's more than plausible that a few years down the line from now, people will be calling someone else 'the new Jeremy Warmsley'.

Jeremy plays again in London with a full band at an all ages show at Conway Hall on 30th September.

Climbing A Mountain Pt 1

There's suddenly really rather a lot to get through, especially as we're now entering the peak period for album releases before it all starts to quieten down for end of year round-ups (really only about twelve weeks away now, unbelievably).

New Jersey's finest Yo La Tengo have returned with what is at the very least the greatest title of 2006 - 'I Am Not Afraid Of You and I Will Beat Your Ass'. The general consensus on this seems to be that it's a welcome return to a more wilfully scattershot approach after the rigidly coherent lush atmospherics of 'Summer Sun'. This is only partially true. Yes, it's bookended by two lengthy and somewhat frustrating wig-outs that might seem like a retrenchment to the more manic jamming of their earlier days, but the bulk of the music in between constitutes the band's most carefully constructed and cohesive work to date, with plenty of the eerie melancholy of 'Summer Sun' and 'And The Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out', but also an unrestrained love of perfect pop music. Much of this music is characterised by a skeletal approach to harmony, which actually serves to liberate the band in terms of developing sound, mood and feeling. Many of the tracks opt to highlight instruments rarely heard in this context (the euphonium on 'Black Flowers', the lone violin on 'I Feel Like Going Home' or the unexpected burst of summery Stax horns on the splendid 'Mr. Tough'). There's certainly gleeful diversity in terms of the sound of each individual track, but the whole album is shot through with a distinctive sensibility.

At least we get the burden out of the way first. The success of the opening 'Pass The Hatchet, I Think I'm Goodkind' really depends on your tolerance for the strictures of motorik Krautrock rhythms and Neil Young-esque one string banditry on the guitar. It's initially a delirously minimal and effective opener, but there's very little melodic interest and, as it casually goes on and on, it turns out very little depth too. For all its avant-garde ambitions, there's also nothing terribly original here either. I'm tempted to move for the skip button.

After this inauspicious beginning, we get something completely magical - and, something that modern experimental music very rarely is, genuinely touching. 'Beanbag Chair' is an endearingly bouncy stomp, and the first of many tracks to place the piano firmly in the foreground. There's a slight hint of Paul McCartney's pop confections here, but the weird vocal interplay between Georgia Hubley and Ira Kaplan places it in its own unique space. Even better is Georgia's swoonsome vocal on 'I Feel Like Going Home', a track that shocks through its sheer breathtaking simplicity. The harmony is rooted in familiar chords, and there is no sound here that isn't absolutely necessary, from the tender violin to the echo and ambience in the background which resembles the production of Daniel Lanois. Later on, the equally beautiful 'Black Flowers' repeats a similar trick, adding the unusually crisp Euphonium, which serves as a neat counterpoint to the mellifluous cadences in the background. When the drums enter with a subtle, off-kilter rhythm, the song has achieved a peculiarly quiet magnitude.

There's plenty of ransacking from classic pop records of the past too. 'The Race Is On Again' sounds like the depressive flipside to The Byrds' 'Eight Miles High' with its McGuinn-esque chime and jangle. 'I Should Have Known Better' seems to have some of the energy of The Who and the melodic bite of The Beatles, whilst the superb Mr. Tough has punchy Stax horns and a shamelessly comic falsetto vocal. It's tempting to view the latter as a light-hearted attack on the machismo currently directing Western politics ('Hey Mr. Tough/Don't you think we've suffered enough'), and the idea of Yo La Tengo inviting Dubya to join them on the dancefloor is peachy.

There are of course more obtuse moments - but even these make a certain kind of sense. 'Daphnia' is another lenghty track, lodged obtrusively in the centre of the album, but one which succeeds in establishing a compelling and hypnotic mood. When things get a little more aggressive, notably on 'The Room Got Heavy' with its percussive drive and riotous explosion of vintage keyboards, or on the distorted, punky 'Watch Out For Me Ronnie', there's still an abiding love of melody at the core of the songs. The latter utilises similarly effective horn punctuations as those deployed on 'Mr. Tough'.

