Tidying Up

There's a whole load of stuff I haven't got around to writing about yet, so here's a bit of a catch up in advance of my albums of the year.

First of all, it's time for me to eat some humble pie. A couple of years ago, I reacted violently every time Amy Winehouse appeared on TV or received a glowing review (mind you, that 'Stronger Than Me' single was dreadful...). Two things have made me completely revise my opinions. Seeing her perform a song at Ko's final gig at the Green Note in Camden Town (a tiny cafe venue) was genuinely sensational and, secondly, the consistently high quality of her 'Back To Black' album is something of a revelation. A lot of back to basics soul albums turn out to be bland and insignificant, but her second album very much sees Winehouse finding her own voice. For sure, she's achieved this by heading back to some staple influences for inspiration (Ray Charles, Billy Paul, Donny Hathaway, swing jazz), but there's a soulful spirit to this music that is genuine and unforced. She still remains bolshy and mouthy throughout (with lyrics like 'what kind of fuckery are we/now you don't mean dick to me', one wonders why anyone gets involved with her), but the whole experience now seems much more natural and less contrived. Anyway, she's still a lightweight in the explicit and bitchy department when placed next to someone like Millie Jackson. Mark Ronson's production adds a distinctively modern sheen, with hints of hip hop flavouring, but without diluting the record's timeless spirit. The arrangements are rich and elaborate, but without sacrificing the infectious qualities of peerless pop songs such as 'Rehab' and 'You Know I'm No Good'. Perhaps Winehouse's nasal voice remains an acquired taste, but she seems less interested in simply emulating Billie Holiday this time round, and the vocal phrasing is impressively sophisticated. The highlights are too numerous to list, but the tender 'Love's A Losing Game', with delicate and restrained guitar playing that ably supports her expressive vocal, adds new dimensions to her craft and the title track is supremely ambitious.

The last album from EST (Viaticum) was highly acclaimed and just scraped the bottom end of my end-of-year list for 2005. It is, however, not an album I've returned too much this year, its austere chamber mood feeling a bit stifling and oppressive. Its rapid successor 'Tuesday Wonderland' seems to be one of those take-it-for-granted albums that hasn't quite received its dues from the music press, even in specialist jazz circles. As usual, the titles of the compositions are worth the asking price alone, with 'Brewery of Beggars', 'Dolores In A Shoestand' and 'Eight hundred Streets By Feet' being particular favourites of mine. Musically, it retains many of the staple elements of Esbjorn Svensson's by now signature sound - the subtle integration of electronic textures, gently expanding harmonic motifs, and a subtle, deftly handled rhythmic invention. To these ears, this album pushes these elements further than anything this band have recorded since 'From Gagarin's Point Of View', and has taken them to a new, almost hypnotic effect. It's still much more about sound and atmosphere than the technical virtues of improvisation, but these compositions have more than enough ideas, and the album as a whole is very carefully sequenced.

There are three other jazz albums from 2006 that make for some quietly inspirational listening. Kenny Garrett returns with 'Beyond The Wall', an album that mercifully steers well clear of the banal and smooth territory this excellent musician can sometimes frustratingly inhabit. With Garrett's emotional tones playing alongside some fiery and impassioned blowing from Pharoah Sanders (age seems incapable of diminishing his force and fury), 'Beyond The Wall' neatly juxtaposes the gospel spirit of America with the spiritual and mystical intrigue of the East. It's an intoxicating brew, essential to which is the full and intensely felt piano accompaniment from Mulgrew Miller. As is frequently the case with Garrett, the themes are very simple, occasionally risking sounding insubstantial or incomplete, but in this context, the minimalism feels wholly appropriate, and the keenly felt performances are vibrant and expressive. Albums with spiritual inspirations can seem pretentious, and it's probably a huge help that Garrett managed to get Sanders on board (who played on some of the key albums in Alice Coltrane's series of devotional works and has pioneered this sound himself). 'Beyond The Wall' is, however, gritty and thrilling in its more explosive moments, and carefully controlled and contemplative in its moments of peace and calm.

