Festivals Round-Up

AS is traditional, the last two weeks of June have been characterised chiefly by torrential rain. I have spent much of my time standing in it. I guess it's a demonstration of my passion for music. I've certainly learnt not to trust an advance Met weather forecast. Glastonbury will be 'mostly pleasant with scattered showers'. If that's what they call scattered showers, I would hate to see what heavy rain is. I'm pleased to say that, for the most part, the battle against the elements, despite requiring all the willpower and physical stamina I could muster, was worth the effort.

First up in my festival double was the Fleadh, in the delightful grounds of, err...Finsbury Park. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm sure the reason for cancelling the festival last year was that they could not find an Irish act to headline the festival. This year, the event was headlined by that well known Irish folk act Bob O'Dylan. There are surely any number of acts that Mean Fiddler could have gone for (although they mercifully spared us The Corrs). How about the reformed Dexys Midnight Runners, Shane McGowan or, even better, Elvis Costello. I'm now officially starting a campaign to have Costello as next year's headliner - by then, he should have a new album with the Imposters to promote. Anyway, gripes aside (after all, I was there chiefly to see Dylan anyway), I enjoyed the day very much.

I was disappointed to have managed to miss Polly Paulusma, who was given the indignity of a twenty minute set far too early in the day. Kicking things off for me then was the dependably entertaining Billy Bragg. He was on fine soapbox form, voicing his support for a four day working week (well I'd support that too - but frankly at the moment it would mean less pay) and the new European Consitution. Bragg's major shortcoming is that he can often be too earnest - and one of the worst examples of this is 'Sexuality', the song with which he opens his set. It was admittedly one of his biggest hits - but it always struck me as a very simplistic and ham-fisted response to homophobia. A fine message, badly executed. Mercifully, it got better from there. Bragg proudly proclaimed himself as one of the 'saddoes' who followed Bob Dylan, and cheekily played a Dylan song with his own reworked lyrics as a homage. He also played generous helpings of the Woody Guthrie material he recorded with Wilco - still perhaps the highlight of his career so far. A reworked version of 'Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards' rounded things off passionately. At his best, Bragg is eloquent and brimming with conviction. I enjoyed his subtle ribbing of Damien Dempsey, a man who has taken all of Bragg's failings and distilled them into an embarassing mess. Having felt thoroughly uncomfortable during his support slot for Morrissey at the MEN arena, I avoided his set like the plague.

On the Borderline stage, Laura Veirs gave a mysterious, subtle and engaging performance, accompanied by some stark guitar playing. She managed to squeeze in most of the finest moments from her excellent 'Carbon Glacier' album, and the songs retained their distinctive, icy atmospherics within a live setting. Her voice is unusually biting - and it makes for an initially uncomfortable contrast with her spare arrangements, but over time, I have grown to admire her work immensely. 'Shadow Blues', 'Rapture' and 'Riptide' are the best moments today, as they are on the album, with evocative and emotive lyrics, and a real sense of space and time. It's a real shame that she was brought over from Seattle to play for only 25 minutes. An artist of this quality deserved more time to cast her remarkable spell.

Back to the main stage - and the most underwhelming act of the festival were Delays. I managed to meet them at Glastonbury, and they proved to be warm natured and good humoured people, but on stage they seemed isolated in their own world, and more than slightly self-important. The singles are infectious minor successes that promise a great deal for the future and there is no denying that Greg Gilbert's androgynous voice, scaling extraordinary heights, is a definite asset. So many of their other songs, however, seemed thoroughly unremarkable, notable only for the annoying electronic bloops and keyboard blips that seem to have been pasted unthinkingly all over them. If they take their gift for compelling atmospherics and expansive melodies, they may yet fulfil their promise - but as yet, they are not the great pop band they clearly wish to be.

Unexpected revelation of the festival were The Charlatans. I had long ago lost interest in this band, and in fact was greatly angered by their idiotic apeing of Curtis Mayfield on the terrible 'Wonderland' album. So far, what I've heard of the new 'Up at The Lake' album hasn't exactly restored my faith either. It was therefore a huge surprise that this crowd pleasing set proved a timely reminder of just how brilliant this band can be. As a group of musicians, they are still arguably the best rock band in the country. The rhythm section has a swagger and nuance that has been sorely missing from most of the sixities-inspired bands of their ilk. Compare this edgy, groovy playing with the leaden, trudgy riffing of, say, Kings of Leon, and it's immediately apparent that this is a group in a class of its own. Wisely, they choose to keep well clear of most of their recent material, playing only 'You're so Pretty, We're so Pretty' and 'Love is the Key' from 'Wonderland' and a mere couple of tracks from 'Up at the Lake'. Instead, we are treated to a marvellous greatest hits set, filled with nostalgia, but also delivered with enthusiasm and energy. 'Just When You're Thinking Things Over' is brilliant, with some superb interplay between the band, 'One To Another' and 'North Country Boy' are solid and instantly memorable, and both give guitarist Mark Collins opportunity to show off his chops. They even wheel on Ronnie Wood for an overly faithful, if undeniably spirited cover of The Faces' 'Stay With Me'. They end with a riotous 'How High' - leaving the crowd satisfied and entertained, if more than a little drenched by the rain.