'I Am Not Afraid Of You...' is both strident and reflective, humorous and sensitive, with a knowledge of pop history to match its questing ambitions. Yo La Tengo are a band consistently succeeding in transcending their limitations, crafting music that is beautifully poised and thoroughly compelling.

2006 is turning out to be quite a year for female artistry. I've already waxed lyrical about the enthralling Cortney Tidwell album and now comes another sublime treat, this time from Natasha Khan's Bat For Lashes. This is a record that has already been showered with somewhat uncritical praise from all corners, and some of the hype is richly deserved. Khan certainly occupies her own weird world. Sometimes this leads to the kind of fantastical witches and wizards nonsense that I've found rather tiresome on the last couple of Mercury Rev albums. At her best though, Khan constructs spacious and lusciously romantic landscapes, sometimes tainted with a hint of underlying menace (check out the wonderful 'Trophy', which sounds not unlike a feminised Nick Cave). 'Fur For Gold' is similar to the Tidwell record in that Khan seems to assimilate a number of obvious reference points, including Bjork, PJ Harvey and Kate Bush, but has subsumed her transparent influences into her own bizarre and impressive terrain.

The instrumentation is always intelligent and fascinating - there are no strumming guitars when an autoharp or an expressive piano line creates so much more feeling. Many of these songs come across like baroque anthems or chamber pop mini-epics. There's an eerie and haunting quality to songs like 'Tahiti' and 'Sad Eyes' and the album's preoccupation faintly resembles the menacing encroachment of the erotic, adult world on childlike experience in Angela Carter's classic book 'The Company Of Wolves'. The spoken word intro to 'What's A Girl To Do?' and the rather grandiose finale 'I Saw A Light' arguably reveal some of Khan's affectations, but the cumulative effect this album leaves is lineringly mysterious and suspenseful. A very promising debut indeed.

'Post-War' is the second album in two years from the brilliant songwriter M Ward, who with his last album 'Transistor Radio' managed to craft a songbook both fresh and bathed in the warm glow of nostalgia. 'Post-War' is his first album with a full band (and it also features illustrious guest spots from Neko Case, due to perform with Ward in London in November, and My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James). The abiding musical presence is the ubiquitous Mike Mogis (Bright Eyes, Rilo Kiley) who adds colour and texture to many of these lugubrious songs. Perhaps as a direct result of the ensemble focus, there's less of Ward's charmingly dexterous guitar playing here, and a greater emphasis on the exuberant strum of acoustic guitars and plonk of honky tonk pianos. The new approach works particularly brilliantly on a thrilling reinterpretation of Daniel Johnston's 'To Go Home'. I'm not all that familiar with Johnston's output, although it's easy to see why so many are touched by the wistful and childlike simplicity of these lyrics ('God it's great to be alive/Takes the skin right off my eyes/To think I'll have to give it all up someday'). Combined with a meaty sound and clattering drums, the overall effect is unhinged and joyful.

Elsewhere, there's the dark country shuffle of 'Right In The Head', with its superb central lyric ('I hope he's right in the head, even if he has to wrong someone') and a sound that seems to just keep growing and growing from start to finish. A similarly expansive approach characterises the powerful 'Requiem' and 'Chinese Translation'. Yet there's also the fragile and delicate aura of the title track, mostly stripped back to just vocal, Wurlitzer and drums, although some subtle guitar work is eventually added. It has a wonderful sense of space, with the ensemble rigorously refusing to fill in the gaps, leaving Ward's subtle, fractured vocal room to breathe.

The more langorous 'Eyes On The Prize' provides a neat link between this album and the restrained textures of 'Transistor Radio'. It has a warm, familiar sound, although that's perhaps because I think it was among the new songs performed at Ward's Bush Hall show last month. 'Rollercoaster' and 'Magic Trick' (the latter very short and emboldened by canned applause and a chorus of vocals from Jim James) are both more playful, and ensure the album never becomes too weighty or serious minded.