Over in Britian, the F-IRE collective have spawned a number of genuinely exciting acts, with Pete Wareham's Acoustic Ladyland and Seb Rochford's Polar Bear getting the lion share of attention. Rochford also appears behind the drum kit with the excellent Oriole, although he demonstrates a very different style of playing here from the righteous clatter that now predominates in Acoustic Ladyland's music - here he is supremely sensitive, playing largely with brushes, and really supporting the melodic ebb and flow of the music. The group are directed by guitarist Jonny Phillips, whose compositions are deeply melodic, and frequently inspired by music from other cultures, particularly those of South America and Africa. Phillips' acoustic rhythm playing is textural, but far from neutral, establishing unusual and esoteric moods over which his melodies can float and linger. The combination of Ingrid Laubrock's ebullient saxophone and the languid, delicate cello of Ben Davis is distinctive and unassumingly original. This music is delicate and has a real subtlety that amply rewards repeated listens. The title, 'Migration', is apt, suggesting a flow not just of peoples, but also of ideas, values, sounds and experiences between countries and cultures. Phillips succeeds not just in observing this shared experience, but in fully inhabiting it himself.

Joe Lovano remains one of the world's most astounding saxophonists, capable of powerful extended solos and carefully constructed melodic expression. The variety of his playing means he can handle sensitive ballads every bit as adroitly as he can hard swing. For his latest project, a collaboration with arranger Gunter Schuller, he has returned to one of the key texts in the jazz canon, Miles Davis' 'Birth Of The Cool' collection. The rearrangement of these pieces into a big band suite is an unqualified success, with some inventive reharmonising from Schuller, as well as a whole range of new structural intricacies. The rhythm section swings effortlessly when required, but also handles the through-composed elements of the music with real precision. This music is sandwiched between a series of original compositions from Lovano, all of which are directly inspired by giant and iconic figures in the music's history. What could easily have seemed a tediously reverential exercise is invigorated by the sheer range of inspiration Lovano draws from - there are actually very few players who could claim to be as much inspired by Albert Ayler as Sonny Rollins. The spirit of Ellington and Mingus are naturally strong presences too, but the whole set really succeeds in playfully remodelling some of jazz history's more established conventions.

There are many people more qualified than me to comment on the return of the king of rap Jay Z (but surely every one of his last five albums has seen him 'come out of retirement?'), but I'm going to add my views anyway. 'The Black Album' was clearly one of those pivotal records that it's next to impossible to improve on, but there's little doubt that 'Kingdom Come' would be considered a lazy offering even from a much lesser talent. It starts well enough, with 'Oh My God' and the title track in particular offering something hard hitting and compelling. The latter reworks the Rick James Superfreak sample to surprisingly heavy impact. After that, however, it quickly goes wrong. 'Show Me What You Got', although one of the better tracks, is a sprawling and disorientating mess, whilst the appearance of bland crooner John Legend on the uninspiringly titled 'Do U Wanna Ride?' gives a strong hint at the direction in which the album is headed. From here on, the beats are basic to the point of tedium, and the rapping mainly consists of boasts about the level of credit Jay Z can get. Who cares apart from Beyonce when she wants her 450th pair of heels? It's baffling that one of the more maverick and ambitious productions here comes from Chris Martin! Even The Neptunes are coasting with their dull contribution.

Two albums from singer-songwriters have caught my attention in recent months. 'Song Of The Blackbird' by William Elliott Whitmore is one of the country albums of the year (thanks to Lauren for the tip, albeit it a not entirely unbiased one), and Whitmore's voice is absolutely superb. It's gravelly and gutsy like a soul man overdosing on bourbon, but by accompaning himself usually only with the starkest of settings, he nimbly avoids the pitfalls of cliche. There's a sincere and emotive quality of the music, and the experiences related seem believable, even when they adhere rigidly to American folk traditions ('Lee County Flood'). It's possibly at its best when Whitmore makes use of the banjo, which when used alone, is surprisingly dramatic. Like the excellent Benoit Pioulard album, this should be benefiting from some word of mouth buzz.