I then end up dividing my time between stages and searching for my late-arriving friend (who had somehow managed to play a football match in the pouring rain). I watched
John Prine with keen anticipation following a recommendation from my friend John Kell (editor of the excellent Unpredictable Same fanzine). I had expected there to be an unfortunate clash between Prine and Dylan - but, contrary to the original billing, Prine played in the early evening. I'm not familiar with his material, so I can't specify any particular highlights, but I can affirm that these were intelligent, powerful, complex and compelling songs, sung (at least at first) with convincing authority. His voice began to get a little croaky towards the end - but this struck me as only a minor problem in an otherwise consistently fascinating exhibition of some of the great songs in the American canon. The unnerving task of following Prine went to the wonderful Laura Cantrell. This time there was an unfortunate clash between stages, so I had to content myself with watching a mere two of her songs. She is a charming performer, with a distinctive voice and a real knowledge and feel for country music. Peel has rated her first album as among the best he has ever heard - a very high recommendation indeed and I will be looking to pick up her back catalogue as soon as I next get paid.

It was then over to the main stage for a typically uncompromising, confounding and intermittently inspired set from Bob Dylan. As usual, he was ushered on to the sound of Aaron Copland, and a voice proclaiming his legendary status - 'the man who made his name with protest folk songs, discovered drugs in the mid-sixities and produced some of the greatest music of the era, who surprised everyone by finding God in the late seventies, who lost his way in the eighties, but returned to greatness in the nineties - the poet laureate of rock n' roll, Columbia recording artist, Bob Dylan' (or something close to that anyway). He now seems to have abandoned guitar playing, instead hunched uncomfortably over an electric piano at the side of the stage, avoiding any direct contact with the audience. He made no concessions to the crowd with the set list - opening with 'Down Along the Cove' and even including 'Seeing the Real You At Last' from his least popular mid-eighties period. As usual, he reworked the songs in radical, occasionally unrecognisable arrangements, most of which proved to be energetic, straight ahead blues. This gave appropriately gutsy backing for Dylan's cracked voice. When I last saw a Dylan show (Wembley Arena towards the end of 2003) - his voice was stronger and clearer than I had expected. Today, he occasionally slipped back into mumbling monotonous phrases. He was crisp and compelling on beautifully affecting versions of 'Boots of Spanish Leather' and 'Desolation Row', both good selections. He was forceful and apocalyptic on rollicking versions of 'High Water' and 'Summer Days' from the now not-so-new 'Love and Theft' album. These tracks sounded remarkably close in spirit to the classics 'Maggie's Farm' and 'Highway 61', both full of energy and intensity. Best of all was a reverent, committed take on 'Not Dark Yet', one of the finest songs from the 'Time Out of Mind' album. Less impressive were lazy renditions of 'It's All Over Now Baby Blue' and 'Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee', where Dylan seemed to care little for melody or phrasing. Larry Campbell's guitar and mandolin player was outstanding from start to finish - he really is a stunning musician, adept at both accompaniment and soloing. With such a dazzling band behind him, who are able to bring new magic from the tangled web of American musical history, Dylan's poetry has now been shifted to the sidelines in favour of some astonishing musical interplay, now heightened by Dylan's unorthodox keyboard stabs. It was a shame that this interplay had to be interrupted consistently by the presence of Ronnie Wood throughout. His performance was clearly hastily arranged last minute, and he clearly had no idea of the structure or arrangement of the songs. He was visibly lost - although mercifully not really audible (someone on the sound desk must have had the good foresight to leave his guitar channel mixed well down). All in all, this was a pleasing set for Dylan fanatics - but by no means a crowd pleaser. Dylan only spoke to introduce the band, leaving those in the audience less familiar with the Dylan concert experience to play guessing games as to what song he might actually be playing. Only the rousing encore of 'Like A Rolling Stone' proved to be a crowd singalong - the crowd having a much stronger mastery of the tune than Dylan, who improvised on regardless, still ploughing his own path, unprepared to change direction or be influenced by any trends.

I went to Glastonbury largely to work on a volunteer radio station Radio Avalon - which proved to be a challenging and immensely enjoyable week of work. The station output was enriched this year by sessions from Damien Rice, Michael Franti of Spearhead, Carina Round and Denis Lecorriere amongst many others. I would urge anyone going to the festival next year to tune in!

I was a bit apprehensive about what seemed to be a nostalgic and largely disappointing line-up, and feared that the festival might not be so much about the music this year. Nostalgic it certainly was - but no less enjoyable for it. Most of the music I managed to see came on the Friday - when for some reason I seemed to have more free time.

Wilco were the first band I saw, and they set the standard for the rest of the weekend. Performing in scorching sun, they played a set consisting mostly of songs from their two most recent albums 'A Ghost is Born' and 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot', both of which are inventive, ambitious and important works. Many of the new songs are characterised by dextrous, expressive guitar squalling, and sprightly, punchy piano playing. Particularly impressive is the lengthy 'Spiders', with its hypnotic krautrock-inspired rhythm and controlled explosions of furious energy. 'Hummingbird' is an elegant song impressively played whilst 'At Least That's What You Said' builds from super quiet hum to a spectacularly raucous guitar duel. From 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' we get a clattering, unorthodox 'I Am Trying To Break Your Heart' and a solid, steadfast 'War on War'. It is all impressive stuff, despite Jeff Tweedy's determination to remain aloof and detached throughout.

At their last appearance at Glastonbury, Elbow recorded the crowd for the track 'Grace Under Pressure' on their spellbinding 'Cast of Thousands' album, and this year they returned to do it all again for the single version. Now that the song has become familiar, I'm imagining that the chanting was bolder and bigger than before. This was a solid, dependable set - although perhaps not quite as transcendent as when I last saw them at the Junction in Cambridge last year. I have always felt that Elbow's hypnotic rhythmic propulsion and emotive melodies would translate well to a festival, but singalongs aside, I'm not really sure that they did. Perhaps it was just that Guy Garvey's mordant wit was somewhat restrained. 'Switching Off' was beautiful and inspiring, whilst 'Fallen Angel' chugged relentlessly. Some balance was lacking in that some of their most adventurous material (particularly 'Snooks') was omitted, but it was still a set brimming with conviction and invention - perhaps too much for the mid-afternoon pyramid stage crowd. I look forward to some new material from this excellent band.