'Post War' is a mercilessly concise record that I suspect has a lot of listens in it. Ward never allows the ensemble approach to become too conventional, or to overpower the beating heart at the centre of these songs. He has simply succeeded in bringing a more elaborate, expansive approach to his reconfiguring of traditional forms.

The Benefits Of Brevity

Back in 1997, when I was 16 and maybe a little too in awe of Spiritualized's magnum opus 'Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space', I wanted every album in existence to clock in at CD busting length. In the modern age, we're now being told that none of us have enough time to listen to an entire album or read a book cover to cover (personally, I've never had any trouble with listening to an entire album, reading a good book at the same time and even writing about the album here afterwards!). So, more digestible albums may be back in fashion, and sometimes this is no bad thing, not least in the case of the three records I've acquired this week, all of which clock in at around 44-45 minutes.

When I interviewed Joel Gibb of Toronto's maverick 'gay folk Church group' The Hidden Cameras, he was both entertaining and uncompromising. When I played devil's advocate in suggesting that the band's aggressively gay agenda might limit their audience, he simply replied that they didn't need anyone offended or discomforted by their lyrics as a fan. An admirably defensive stance for sure and all the more interesting then that their third album 'Awoo' sees the gayness very much toned down. It's still there of course, but now between the lines of some occasionally bittersweet, highly romantic lyrics full of wonder and longing. There's even one song ('She's Gone') that could be given a heterosexual interpretation! Essentially, 'Awoo' is The Hidden Cameras album you can play on a family car trip without worrying if your folks are paying attention to the words.

Musically, it fairly predictably sticks to much the same formula. Here are twelve more songs that, mostly deftly, straddle that fine line between insanely infectious and absurdly irritating. Occasionally, they arguably cross the line. 'Lollipop' is so relentless and insistent that it grates, especially when it has the audacity to get EVEN FASTER towards the end. Some other songs, particularly 'Learning The Lie' and 'The Waning Moon' are a little repetitive, and the instrumental 'Heji' will no doubt be a lot of fun live, but seems slightly directionless in the context of the album, merely breaking the flow of an otherwise perfectly sequenced record.

On the plus side, it's worth acknowledging some of the subtle improvements in the band's sound here. There's an eerie reverb pervading the whole album, and an element of 60s beat pop or even at times rockabilly that makes some of the best moments sound like the songs Eddie Cochrane and Phil Spector never made together. Opener 'Death Of A Tune' kickstarts the album with a sheer burst of melodic joy, and a lyric that nimbly mingles melancholic and jubilant elements. Best of all is the compelling drive of the interlinked guitars and tribal drumming. It's one of the band's best songs so far. Similarly, the superbly titled 'Hump From Bending' moves from effective stop-start verses to a chorus so infectious it's impossbile to dislodge from the memory.

The string arrangements are mostly less saccharine, and more carefully entwined with the basic core of each song. This is particularly true in the album's more sensitive moments, some of which point to ways in which the band's sound might be further developed and progressed. The best of these is 'Wandering', a beautifully reflective half-time lilt, with lyrics that aspire to a dreamlike reverie. It's an entirely charming song, with a simple but powerful melody. 'Fee Fie' is also remarkably pretty, a close relation of 'A Miracle' or 'Builds The Bone'. Perhaps more interesting is 'Follow These Eyes', which benefits from the album's best arrangement, with carefully engineered crescendos and pizzicato strings creating a real sense of drama. It has something of the stately grandeur of Ben E King's 'Stand By Me', a sense underlined by the 'No I won't be afraid' lyric it lifts from that song. 'Heaven Turns To' is less surprising in its delicious sweetness, but it's no less effective for that. It actually reminds me of 'Bright Eyes' by Art Garfunkel, a guilty pleasure if ever there was one!