The other is 'People Gonna Talk', a very traditionalist, perhaps even conservative record from British bluesman James Hunter, that it's really impossible not to embrace with open arms. We're very much in Van Morrison territory here, although mercifully not the flowery hippy drivel of Astral Weeks, more the jazz-meets-blues territory that Morrison has wandered, occasionally fruitfully, in more recent years. Yet, this album has everything you could want from this form of music - vocals that are crisp but understated, and some saxophone arrangements that don't crowd the music. It's mainly driven by a precision perfect rhythm section, that can incorporate elements of ska or reggae without ever sounding uncomfortable. Hunter's lyrics are simple, but frequently they resonate precisely because of this, and his melodies are warmly familiar, delivered in an unhurried and unshowy style. All the tracks have a similar feel, but it is all so lovingly and authentically rendered (it was all recorded at Toerag studios with former White Stripes and Holly Golightly engineer Liam Watson), and at just forty minutes, it certainly doesn't outstay it's welcome. With repeated listens, the subtle differences in tone become more readily apparent - 'Walk Away' has a gentle swing, whilst the more melancholy 'Mollena' betrays the influence of Sam Cooke. This is a charming, beautifully restrained record that harks back to a bygone era with swing and sophistication.

The Canadian supergroup Swan Lake, involving Dan Bejar of Destroyer and The New Pornographers, along with Spencer Krug from Wolf Parade, are responsible for one of the very strangest records of 2006. 'Beast Moans' seems to have some unfashionably progressive influences behind it, from the peculiar cover art featuring mythical creatures to the baffling lyrics that seem to speak of other worlds. The music favours mysterious droning and exotic atmospherics over rhythm or melody, and as such, it's all a bit difficult to get a grip on. It may well be outstanding, but I also can't help feeling that it's deliberately difficult, and something of an indulgence for the musicians involved. It sometimes sounds intriguing, but rarely makes any real sense. Destroyer's 'Your Blues' album is certainly a far more effective foray into peculiar territory, and it works primarily through being much less guitar-based.

I have no such doubts about the enchanting qualities of Trentemoller's outstanding 'Last Resort' though. This is one of the outstanding electronic albums of the year (albeit with the caveat that I haven't yet managed to hear recommended efforts from Booka Shade, Current 93 and James Holden), sublime and genuinely hypnotic without ever being boring. So much club music only sounds good in clubs, but this, although heavily reliant on the kind of relentless and pulsating rhythm tracks that occasionally tie dance music too closely to its own conventions, sounds intense and imaginative on a home stereo system. It has a peculiar mechanistic beauty, and it alternates between moments of stark clarity and moments of genuine warmth.

I've really run the gamut of genres with this one!

2006: The Year In Popular Song

My albums of the year list will follow shortly, but for starters, here are some thoughts on the tracks that shaped my year, for better or for worse. All my own opinions, not work related etc etc....

Two tracks proved completely inescapable this year - the big, heavily hyped download-only number one from Gnarls Barkley and 'Over and Over', the superb party anthem from Hot Chip. The latter has now been released three times, and plays virtually every time I go to a club or music venue. It was one of those tracks that, largely by virtue of being simple, insistent but also knowingly clever, captured a wave of energy and enthusiasm. Much as I love it, it's not my favourite track on 'The Warning' - that would have to go to the sly, soulful nod to 'Walk On By' that is 'Look After Me', one of the very finest things Alexis has written to date.

Morrissey's 'Ringleader Of The Tormentors' proved a somewhat flawed and frustrating album, but contained a handful of superb tracks, not least the wonderful collaboration with Ennio Morricone on 'Dear God Please Help Me'. Unfortunately, Moz elected not to even attempt to recreate this grandiose melodrama in live concerts, instead preferring to focus on the album's more generic, plodding moments. It's one of his very best studio performances though - a vocal rich in nuance and emotion. Whether or not it's about some hot Roman gay sex is another matter....

Talking of which, everyone's favourite gay Canadians The Hidden Cameras managed to set out their agenda in a more inclusive and compelling way on 'Hump From Bending', one of the most thoroughly joyful tracks of the year. Combining playful innuendo with some righteous liberalism (if such a thing is possible), this felt like a genuine outsider anthem. Some people seemed to find the album, and the recent shows promoting it, disappointing - who were these fools?!