Later in the evening, PJ Harvey played a bewitching and highly charged set. Whilst in her maturity she has become arguably less aggressive, she still enthrals and captivates with her distinctive and sensual performances. Dressed in a ripped Spice Girls top, she appears as a perverse inverter of pop fashions, very much follwing her own muse, isolated from trends and expectations. Perhaps that is why critics seem to have reacted indifferently to 'Uh Huh Her' with its basic, dirty blues influences and rather rough sound mix. It's actually another very impressive record (albeit in marked contrast with its cleaner, more immediate predecessor), and in a live context its songs really come alive (particularly 'Shame' and 'The Letter', which drip with distaste and suspense). She playfully taunts the crowd, and sings with remarkable clarity and confidence. Her band are raw and complimentary, and they regularly swap instruments, the percussive drive heightened on the songs that employ two drummers. She also mixes in some old favourites, including a fiery version of 'A Perfect Day Elise', a direct and potent 'Good Fortune' and sleazy, dangerous takes on 'Down By The Water' and 'To Bring You My Love'.

Over on the acoustic stage, a legend is doing the nostalgia circuit. Arthur Lee's latest incarnation of Love is actually remarkably fresh and upfront, with some strangely virtuosic electric guitar playing. The heavier feel almost overcomes the folk and soul influences that informed 'Forever Changes' - but I rather welcomed Lee's attempts to breathe new life into cult favourites. Although I deeply admire these songs, particularly for their structural, melodic and lyrical complexity, I do wonder if the influence and importance of 'Forever Changes' has been somewhat overstated. Nevertheless, when compared with the small amount of new material in this set, which seems insipid and lightweight, these songs still sound colossal and inspired.

Back to the main stage for headliners Oasis. I can no longer really claim to be an Oasis fan, and I haven't bought any of their material since 'Be Here Now'. The general consensus on this set seems to have been that it was lacklustre and consciously unengaging. I must beg to differ. Having seen Oasis at Earls Court on the tour supporting 'Be Here Now', when they were only intermittently appealing, sludgy and bloated, I was pleasantly surprised by their set. Of course, there was no real performance in it, with Liam's usual swaggering arrogance and affrontery the main focus of interest. Many thought they were going through the motions - but I felt that by skewing the set in favour of their first two albums ('Definitely Maybe' is about to be reissued in one of those horrible tenth anniversary packages - can it really be ten years??), they played to their strengths. There were still moments of insipid blandness - the terrace dirge of 'Stop Crying Your Heart Out' and Noel's rather earnest 'Little by Little', and the two new songs lacked spark, but the bulk of the set proved a timely reminder of what great pop songs 'Live Forever', 'Morning Glory', 'Acquiesce' and 'Supersonic' are. Zak Starkey's drumming was enervated and clattering, which proved a welcome addition to the usual wall of strum.

Noel rather bitterly recalled performing 'Don't Look Back In Anger' to a somewhat indifferent crowd last time they played, but this time he looked somewhat sad, perhaps even moved by the occasion. Despite several line-up changes and countless bust-ups, this is a band that has survived through sheer mass appeal. At the end, after a turbulent and rather perfunctory take on 'My Generation' (Oasis have never really been a great covers band), Liam leaps from the stage, stands stock still facing the crowd, and balances his tambourine on his head for over a minute. It looked iconic. This was not quite a Glastonbury triumph - it was inconsistent and perhaps a little muddy (not quite yet in more ways than one) - but for the most part, it was enjoyable and convincing.

Saturday was a much tougher day, with much time spent backstage standing in torrential rain. In fact, I only managed to see three acts, but all would almost have justified the ticket price by themselves.

Late afternoon on the Other Stage, My Morning Jacket were both an extraordinary sight and a compelling sound. With giant hair flailing everywhere (you can just about see the drummer's arms somewhere), they constructed a huge monument of noise. Live, they err towards the lenghtier, rockier side of their set - and a little more balance would have been welcome. When I saw them in the considerably more intimate confines of the Cambridge Boat Race, Jim James' acoustic moments made a deep impression on me. Still, James' reverb-laden vocals, the twists and turns in the song structures (particularly 'Run Thru' which sounds like two entirely different songs spliced together) and the increasingly intricate guitar swordplay proved as captivating as ever today, even if it lacked subtlety.

Just about time to run over to The Guardian Lounge, which by this time was almost sinking into the quagmire of mud, where the outstanding Adem is playing the most intriguing and original set of the entire festival. Unfortunately, I only have time to watch four songs - but that is enough to get a general impression. All his musicians are seated, and the sound is remarkably quiet, often just a delicate murmur in danger of being submerged by background chatter. The arrangements are exquisite, with intuitive use of percussion and unusual instrumentation. Whereas Adem's voice sounds cracked and vulnerable on record, it sounds full and communicative in a live setting, even when he plays a stunning rendition of 'Pillow' completely by himself. 'These Are Your Friends' sounds both considered and anthemic, and 'Statued' is lilting and affecting. The emotional directness of some of these songs is striking, and often undeniably charming.