There are also some moments of greater ambition. 'She's Gone' begins as an amiable strum, but ends in a blur of jew's harp and driving rhythms which is about as close as this band will ever get to being funky. With its pebble percussion backing and toy acoustic guitars, closer 'The Waning Moon' incorporates some of Stephin Merritt's sonic methods, although the song isn't as substantial a closing number as 'The Man That I Am With My Man' or the excellent 'Mississauga Goddam'. 'For Fun', the only song here that comes close to outstaying its welcome at 5 minutes, dissolves into a wonderfully endearing strings and glockenspiel section before bursting back again completely unexpectedly to end in complete euphoria.

'Awoo' is another irresistible indie-pop confection, and one where it's arguable that Joel Gibb has most effectively combined his penchant for religious imagery with an underlying gay sensibility. 'Hump From Bending' is particularly effective in its deployment of the double-entendre of the title to imply frustration with conservative politics, restrictive societies and sympathetic support for those growing up as outsiders. Along with most of the rest of the album, it also captures the massively positive energy this band brings to their best material. This is actually superbly inclusive music - full of positivity and joy, but also capturing the lingering longing of love both fulifilled and unrequited. It will only be rivalled by the equally superb Camera Obscura and MJ Hibbett records for indie pop album of the year. I love this band.

Formerly a member of the sprawling collective that is Lambchop, Paul Burch now seems to be concentrating exclusively on his solo work. He has now given us another concise set of extremely rich pickings in 'East To West' on the Bloodshot label. I must confess I was somewhat wary when I read of Mark Knopfler's involvement. Although I certainly have a soft spot for early Dire Straits, Knopfler didn't exactly get the best out of Bob Dylan on either Slow Train Coming or Infidels, his work with his own band became increasingly flatly produced and cheesy, and his recent album with Emmylou Harris suffered from an occasionally stultifying blandness, although it had its moments. His contribution here is actually very low-key, providing subtle lead guitar flourishes on 'Before The Bells' and apparently offering sage advice and inspiration. Knopfler certainly has a genuine love of Nashville country music, so he's not out of place on this wonderfully authentic set. Perhaps the more easily recognisable guest is Dr. Ralph Stanley, who provides a great vocal turn on the old-time 'Little Glass Of Wine', and also gets namechecked in 'Daddy Rhythm Guitar', a charming tribute to Burch's father and the instrumental backbone of all country bands.

The album is impressively diverse, without ever sounding incoherent. There's straight-ahead bar-room honky tonk in 'When I'm In Love', eerily evocative atmospheres on 'Before The Bells' and 'Last Dream Of Will Keene', and a delightfully spirited strum in 'I Will Wait For You'. The consistent thread holding it all together is Burch's relaxed authority as a vocalist. Like his friend and fellow singer Laura Cantrell, he is never a showy vocalist, but his feel for the genre is completely instinctive and he has total command of his spidery melodies. His unassuming talent comes across right from the opening lines of exceptional opener 'Montreal', a tender and affecting song underpinned by a powerful rolling rhythm. Some of the songs feature duet vocals from Kelly Hogan, and their harmonising is delicate and controlled.

There are two major songs here. One is 'The Last Dream Of Will Keene', where Burch ponders the question of whether one can be found guilty of crimes committed only in dreams. It's an intriguing slant on the traditional murder ballad, and musically a close cousin of fan favourite 'Carter Cain'. The other is Burch's honest and sincere tribute to John Peel, simply called 'John Peel'. It's possible that this was recorded quite quickly, as it's the only track here not to feature any contributions from Burch's backing band the WPA Ballclub. Much has been written about Peel since his death, much of it by people overtly keen to claim control of his legacy but largely uninterested in his work during the final years of his life. It's unlikely that anyone will write anything as direct and affecting as this little gem of a song, which recalls both a visit Burch paid to Peel Acres and various aspects of the DJ's own life. In a few short lines it captures the essence of the man's approach to life and work: 'Had every record ever sent him/even the ones he never played/He said "there's a life there living in the grooves and I can feel it when I'm walking in the room"'. It's also lovely to hear Burch refer to Peel as 'the king of rock 'n' roll', a title usually reserved for Elvis ('it's time to fold the tent, the empire's no more/Tell your majesty it's over, John Peel sail on'). There won't be a dry eye in the house when this gets played at UK shows.