A number of artists provided food for thought in 2006 by mixing pop and politics. The Roots found a sublime streak of social consciousness hip hop with 'Don't Feel Right', one of the best singles of their career so far - punchy, hard-hitting and aware. By delving back into the American folk canon, Bruce Springsteen sounded more invigorated and powerful than he had in years. Not included on the initial pressings of the Seeger Sessions album, his reinterpretation of Blind Alfred Reed's 'How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live?' addressed the political failings of the Bush administration over Hurricane Katrina with righteous clarity. Less successful were some other attempts to deal with the same issue from Jay Z and U2 and Green Day, the former unaccountably lame, the latter grotesquely pompous. Many were keen to praise Neil Young's 'Living With War' album for its directness and passion - but place it next to Steve Earle and it just sounds unforgivably clunky and ill-judged. It might not be reasonable to expect daring political statements from the Pet Shop Boys, but with 'Integral' and 'Indefinite Leave To Remain', the two most successful tracks on their inconsistent 'Fundamental' album, they delivered some persuasive arguments against much-parroted political maxims. The former used neat satire to undermine the popular notion that 'if you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to fear', accurately and convincingly attacking the petty Stalinism of New Labour. Of all this year's political statements, however, the most significant may well be Scott Walker's 'The Drift', an album of such uncompromising vision and insight that it is utterly terrifying. It doesn't make sense to isolate specific tracks, but 'Clara' was itself as complex and ambitious as an entire opera, dramatic and intense, brilliantly capturing the modern world's inexorable drift to the extremes of tyranny and violence. It's entirely a matter of interpretation, but I liked to picture the Mr. Tough of Yo La Tengo's magnificently infectious song as George W himself, being enticed onto the dancefloor to distract him from misguided policies at home and abroad. It's also been a matter of some interpretive debate as to whether Bob Dylan's 'Workingman's Blues No. 2' marks a return to the leftist concerns of his protest days. The whole argument over this is probably pointless - the song is more about comradeship and solidarity in work than it is about any political ideology. Along with the superb 'Nettie Moore', it's his best work so far this decade.

In the mainstream pop world, Girls Aloud triumphed once again with the outrageously camp, loveably lightweight 'Something Kinda Oooh', but then it all went tits-up with that terrible version of 'I Think We're Alone Now'. I still admire McFly's winning way with a pop melody, whether they actually write and play their songs or not. 'Please Please' really was a slice of postmodern pop genius, neatly throwing those tabloid rumours about Harry and Lindsay Lohan back in everyone's faces. OutKast returned with an overlong, laborious and mostly boring soundtrack album, but 'Morris Brown' and 'Idlewild Blue' were superb singles, demonstrating their intuitive musical wit and invention. The major surprise of the year was Amy Winehouse, about whom I must now admit that I was completely and utterly wrong - 'Rehab' is everything a pop single should be and more. Madonna continued to pull singles from the ludicrously overrated Confessions On A Dancefloor album, with increasingly diminishing returns, 'Jump' being one of the least compelling records of her entire career. Initially, I thought Justin Timberlake's 'SexyBack' was a tuneless dirge, but forced to listen to it repeatedly, I now appreciate it as more of a minimal masterpiece, adding a whole new dimension to Timbaland's multi-faceted production. With 'Maneater' and 'Promiscuous', Nelly Furtado finally admitted that she's no great singer, stopped pretending, and made two brilliant dancefloor stompers. Even better than all of these was 'Black Sweat', which saw Prince veer towards crunk, although nobody seemed to notice, perhaps because the rest of the album was a bit shit.