Much later on the Main Stage, Paul McCartney proves to be the grand highlight of the festival. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Given all the Lennon myth-making and eulogising we have to put up with on a daily basis, it's so refreshing to see a living Beatle have the chance to state his case. His earnest, everyman banter is slightly cloying (there is a lot about 'vibrations', 'laylines' and 'rocking in wellies' - yes Paul we know we're in hippy territory and that it's pissing it down), but the music is huge. Of course, he has the benefit of the finest songbook in English pop history - and he uses it generously. 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'Yesterday' are favourites, 'Hey Jude' unsurprisingly becomes a lighters-aloft mass karaoke session and 'Drive My Car' rollicks along with a real sense of fun. He seems to be genuinely enjoying himself, despite being at the end of a lengthy world tour. Best of all is a solo set, where he honours John Lennon with 'Here Today' and George Harrison with a lovely version of 'All Things Must Pass' (what a characteristically unassuming and deferential gesture), and performs a sweet, deeply moving version of 'Blackbird'.

Even the Wings songs sound awesome - 'Jet' kicks things off with an energy that belies his increasing years, whilst 'Let Me Roll It' is massive and thrilling. 'Live and Let Die' provides another highlight, with its dazzling, no doubt obscenely expensive pyrotechnics. He plays most of his well known Beatles songs, and finally ends with a medley of 'Sgt. Pepper' and 'The End'. He plays almost nothing from his solo career (personally, I wouldn't have objected to one of the songs co-written with Elvis Costello from 'Flowers in the Dirt'). It's hard to see how this unashamed and entirely selfless crowd-pleasing can be topped. I have to make one reservation though - before the set began, there was a warm up DJ who seemed to go on for an entirely unpleasant eternity. Initially, there were snatches of McCartney songs that could be picked out from the noise, and this would have made some sense if it had provided a short intro. However, the thumping noise soon became relentless and indistinct, entirely inappropriate for the occasion. An error of judgment rather than a massive calamity perhaps.

Sunday has its own frustrations as well. As far as the headliners were concerned - I was bursting with excitement at the possibility of seeing Television in the New Bands Tent (new band?! they couldn't even be described as newly reformed!). Unfortunately, I discovered their set had been rescheduled to 6pm and I had missed it - leaving only a choice between Orbital and Muse. Given the time I spent walking between stages, I missed most of Orbital's set - their last ever performance on English soil. Still, I caught 'The Box', still to my mind an excellent composition and their finest moment, as well as 'Satan' and, of course, the Dr. Who theme. My reservations about this sort of dance music live remain though - it was like listening to the recordings amplified very loudly, whilst some fairly uninspired visuals are projected behind them. It's never clear what these people actually do when they are on stage - although that's not to detract from Orbital's achievement over the years, which is significant, and I hope this set proved to be a reminder of their value.

Earlier in the day, James Brown proved he could still enjoy himself and dance despite being well over the age of 70. Like Bob Dylan, he now seems to have real trouble enunciating ('I feel Good' sort of becomes a series of grunts 'uh eeeeuuuh ooooohgh'). To my mind, there was something slightly ungracious in this obligatory greatest hits set, despite an astounding level of energy and a well-aware, tightly controlled backing band. Still, control and awareness means little when compared with the original JBs, who were the funkiest band of all time. Perhaps James Brown was never a singer first and foremost - more a communicator and a demanding bandleader, and there was plenty of that on display.

Another real highlight was Morrissey. Arriving to the same taped hate list that opened his Manchester homecoming show, and again with giant glowing red letters spelling out his name behind him, he bitzed through a all-too-brief set which offered no compromise or concession to a festival audience. His humour was on razor sharp form ('please do not OD until we've finished our songs', he somewhat tastelessly requested - later on, he was to thank 'some of' us) and his singing better than ever. Opening with 'Don't Make Fun of Daddy's Voice', an even newer song than the material on 'You Are The Quarry', he did little to break the audience in gently. As for much of this tour, the set dipped into unpredictable areas of his back catalogue - a slow-burning but haunting 'I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday' and a deceptively endearing 'Such A Little Thing..' being particular highlights. Elsewhere, a typically anthemic 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out', 'Everyday Is Like Sunday' and current single 'First of the Gang to Die' proved to be audience favourites (the reaction, contrary to some comments on the Morrissey solo message board, was by no means 100% hostile where I was standing). As ever, a clutch of material from the new album was delivered with gusto, particularly 'The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores'. It was unfortunate that Alain Whyte was conspicuously absent - the guitars did seem a little less cutting than at Manchester, even though there was a worthy replacement. The set was brought to a crunching, determined conclusion with a raucous 'Irish Blood, English Heart'. Morrissey may balk at the word 'performance', but he is really looking more and more of a star with every passing show. Quite why he had to settle for being below the turgid, deeply terrible Muse on the bill is beyond me. He was Sunday night's de facto hero headliner.

So that was it - all over, only a rather hasty and unpleasant tent dismantling and drowsy overnight drive home left to recount - thanks must go to Nat for keeping me from falling asleep at the wheel!

New albums round-up

Well, it's about time I rounded up all the records that have landed in my bag in the last few weeks. There are quite a few of them, so be prepared for a very long post...

'The Slow Wonder' is a peculiar title for an album that seems to be over as soon as it has begun, but that is the title that New Pornographers songwriter A.C. Newman has given to his debut solo album. It lasts just 33 minutes. Critics made a great deal of the brevity of The Strokes' debut, claiming that its length ensured consistency (if consistency means a collection of merely adequate songs all sounding pretty much alike, then they were right). Whilst 'The Slow Wonder' is probably not a classic, it is largely infectious and entertaining. Newman is clearly in thrall to his influences - there are moments which recall Big Star or The Byrds and he shares a tendency for obtuse and elusive lyrics with Bob Pollard of Guided By Voices. In fact, much of this album also resembles the crisp, crunchy power pop sound of GBV. As they are about to release their final album, it's more than welcome that A.C. Newman may now take the baton from Pollard.