The only song that ends up being merely 'December Sparklers', which is pretty enough, but with its conventional 4/4 backbeat could really have been written by anyone from Ryan Adams to Josh Rouse. Pretty much everything else steers clear of such polite conventions, and demonstrates Burch's mastery of the tradition in which he operates. Mark Nevers again engineers superbly, helping to craft an evocative atmosphere and mood. The overall sound is probably Burch's smoothest to date, but this never detracts from the basic quality of the songwriting. From the slightly ragged ('I'm A Takin' It Home') to the beautifully serene ('Wander'), the WPA Ballclub provide sensitive and appropriate support, and they remain the unsung heroes of Burch's recorded catalogue. As good as his solo show at London's Borderline a couple of years ago was, I'm hoping he brings the band this time around. Either way, with such a strong set of new material in tow, the shows should be utterly unmissable.

In a completely different ballpark altogether is 'Slappers', the second album from the talented singer Dani Siciliano. Once again, she has worked closely with musical and life partner Matthew Herbert to craft a wildly unpredictable and thrilling collection which never settles for the ordinary when the extraordinary works so well. At 44 minutes, it's more concise than Herbert's own releases, and I think I actually prefer it to the smoother, more sophisticated 'Scale' album that Herbert himself released earlier this year, although both utilise the multi-faceted qualities of Siciliano's multitracked vocals.

On the surface, 'Slappers' is defiantly minimal, with most tracks characeterised by stark, basic drum programming and skeletal synth lines. Appreciating it's full glory requires close listening and unpicking of its unusual range of sounds, which in true Herbert fashion include samples sourced from the South London Slappers Collective (whoever and whatever they may be!) and percussion tracks built from beat boxes and samples of 'True Love Waits' rings. Throughout, it is rhythmically fascinating and sonically adventurous.

Siciliano's vocals are certainly smooth, but deceptively so - when her multitracked harmonies are set in juxtaposition with single voiced melodies, the contrast is striking. This works particularly brilliantly on the opening title track, which stutters and lurches with an endearing wooziness, and the maverick, brilliantly executed 'Think Twice', which takes its cue from contemporary R&B production, but Siciliano's strong vocal performance takes it into radically different territory. In essence, it doesn't sound even remotely comparable with any other contemporary pop music. The music here is slinky, seductive, constantly surprising, sassy, stylish and experimental. Sometimes it's just plain bonkers, particularly on the kitsch vaudeville of 'Why Can't I Make You High?' which comes complete with playful guitar and ukelele from Kitty and Ingrid. It's one of the few albums in recent years to come close to the restless invention of Prince at his best.

The overarching theme seems to be an ironic commentary on female empowerment and power relations between the sexes, neatly capped by a splendidly sexy pair of tracks at the end of the album. 'Wifey' throws Destiny's Child's vacous ballad 'Cater 2 U' violently upside down, a chorus of Siciliano's chanting 'catering to you, catering to me, wifey'. It has an effortless brilliance. 'Be My Producer' plays on the element of exploitation inherent in the creative relationship between singer and producer in the modern pop landscape, Siciliano denouncing the use of singers as mere advertising objects for the producer's creative agenda ('Make me money from your heat/This is how we comprimise/Taking honies from the streets/This is how we fund the lies'), whilst gleefully pilfering many of the production techniques. It's the same trick Siciliano and Herbert pulled off with 'Celebrity', the sole vocal track on Herbert's defiant 'Plat Du Jour' album from a couple of years ago, elucidated even more succinctly and intelligently here.

'Slappers' is a massive step forward from Siciliano's impressive but understated debut. It's joyously entertaining - simultaneously groovy and cerebral. Some have criticised Siciliano's records for simply being extentions of Matthew Herbert's own work released under another name. Well there's enough of Siciliano's own personality here to quash such accusations but, even accounting for Herbert's sonic input and substantial influence, to quote two fellow music writers I admire, I'm perfectly happy with yet more of the Unpredictable Same.