In the indie world, everyone went crazy over those Arctic Monkeys - I remain completely indifferent. As for The Kooks, 'She Moves In Her Own Way', with its mock-scouse vocals, is one of the most incompetent and annoying strummy guitar records in ages. How can such manifest lack of ambition reap such huge rewards? I also couldn't get away from The Automatic's one-trick-pony shouty nonsense pop (not something I ever wanted), or Snow Patrol's dreary earnestness on 'Chasing Cars', a record that just refuses to go away. Oh, and Primal Scream completely embarrassed themselves, amplifying all the shamelessly derivative, ugly dimensions of their music for 'Country Girl' and 'Dolls'. For those that looked a little further afield there were rich pickings, with some sharp social and political commentary from the ever endearing MJ Hibbett on 'The Gay Train' and 'The Fight For History', a brilliant apropriation of northern soul stylings from Camera Obscura on 'Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken' and 'Let's Get Out Of This Country' and perhaps the best reversion of that ubiquitous rhythm from 'You Can't Hurry Love' on 'Once and Never Again' by The Long Blondes. I wanted to despise the latter because of the hype, but their sharply observed songs actually have real merit. The Gossip were the unlikely crossover stars of the year, and it's gratifying that they did it all on their own terms, with two superb singles in 'Listen Up' and 'Standing In The Way Of Control'. The Pipettes had their detractors, but they are beginning to look more and more like killjoys as their girl pop continues to warm my heart. 'Pull Shapes' was a particular triumph. Meanwhile, the award for most inventive song titles surely went to Flipron, for gems like 'Mingers In Paradise' and 'The Flatpack Bride Of Possibilities'. Splendid!

Further into the outer limits, there were some genuine slices of avant-garde pop genius. 'The Mercury Craze' from Subtle, another configuration of the Anticon rappers, is unbelivably brilliant, completely audacious and enervating. Junior Boys produced an album that was roughly 60% outstanding and 40% soporific, but 'In The Morning' may be the electronic track of the year, brilliantly produced, brimming with invention and topped off with a sweetly handled melody. Matthew Herbert's 'Scale' was a more streamlined and accessible proposition than his more maverick work on 'Plat du Jour' and 'Goodbye Swingtime', but it at least had 'Moving Like A Train', an irresistably groovy confection. Psapp perfected their 'toytronica' sound on the thrilling 'Hi'.

There were some beautifully literate songs in 2006, from some of the most dependable artists of recent times. Lambchop's Kurt Wagner continues to drift towards more elusive territory, but his lyrics retain a uniquely poetic wisdom that simply can't be found anywhere else. 'Paperback Bible told of a swap shop style radio show with quiet grace and dignity. Will Oldham was yet again a ubiquitous songwriting figure, with perhaps his greatest triumph to date being 'His Hands', a truly masterful song written for soul legend Candi Staton, and probably the single best track I heard this year. Whilst this was an intense and serious track, Sparks again proved themselves masters of playful irony with 'Baby Can I Invade Your Country?'

2006 also served to remind us of the real value in interpretation. Cover versions remain unfairly derided, and the collaboration between Bonnie 'Prince' Billy and Tortoise, particularly on their stunning refashioning of Springsteen's 'Thunder Road' as an uncertain lament, demonstrated that there can be real artistry in cover songs. Even better perhaps, Susanna and The Magical Orchestra completely reinvented the mood of Kiss' 'Crazy Crazy Nights' to the extent that it became hard to see how it could ever have been a cock rock anthem. Susanna's subtle, tender reading turned it into something incomporably serious and moving, a celebration of the party spirit, but with the lingering knowledge that these great days of youth are slipping away from us.

2006 was also memorable for the return of some iconic figures. Scritti Politti's Green Gartside should have been a real pop star, but his stagefright always caused him problems. Back with a new album that shows him at the absolute peak of his songwriting abilities, and at last performing live again, he was surely a more deserving winner of the Mercury than the Arctic Monkeys (the real contest was between Scritti and Hot Chip). 'The Boom Boom Bap' is that rare beast - a song about music that actually works brilliantly. In fact, the sound of the final verse, where Green simply reads the tracklist to the first Public Enemy album, is one of the most strangely moving sounds of the year. Another artsist to make a serious bid for a comeback was Jarvis, and whilst I still feel his album is slightly underwhelming, his download only single 'C*nts Are Still Running The World' is the sound of a very wise, if noticeably bitter man. Line of the year may well be 'They say the cream always floats to the top - well, I say, shit floats!'. Spot on sir!

Still, whilst this is by no means a damning indictment of music in 2006, the song that touched me most this year was actually recorded back in 1986 - 'Estuary Bed' from the still woefully underrated Australian band The Triffids. This melancholy song, with a tragic romantic sweep, is harmonically very simple and understated, yet all the elements combine to staggering effect, and Evil Graham Lee's steel guitar adds a sense of grandeur. Domino's repackaging of The Triffids' back catalogue should continue apace in 2007, with the outstanding 'Calenture' album scheduled as the next release.