This album begins brilliantly. 'Miracle Drug' is immediately enthralling. It has a rolling energy, a tight arrangement and remarkably crisp production. It is followed by 'Drink To Me Babe Then', a more relaxed but equally catchy track bolstered by some nifty slide guitar playing. Both these tracks sound familiar, but also fresh and invigorating. The rest of the album is similar in style, although it some songs are not quite as memorable as others ('The Battle For Straight Time' and 'Most of Us Prize Fighters' are perhaps less immediate, as their titles might suggest). It ends powerfully too, with the confident and commanding '35 in Shade'. The quality of writing on display here bodes well for future solo releases. Newman sounds most comfortable when his melodies are at their most simple and accessible.

Royal City were one of the discoveries of last year's free Strawberry Fair festival in Cambridge where they electrified the acoustic stage with their exhuberant take on country rock. At least to these ears, it seems that they have yet to nail their sound in the studio. Last year's 'Alone At The Microphone' had its moments, but tended to drag, and its follow-up, 'Little Heart's Ease', suffers a similar fate. The production seems oddly earthbound and flat - and it compares very unfavourably with that of My Morning Jacket, a band who seem to be charting similar terrain. Royal City are capable of writing interesting songs, and arranging them intelligently, but they seem far less concerned with using the full resources of the recording studio to make their work more engaging. The result is that many of the tracks here are fascinating in isolation. Opener 'Bring My Father A Gift' is rich and mysterious, with a chorus that sounds almost like monastic chanting. 'Can't You' and 'Enemy' are very pretty songs, the former resembling the more wistful Velvet Underground songs such as 'Pale Blue Eyes'. It also takes off spectacularly when it is bolstered by organ and harmonica halfway through.

Part of the problem as a whole lies in the vocals. Although the harmonies are pleasant enough - the lead vocals seem detached and lack distinction. I must admit that I didn't pick up on this during their strawberry fair performance, so I was surprised to find it such an obstacle to enjoying this album. The other problem is that, save for the rattling, Dylanesque rambling of 'She Will Come', the album remains steadfastly mid-paced, and even at 43 minutes, it feels long and plodding.

There is obviously much to admire here. This is a thematically consistent and coherent album, with some powerful songwriting. It just feels too often that this band have failed to translate the energy of their live performances to studio work. It's rare that I say this - but some less restrained playing might help. It would be great to hear them let rip on a few more guitar solos - or even just play a little bit harder. As it stands, 'Little Heart's Ease' is merely pleasant.

The eponymously titled first album from The Memory Band is one of 2004's quiet gems. I first came across this band in a pub in Islington, where they were joined on Harmonium by Hot Chip singer Alexis Taylor. I found the set intermittently fascinating, but the album is more angaging still. It is the work of Stephen Cracknell, who has recorded electronic music under the guise of Gorodisch for the outstanding Leaf label, and it seems to be an attempt to merge traditional English folk sounds and traditions with the more futuristic production techniques that Cracknell obviously admires. The tag folktronica is one of those horribly overused terms - but to my mind, this seems closer to folk music than the first Manitoba album, or even the work of Four Tet's Kieran Hebden. It has a wistful, pastoral feel to it, but it never becomes twee or cloying. Instead, it creates its own distinct space, with a fascinating range of sounds and ideas. The Memory Band is aptly named as this sounds like the recovery of a collective memory and tradition and bringing new life to it through new influences. It is an affecting hybrid.

The album benefits from an excellent cast of supporting players. Adem Ilhan and Sam Jeffers from Fridge appear on a number of tracks, and excellent singer-songwriter Polly Paulusma offers her vocal talents, although she is mixed so low that she is almost inaudible. The album's greatest strength is that it keeps vocals to a minimum - when they are used, it tends to be in the form of chants and repeated phrases rather than verse-chorus-verse. Instead, the album explores, largely with considerable success, a number of different techniques in arrangement, from drones and looped drum beats to birdsong and the deployment of unusual instruments (recorders, autoharps etc). The sound is dreamy and relaxed, but never entirely soporiphic - a difficult skill to pull off. Melodic hints drift in and out of the ether (particularly on the dreamy 'Calling On'), and the album sustains its distinctive sound and approach throughout. Highlights include 'Catch As Catch Can', which showcases some fascinating jazz-inflected guitar playing, the excellent cover of Arthur Russell's 'The Way We Walk On The Moon' and the slurry, dreamy closer 'Last Orders'. It's an intriguing, charming and engaging album.

The 1,175th album from Sonic Youth is the dependably challenging 'Sonic Nurse'. It must be said that it hardly breaks new ground for the band - not even the addition of the warped mind of Jim O'Rourke has made much difference to their sound or their agenda. 'Sonic Nurse' sounds sharp, focussed and well produced (the guitars sound full and the drums have real bite). This is not to suggest that it is much of a compromise. Some of the songs return to the poppier edge that made 'Dirty' and 'Goo' such breakthrough albums, but there is also a generous amount of abrasive guitar squalling. Importantly, however, 'Sonic Nurse' continues the mature and intelligent trajectory established by 'A Thousand Leaves' and 'Murray Street'. Sonic Youth are now a band characterised by commendable control. They know when it is better to employ restraint and when it is effective to be confrontational. This makes 'Sonic Nurse' one of their more consistent and powerful albums, if not one of their most original.

If anything, this is Kim Gordon's album. For the most part, Thurston Moore sounds relaxed and restrained, whereas Gordon's material attacks and claws at the listener (particularly the opening 'Pattern Recognition'). The best tracks on the album are rhythmically agressive, and with intricate guitar arrangements. Sometimes this approach can leave Sonic Youth sounding like a chaotic band of isolated avant garde virtuosos battling to be the clearest voice - but here they sound vibrant, integrated and impressive.