By way of contrast, Atlanta's hip hop superstars OutKast are not generally known for their brevity. Unable to work together on their last effort (the dense double solo set 'Speakerboxx/The Love Below'), they instead packed out two CDs to full capacity with their arch inventiveness and contrasting writing styles. Apparently working together again on 'Idlewild', in part a soundtrack to their forthcoming movie of the same name, they have taken their first substantial misstep.

In spite of all the critical plaudits currently being directed at this confounding, ragbag collection of half-baked ideas, I just can't get into this album. At 78 minutes, it is so long and so dense, its flow constantly interrupted by pointless skits and numerous guest slots, it's next to impossible to endure from start to finish and has the unmistakeable mark of a vanity project.

Still, that's not to say that there aren't great moments here, particularly when it's at its most vibrant and playful. Current single 'Morris Brown' is an infectious riot of vocal harmonies, Big Boi's brilliantly laconic rapping and insistent percussion. 'Idlewild Blue' manages to merge the urban and delta blues traditions into an outrageously entertaining post-modern concoction. It's surely a prime choice for a single, and the best chance of them replicating the success of 'Hey Ya' from this set. There's also a great moment where the presence of Dre and Boi themselves is decidedly backseat - new protege Janelle Monae takes sole vocal duties on the poptastic 'Call The Law'.

Yet, there's a nagging sense that the group are coasting. Musically, the album too often settles for the merely generic, relying more on sampled sounds that the more organic template set by the classic 'Stankonia'. Whilst the influence of swing band music pervades the set (in keeping with the film's prohibition era theme), they rarely integrate the jazzy stylings as well as on Speakerboxx's fabulous 'Bowtie'. The beats are rarely all that inventive either and many could have come from any of the major R&B hitmaking staples, from Jermaine Dupre to Timbaland or Lil Jon. By the time we get to the seriously underwhelming 'Greatest Show On Earth', further marred by the irritating warblings of the hideous Macy Gray, frustration has long set in.

Some more judicious editing and a less self-conscious approach to the production might have made an excellent record from 'Idlewild', but as it stands, it's wilfully incoherent and slightly underwhelming, despite containing some of the duo's most inventive rhyming. I'm still looking forward to the more concise 10 track project the duo promised before they veered out at a tangent on this forgiveable but frustrating flight of fancy.

Monkey Business

Oh well. Just when you think you have the Mercury Judges sussed, they return to blatant populism, and The Arctic Monkeys are confirmed as 2006's Franz Ferdinand. Prolific they may be, but their latest single reveals the limitations of their taut rock sound more than it does their strengths. It's also hard to see how they can possibly sustain the wave of popular appreciation generated by their debut, a problem now already hampering Franz Ferdinand. I completely respect anyone's right to enjoy the record, and to be one of the masses singing along to every wittily observed word at this year's summer festivals. Yet, the nagging question remains - how much longer do we have to settle for this as if it's the highest, most jaw-droppingly original art to which our musicians can aspire?

Oh The Times They Doth Change Too Much

Bob Dylan's 'Modern Times'

That title is loaded with mischievous irony. 'Modern Times', like 'Love and Theft' before it, is very self-consciously unconcerned with the contemporary musical landscape. With its 30s and 40s swing croons and rockabilly stompers, it's a deliciously entertaining refashioning of great American musical traditions. Given its coupling of wry, frequently very funny blues pieces with hauntingly evocative major songs, it's easy to see why Columbia Records are presenting it as the conclusion of a great trilogy that began in 1997 with 'Time Out Of Mind'. To understand latter-day Dylan, however, it's necessary to go back a bit further. After the creative low of 'Under The Red Sky' in 1990, Dylan was crippled by writers' block, and retreated into a songbook of folk and blues standards with two excellent albums of reinterpretations, 1992's 'Good As I Been To You' and 'World Gone Wrong' the following year. It is this exuming of his earliest inspirations that seems to have inspired pretty much everything he has recorded since, from 'Time Out Of Mind' and its spidery intimations of mortality, to Love And Theft's gleeful ransacking of the past. Though he was much lambasted for those albums at the time, seen from the vantage point of hindsight, they make perfect sense. It's therefore also not hard to appreciate why the unconverted will probably remain nonplussed by an album like 'Modern Times', not least because of the profound tedium of much of the huge volume of writing about Dylan these days. His most anticipated album since Blood On The Tracks, another masterpiece, yadda, yadda, yawn, yawn....Many of the reviews seem so preoccupied with the mythical influence of Dylan himself that they've failed to engage much with the album.