Digging Deep

When Tom Waits last released an album, 'Real Gone' in 2004, I commented that, for all its madcap cabaret and junkyard stomp, the most striking moment may have been the vulnerable anti-war ballad that concluded the proceedings. In light of this, I wondered whether it might not be more artistically interesting for Waits to backtrack a bit and release an entire album of sensitive ballads, rather than simply repeating his bizarre musical hybrids in slight variations. With one of the CDs in the 'Orphans' 3CD set, he appears to have fulfilled my wish. The second disc, 'Bawlers' is a collection of restrained, folk-tinged, and sensitive troubadour songs. It's also quite brilliant. Despite essentially being a ragbag odds-and-sods collection (one track 'Little Drop Of Poison' originally surfaced on the soundtrack to Wim Wenders' underrated movie 'The End of Violence' as far back as 1997), it coheres remarkably, and demonstrates Waits' adherance to traditional musical forms as well as his tendencies towards the theatrical. Many of the songs are in the same barfly jazz meets musical theatre style as 'The Briar and The Rose' from Waits' music for Robert Wilson's 'Black Rider'. There are some truly superb songs here, particularly the simple, direct and moving gospel song 'Down There By The Train', with its view of a compassionate, all-inclusive religion, so different from that so often propounded by evangelical spokespeople in the media. Waits originally wrote the track for Johnny Cash's first American Recordings album, but his own version is equally committed and convincing. 'Bend Down The Branches' and 'You Can Never Hold Back Spring' are concise and haunting, with Waits stretching the melodies to draw more emotion. Even better is 'The Fall Of Troy', a powerful tale of corrupted youth which shows Waits' continuing maturation as a lyricist, a development that also bears considerable fruit on the mysterious, allusive and poetic 'Widow's Grove'.

There's also a real element of the unexpected in the form of a number of covers and interpretations. There's a languid version of The Ramones' 'Danny Says' (one of two Ramones covers on the whole set) and a superbly bawdy take on Leadbelly's blues standard 'Goodnight Irene'. Absurdly, it all ends with a spectacularly cheesy take on Sinatra's 'Young At Heart', seemingly tapping into the same well that Bob Dylan has been mining in recent years for inspiration on tracks like 'Spirit On The Water' and 'When The Deal Goes Down'.

Of the other two discs, 'Brawlers' is arguably more predictable, the bulk of it seemingly constituting of out-takes from the 'Real Gone' sessions. Much of it is blisteringly entertaining, from the hilarious Elvis impersions that liberally pepper the opening 'Lie To Me' to what sounds like another classic Waitsian sea shanty singalong on the closing 'Rains On Me'. This is in the main the most humorous of the discs, and there's plenty of joy taken in wit, wonder and wordplay. The music is also scowling and primitive, with familiar clanking percussion and the highly syncopated, avant-garde guitar technique of the masterful Marc Ribot.

The most comment-worthy song may well be 'Road To Peace', which with its lengthy narrative lambasting all sides in the Israel-Palestine conflict, has been deemed Waits' most explicitly political song to date. It's not a million miles from Steve Earle's impassioned polemics on 'The Revolution Starts Now', but it certainly stops short of some of Earle's more daring statements. Whilst the lyrics might work as narrative, they feel slightly clunky and forced as poetry, and in the end the song probably isn't the major statement Waits wanted it to be.

Again, the reinterpretations are as significant as the originals, with a take on George Khoury and Philipe Batiste's 'Sea Of Love' which is awash with intriguing and atmospheric sound, as well as an inspired refashioning of the gospel standard 'Lord I've Been Changed'.

The final disc, entitled 'Bastards', is the most contrary and challenging of the three, indulging Waits' preference for peculiar readings, beat poetry and malevolent noise. It includes his excellent version of Daniel Johnston's 'King Kong', originally recorded for the Late Great Daniel Johnston tribute collection, and other highlights include some strange new settings for the vivid and energetic prose of beat writer Jack Kerouac. It's the hardest of the discs to listen to attentively, but it repays the effort with at least modest rewards.