The new album from Badly Drawn Boy, 'One Plus One Is One', seems to have taken a real critical hammering during the past few months. True, it is not the homespun restorer of faith that I had hoped it would be, but it is not completely without charm either. It begins with the lyric 'back to being who I was before', which sounds like a statement of intent, and a summary of this album's aims. 'Have You Fed The Fish?' suffered from its overproduced LA rock sound, and its follow-up sounds like a conscious reaction against this. It was recorded in Stockport with Damon Gough's Twisted Nerve colleague Andy Votel producing and engineering. It ought to be a simple, direct and touching affair.

In places, it certainly is. 'This Is That New Song' is one of Gough's most uncomplicated songs in ages - delicate, serene and with a subtle and involving melody. 'Easy Love' is also charming and effective. 'Another Devil Dies' is structurally and musically ambitious - it feels like a quiet triumph. The opening title track is striking - it seems informed by the same ideas that dominated 'Have You Fed The Fish', but it has a more spacious sound, and the arrangement is characteristically lavish. It also boasts the boldest and most successful vocal performance on the album.

Elsewhere, there are problems. Gough sounds muted and flat throughout the album, mostly singing in a low register which conveys little of his usual whimsical charm. On the more exhuberant moments, he has made the mistake of employing a child's choir. 'Year of the Rat' is just about bearable, but it's very treacly. To use the choir a second time on 'Holy Grail' represents a real error of judgment. There may be good songs buried underneath here - but it's hard to really engage with them. Similar problems affect 'Four Leaf Clover', which sounds brilliant musically - a soulful stomp with joyous handclaps which should be a moment of fun. Instead, Gough's vocal sounds strangely half-hearted. It needs the unashamed sentiment of songs such as 'You Were Right' or the big northern soul treatment of 'Disillusion' or 'All Possibilities'.

The production also isn't as distinctive as I would have hoped. 'Summertime In Wintertime' is a little rough and ragged, and makes for a welcome change in approach, but for the most part Votel's tricks seem to be a little obvious. On 'Life Turned Upside Down' the vocals are, well, turned upside down. Elsewhere, there are samples of chattering voices, rain and other such found sounds, but very little that adds much to the songs. It's nice to hear a wide range of instrumentation - there's plenty of electric piano, and some delicate acoustic guitar work - but that is something we've already come to expect.

As a collection of songs, 'One Plus One Is One' is adequate - and has moments that may point the way forward. However, it also feels like a minor work, stuck in a halfway house unsure of its overall direction. There is nothing here as inventive or intelligent as 'Silent Sigh'. Gough does not seem to have worked out how he wants to use his voice on this album. He is neither the best singer nor the best musician around - but in the past he has demonstrated good sense in knowing his limitations and working within them. To do that, he needs to craft songs as distinctive as 'Once Around The Block' or as touching as 'Magic In The Air' or 'The Shining'. His live shows are always stunningly entertaining and full of fun - I would be prepared to bet money that these songs come across more comfortably in the live setting.

The debut album from The Earlies has the rather strange title of 'These Were The Earlies'. I'm not sure whether or not that means it is the first and last we will hear from the band. I'm presuming it's just dry humour. It's one of those debuts that has been cobbled together mostly from previously released material. It contains all of their singles and EPs so far. Given the diversity and scope that this band have already demonstrated, it inevitably suffers from a lack of cohesion. If we can accept this, however, it is an impressive first venture.

Comparisons with Mercury Rev and Flaming Lips will no doubt be thrown at this band, and listening to a track like 'Wayward Song' with its vulnerable, high-pitched vocal and intricate arrangements (pianos, woodwind), it's easy to see why. However, whilst the Rev seemed to be headed in a slightly plodding, earthbound direction with the disappointing 'All Is Dream' album, 'These Were The Earlies' shoots off everywhere. The superbly titled 'One Of Us Is Dead' is a case in point - a brilliant mini-epic with multi-layered vocals and plenty of studio trickery. 'Devil's Country' is mad - parping brass and angular toms, together with more of the band's unusual vocal arrangements. The way vocals are used on this album is remarkably impressive. The Earlies do not seem overly concerned with verse-chorus-verse structure, and the layered vocal technique adds a great deal to their musical adventures. 'Morning Wonder' is a psychedelic drone-fest and, to my ears, one of the least interesting tracks here - but they build gradually on minimal vocal ideas, which proves highly effective and almost convinces me that the track is important.

Taken as a whole, it's quite difficult to get to grips with, but like recent albums from Doves and Broken Social Scene, 'These Were The Earlies' is an ambitious studio project with more than a few hints that this may be a band moving towards a masterpiece. They are not quite there yet, but this may still rank highly in my albums of the year list.

I've now decided this post has gone on way too long - so stay tuned for reviews of new albums from Wilco and The Beastie Boys, as well as Soul Jazz's excellent new Chicago Soul compilation. I also hope to put up reviews of the Sufjan Stevens and Magnetic Fields gigs from last week before the week is out....Thanks for reading!

Strawberry Fair

For me, the festival season began in earnest last Saturday with Strawberry Fair, a large free festival and the highlight of the Cambridge musical calendar. It felt good to get out of London for the weekend, and it proved to be another remarkably successful event.As we did last year, we spent the entire day in the acoustic/beer tent, thus enjoying some excellent music. The line-up did not quite hit the heights of last year, with Alasdair Roberts and Canada's Royal City putting in an appearance, that was a truly special occasion. The focus this year was largely on local acts (or at least acts with a strong local following), and when there is such a strong pool of musical talent in Cambridge, it was difficult to object.