The bulk of 'Modern Times' is entirely amiable and unassuming, mostly 12 bar blues compositions played with unforced clarity and enthusiasm by his regular touring band. The crisp guitars of Stu Kimball and Denny Freeman duel with the vigour and dynamism of Scotty Moore and Carl Perkins, whilst Tony Garnier's solid upright bass pulse and George Receli's expressive drumming, mostly with brushes, are superb throughout. At its worst, there's some bizarrely cheesy cabaret-style crooning on 'Beyond The Horizon', which would be a lightweight song from a much lesser artist. At the better end, there's the gently rollicking opener 'Thunder On The Mountain', one of many songs featuring Dylan's excellent piano playing (considerably more nuanced and subtle than it was in the days of 'New Morning') and the massively entertaining 'Someday Baby'. Here, the words roll and tumble from Dylan's cracked voice with controlled relish.

There are some endearing rewrites of old standards. Indeed, the bulk of 'Modern Times' is a collection of references to a variety of source material, and it becomes easy to see why the archivist Dylan is now presenting an old time radio show, perhaps exactly the sort of programme Matt Ward was lamenting the loss of on his 'Transistor Radio' album from last year. 'Rollin' and Tumblin' doesn't veer too far away from its Muddy Waters template, and 'The Levee's Gonna Break' will be recognisable to anyone familiar with Memphis Minnie or Led Zeppelin. Even the much more substantial 'Nettie Moore' is in fact directly inspired by a nineteenth century American folk song of the same name. He even references Nina Simone in a particularly sly verse during 'Spirit On The Water': 'They brag about your sugar/Brag about it all over town/Put some sugar in my bowl/I feel like layin' down'.

Lyrically, he seems to be deploying similar deliriously funny wordplay to that used on the best parts of 'Love and Theft'. There are some superb moments, right from the outset. The opening verse of 'Thunder In The Mountain' proclaims 'Today's the day, gonna grab my trombone and blow/Well there's hot stuff here and it's everywhere I go'. Elsewhere, the song features some of his most inventive rhyming couplets - 'I've been sittin' studying the art of love/I think it will fit me like a glove' or, even better, 'Gonna recruit me an army, some real tough sons of bitches/I'll recruit my army from the orphanages/I been to St. Herman's Church, said my religious vows/ I've sucked the milk from a thouuuuussssand cowwwwwws!'. There are again delicious references to the twilight years ('you think I'm over the hill/You think I'm past my prime/Let me see what you got/We can have a whoppin' good time'), reflective ruminations on regret ('I laugh and I cry, and I'm haunted by/Things I never meant or wished to say') or some blackly funny confessions ('some young lazy slut has charmed away my brains!' or, much better, 'I want to be with you in Paradise/And it seems so unfair/I can't go back to paradise no more/...I killed a man back there!').

Amidst all of this riotous worplay, many claim that there it's not possible to detect much of the preoccupation with mortality and weariness that characterised 'Time Out Of Mind'. This isn't quite true. 'When The Deal Goes Down' comes with a lot of waltz, more than a hint of schmaltz, and some slightly clunky lyrics that echo 'Every Grain Of Sand' in their references to Biblical texts and psalms. Somehow, despite all this, it's quietly moving, perhaps because of the inference that 'the deal' in question is dying and the repeated refrain of 'I'll be with you when the deal goes down' is the ultimate pledge. There's also a sense of finality pervading in two of the album's best tracks, the love lament 'Nettie Moore' where 'the world has gone black before my eyes' and the epic finale 'Ain't Talkin', with its series of barren, apocalyptic landscapes.