'Orphans' essentially does exactly what it says on the tin - as a whole, it's no masterpiece, but rather a consistently fascinating illumination of Waits' multi-faceted writing. The vocal performances are rich in variety, and Waits' delivery veers from savage guttural howl to sensitive croon. The three disc division works remarkably well, and ensures that this project comes across as something different from simply being 'another Tom Waits album'. The design and packaging of the set is also a real marvel, including the famous last words of legends as diverse as Oscar Wilde, Charles II and Haydn, historical facts and figures, and a section on 'the miseries of the great', detailing the nasty ailments afflicting various people of some stature in history. It also comes with a 94-page book detailing personnel, recording and production details, and a complete set of lyrics. Real attention and care has gone into the presentation of this set, so much so that it may even justify the expense of purchase. It's satisfying that in a stale time in the music market, where certain other groups are settling for simply repackaging their back catalogue in overpriced and uninspired 'best-ofs', Waits has rewarded his followers with an intelligently sequenced, beautifully packaged collection. We should be thankful that these orphans have now found their home.

One of the real word of mouth successes of 2006 has been 'The Trials Of Van Occupanther' by Bella Union signings Midlake. The group have been compared favourably with the likes of Flaming Lips, Grandaddy and Mercury Rev, but I detect rather more of a classic rock inspiration behind many of these songs. There are fluent but conservative guitar solos strongly reminscent of Fleetwood Mac, and the emphasis on gently plodding pianos recall early Elton John (not necessarily a bad thing). The luxurious harmonies also hint at the Crosby, Stills and Nash textbook. Much like The Decemerists, Midlake occupy their own peculiar fantasy historical universe of bandits, young brides and kings, and the listener must immerse themselves in this world to appreciate this carefully constructed record in full. It's very gentle, and rich in melody. A handful of the songs (the opening 'Roscoe', 'Van Occupanther', 'We Gathered In Spring' and 'It Covers The Hillside') do linger in the mind effectively, but overall it might just be that little bit too pleasant.

Interesting that the makers of this blog's album of the year for 2005 have now signed a major deal with the V2 label. 'Last Chance Disco' was a sustained triumph for Acoustic Ladyland because, not only did it completely reinvent their own sound, it also merged the technical and expressive world of jazz with the primitive and immediate blast of punk without resorting to contradictory impulses. Following it would inevitably be difficult. 'Skinny Grin', written and recorded it would seem with real haste, has some very impressive moments, but is a far less consistent record than its predecessor. It's impossible to know whether it is the impulse of band or label that has pushed them further in the punk/indie direction, but there is now little trace of real improvisation or spontaneous creative thinking, aside from the frequent thrashing that occasionally veers on the thoughtless. The number of vocal tracks has increased substantially, with a concurrent increase in the number of punk cliches encroaching into the music. Pete Wareham is a composer of genuine ability, but it's unlikely he'll ever be recognised as a significant lyricist.

The instrumental tracks undoubtedly fare much better, with opener 'Road Of Bones' harnessing the elemental distorted fury of classic heavy metal, and 'Your Shame' even borrowing from the Led Zeppelin book of hardened blues licks (albeit handled by Tom Herbert on fuzz bass rather than a guitarist). Best of all is 'Salt Water', featuring a guest appearance from revered punk saxophonist James Chance and included here in a version remixed by Scott Walker. It stands out because of its relentless energy and dynamism, as well as for some full blast blowing from Wareham. As always, the dependably inventive drummer Sebastian Rochford (also leader of Polar Bear and drummer for the excellent Oriole and Fulborn Teversham, amongst many other projects - where does he find the time?) manages to create the high drama dynamics of rock without compromising the sensitivity and creative thinking inherent to jazz playing. That he never resorts to blind technical virtuosity provides further evidence of his musical intelligence.

This band can certainly groove with real fire and fury, and there's no doubting their understanding of both musical traditions they draw from. This time round, however, the 'shock of the new' has dissipated and whilst they integrated their influences effectively on 'Last Chance Disco' there's an increasing sense that they are becoming a band of musicians with jazz chops playing punk rock. It's not clear how long that can remain a diverting prospect.

Choppy Waters

A Brief Report From the London Jazz Festival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.