The highlight yet again (although they were not in the headline slot this time, appearing instead at 4.15 in the afternoon) were local heroes The Broken Family Band. Introduced by Pete Um (what a shame he wasn't performing himself) as 'the sexiest band in the world', they had a lot to live up to. Since last year's triumphant headlining set, they have released their debut album proper, the marvellous 'Cold Water Songs', and a very impressive mini album 'Jesus Songs'. Even with an expanding back catalogue to select from, they still offered some new material, including an hilarious song called 'Devil Woman' (key lyric 'your heart is black but your body drives me crazy'). Dependably, their performance was a sustained blast of energetic, inventive, comic fun. With their robust take on the country idiom, fusing it with indie charm, punk rock energy and stamina, and poetic wit, BFB manage to be intensely humorous, quirky, endearing and touching simultaneously. Steve Adams' vocals manage to switch from the snarly to the sensitive over just a couple of bars (prime example, the carefully controlled 'Perfect Gentleman'), and there were plenty of wisecracks between the songs. Together with some incongruous rock posturing and some solid rhythm section support and there are the makings of a great band. Highlights included a raucous take on 'Don't Leave That Woman Unattended', complete with beatbox vocals, a splendid 'Twelve Eyes of Evil' with some amusing lyric changes ('I was playing drums in a psychedelic band' became 'I was playing drums in Franz Ferdinand') and a spirited version of 'Walking Back to Jesus pt. 2'.

Also returning to the festival after a triumphant performance last year was Chris T-T. Last year, he played his first set with his new band at Strawberry Fair, but this time round it was another of his charming solo acoustic performances. Rather less ramshackle than usual, this was a very solid performance, largely free from mistakes, but one that resonated with T-T's observant wit and good humour. There was no brand new material in this set - but what was made clear was Chris T-T's consistency over the course of four albums. He may not be a technically great musician (he often stumbles over chords and often strums in a fairly rudimentary fashion), but his songs are rich, intelligent, charming and, increasingly, politically involved and astute. This set was entertaining and satisfying, a generous selection of songs from throughout his career, including the wonderful 'Dreaming of Injured Popstars', a song that might be considered an albatross around his neck. He resisted calls for 'The Tin Man', claiming it was too quiet for a festival audience, but still played quietly affecting versions of 'Tomorrow Morning' and 'The English Earth', two of his most reflective and considered songs. 'Cull' demonstrated his political bite, whilst 'Sellotape (Dawson's Creek)' cheerfully lambasted trash TV whilst accepting its inevitable appeal ('admit it, you all like Hollyoaks', he added at the end) and set-closing 'Drink Beer' provided a homage to more earthy considerations. Of his albums, 'The 253' and 'London is Sinking' are the most successful and well worth checking out. I managed to pick up a special live acoustic CD from the man himself - and am enjoying it as I write this!

The rest of the bill was perhaps less exciting - although the brief set from Atilla the Stockbroker and his special guests was remarkable for its gutsy, impassioned political conviction. It wasn't without intelligence either - I've moaned elsewhere on this site about Damien Dempsey's embarassing rhyming dictionary lyrics - Atilla the Stockbroker was equally sincere, but almost massively more articulate. He also brought with him two intriguing singer-songwriters. From Australia, the imposing figure of Rory Ellis, who clearly had plenty of compelling life experience, but whose voice sadly seemed to betray the influence of post-grunge drawlers such as Nickelback. That's a little unfair, given that his sings were by no means that bland - but I found it hard to get past his rather forced vocal sound. From the US came David Rovicks, a radical, anti-war singer with a careful, convincing mix of satire and sincerity. Unfortunately, I was so desparate to empty my bladder at this point that I missed the bulk of his set, but from what I did manage to hear, he had character and quality. As a whole, the group crafted a stylistically varied, but thematically consistent performance that entertained and challenged in equal measure.

Much of the rest of the line-up was merely satisfying. Headliners The Low Country featured excellent local guitarist Rob Jackson. He has a full, resonant, blues-tinged guitar sound reminiscent of Bill Frissell in its use of spacey echo effects and tremolo. The songs were certainly pleasant enough, and I was struck by the vocal qualities of their singer, who seemed to be controlling the melodies well, although with some timidity. Unfortunately, most of the songs were also overlong, extrapolating single ideas for what occasionally seemed like hours rather than minutes. They also frequently succumbed to a tendency to be blandly soporiphic - not without charm, but also somewhat unremarkable.

A similar charge could probably be laid against London-based singer Pauline Taylor. I certainly wasn't particularly inspired by her deliberately inconsequential lyrics. However, her voice was impressive - commanding where necessary, soft and restrained where appropriate, and she benefited greatly from some skilled musical support from an excellent band. To these ears, she fared better when leaning towards a more soulful, perhaps even funky sound. An entirely acoustic performance may not necessarily be the best context for her voice - which seemed worth more than merely lingering in the background. Much better than Dido obviously, although that may well be damning her with faint praise.

Loophole were on a completely different planet - one where little things such as playing in time, harmonising together and matching music and lyrics didn't seem to matter much at all. This was ponderous, pompous and, ultimately, entirely tedious music, crowned by some horribly mannered singing. It all seemed to represent a rather cliched attempt to be epic (they had clearly been listening to Muse), but the result was an ill-judged, sprawling and really quite unpleasant mess. No doubt they will be signed up to a major label on the cover of the NME quite soon - it's the Nu Prog Revolution.