It is these tracks, plus one other ('Workingman's Blues #2') that will ultimately secure this album's reputation within the Dylan canon (and certainly not the inspid 'Beyond The Horizon', where even the most avid Dylan fan may have to reach for the skip button). 'Ain't Talkin' is a close relation of 'Highlands', the 17 minute closer of 'Time Out Of Mind', although at just nine verses and almost the same number of minutes, it's a good deal more concise. Its tormented, existential journey is composed brilliantly (even though the central image of the 'mystic garden' is perhaps a bit icky), particularly as it gathers intensity towards the end ('the sufferin' is unending, Every nook and cranny has its tears/I'm not playing, I'm not pretending/I'm not nursin' any superfluous fears'). It's also musically fasninating, with eerie guitar arpeggios set against multi-instrumentalist Donnie Herron's mournful violin. 'Nettie Moore' is a song in the grand folk tradition, brilliantly arranged, with neat contrast between crisply phrased vocals in the verse, and a more langorous, explicitly romantic chorus.

'Workingman's Blues #2', with both title and theme cribbed from Merle Haggard, is a thornier song. It will certainly be claimed by those still besotted with protest-era Dylan as a conscious return to leftist roots, not least because of some vaguely Marxist lyrics ('the buying power of the proletariat's gone down/money's gettin' shallow and weak' or 'they say low wage is our reality, if we want to compete abroad'). I suspect, particularly given Dylan's long standing reluctance to espouse any specific particular political creed, that the concerns here are more personal than political, especially when the lyric is taken as a whole. Either way, it's one of the most brilliantly sustained lyrics in the latterday Dylan catalogue, with a lingering melody and some stately, elegant playing from the band (again including Dylan's surprisingly intricate piano). It has some truly majestic lines, and my favourite verse on the whole album: 'My cruel weapons have been put on the shelf/Come sit down on my knee/You are dearer to me than myself/As you yourself can see/While I'm listening to the steel rails-a-hum/Got both eyes tight shut/Just sitting here trying to keep the hunger from/Creeping its way inside my gut'). As ever, the delivery of this brilliantly manipulated language enhances its impact. Many fans will note that this is the first time Dylan has deployed the dreaded 'upsinging' device on a studio album. Whilst it has long been the achilles heel of his live shows, here it is deployed with sensitivity and conscious control - the little flick up at the end of some of the lines adding emphasis.

'Modern Times' perhaps suffers a little from predictability, given how well it sits with its immediate predecessors. As Michael Gray has observed in his excellent 'Song and Dance Man' book, it's actually very rare that Dylan offers anything as audience-pleasing or as straightforward as a sequel or follow-up. There's very little evidence that Dylan has kept up with any contemporary trends, as his ranting interview with Rolling Stone magazine's Jonathan Lethem more than suggested (Dylan was fiery in his denunciation of modern production techniques and claimed there had been no decent records made in the last 20 years). Perhaps that's why the strange Alicia Keys lyric stands out so much on 'Thunder On The Mountain' - 'I was thinking about Alicia Keys, couldn't keep from crying/When she was born in Hell's Kitchen, I was living down the line/I was wondering where in the world Alicia Keys could be/I looked for her even clear through Tennessee'. It's brilliantly unexpected. For the most part though, 'Modern Times' presents Dylan as more plunderer than pioneer, but it's no less enthralling for that. It's worth remembering that this is a writer who has always bent source material to his own wildly inventive purposes, and in reconnecting with the American songbook, he has ironically made himself relevant again. In his wilderness days in the 80s, Dylan seemed very conscious of the need to update and modernise, hence perhaps the deployment of Arthur Baker to produce 'Empire Burlesque' or the use of Sly and Robbie as rhythm section on 'Infidels'. Now, abandoning such surface concerns, he has recovered his very core, becoming in essence a travelling minstrel singer - full of wit and wisdom, but gradually shedding the star's mystique.