Loophole's chaotic and charmless din shouldn't however take anything away from another highly enjoyable festival. The organisation and effort that goes into putting this event on - organisers and bands are all working on an entirely voluntary basis, is considerable. Timings were consistently efficient, and the sound balance was clear and crisp. A big thanks must go to all the organisers - the fair is a marvellous local tradition, and a great celebration of a diverse array of talent.

The Union Of Wine

Last Wednesday, Toronto's wonderful Hidden Cameras returned to London to play 'The Union of Wine' show, and I felt very privileged to be part of the audience. London's Bush Hall is an unusual venue, with its ornate design and chandaliers. It also lacks any real security presence. It would not have been too much of a challenge to steal some guitars from the stage. This is refreshing in our paranoid age when most gig venues frisk all customers, search bags, and occasionally even place us all under metal detectors. It also made for an intimate concert performance, with little distance between band and audience. The result was a celebratory and joyful show with a generous set list incorporating most of the band's best songs and plenty of new material. It did indeed feel like a union - with the entire audience basking in the joyous mood. Indeed, there was also wine. And it was good.

The Hidden Cameras are already a very distinctive and special band - at full strenght they are thirteen members strong, and their remarkably catchy pop songs manage to combine a catalogue of sexual deviancy with genuinely moving romantic sentiment. They are a band with a real outsider appeal - that essential quality for an indie cult. They are regularly compared with Belle and Sebastian and The Magnetic Fields - yet these seem fairly lazy comparisons when their self-proclaimed 'gay folk church music' is so individual. They seem forthright and honest where Stephin Merritt is often ironic and detached, and they seem inclusive and committed where Belle and Sebastian can occasionally seem twee and half-hearted. 'Ban Marriage' was by some distance my favourite single of last year (even with some stiff competition from the likes of The Crimea), and 'The Smell of Our Own' was an impressive debut album - heartwarming, hummable, and humane.

This show maintained a consistently high level of energy. The band seemed to be enjoying themselves, bashing out a large selection of new songs to surprisingly rapturous applause. In fact, the sense of audience delight increases throughout the show, reaching a peak only in the exhilirating encore of 'Smells Like Happiness' and 'The Animals of Prey'. Pretty much everything is played tonight ('A Miracle' was perhaps a notable omission from the setlist) from rowdy versions of 'Ban Marriage' and 'Breathe On It' through energetic versions of less familiar anthems such as 'Music Is My Boyfriend' and the charming ode to self-publishing 'Fear of 'Zine Failure'. All this was accompanied throughout by a duo of masked semi-naked go-go dancers, supplying the audience with grapes and wine.

At least half the set was brand new material from the forthcoming 'Missisauga Goddam' album (due out in the UK on Rough Trade on 12th July). The fact that such material could receive such a rapturous reception is testament to the band's energy and warmth. Many of the new songs sounded like an extension of an already established, yet still undeniably winning formula. The arrangements were bigger, the sound bolder, and the performances rollicking. New single 'The Fear Is On' sounded both infectious and intense, whilst 'The Union Of Wine' benefited greatly from a big, hook-laden chorus. There were also notably melancholic moments which provided some significant dynamic contrast in the set. 'Missisauga Goddam' itself eeked a touching melody from a very familiar chord sequence, and the show opener - a song which I had never heard before, stripped down to just Joel Gibb's voice and guitar and a duo of string players was striking in its simplicity and emotional impact. It was a remarkably stirring song to open a rousing, entertaining and thoroughly invigorating set.

The second night of the Pixies residency at London's Brixton Academy arguably felt like too much of a union - with the loudest, most aggressive crowd I have come across in many years. The response to this reformation was so rapturous that the band came back to the stage for three encores, performing a generous set consisting of 29 songs. On the plus side, it was not an obscure set of unusual album tracks and B-sides. It included all of their most familiar material. However, after the camp fun of the Hidden Cameras the previous night, this felt much more like an endurance test, not least because some of those annoyingly manic pushing and jumping fans were impailing me on those completely pointless barriers that are dotted around the Academy's ample standing area. My back still ached on waking up this morning. This discomfort wasn't helped by the band being largely motionless, expresionless and aloof. To be honest, I wasn't expecting anything different - The Pixies are clearly a band who have earned their claim to musical significance; perhaps they need do no more than just play the songs. Frank Black did at least acknowledge the audience towards the end by asking for the house lights to be turned up, but none of the songs were announced, it just felt like a continuous bombardment or admonition. And, call me sacreligious if you want, it was just a little bit dull.

Given the reports in the press that this lenghty show was 'the best they had even played' and the awestruck reactions of other musicians in the audience (Badly Drawn Boy claimed 'they were incredible'), I really did wonder if I had been watching a different show. Other than a blisteringly intense 'Bone Machine', an anthemic version of 'Gigantic' and a colossal 'Caribou', I never really felt like I was watching an important or influential band. When the house lights were turned on the audience at the end - it felt like too little too late. The audience, nevertheless, were rapturous, obsessed with the Pixies legend and possibly blind to the reality. I'm not going to make the case that this was an awful gig but, to my ears, it seemed flat, lacking in contrast and unengaging. The performance of 'Debaser' seemed to be to be a case in point. As my friends threw themselves into the moshpit with wild abandon, I struggled to hear Frank Black's guttaral scream (or indeed any sonic definition) over the general rumble and found this reading of the song to be lacking the visceral intensity of the recorded version. I wouldn't want to make the case that the Hidden Cameras are a better band than the Pixies, nor that they are as significant - but their show was massively more entertaining.

Authenticity

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together or Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magic and Accident

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Easter Film Round-Up Part 2

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

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

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

Film Round-Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Cusp of History

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

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

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

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

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

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