Lights! Camera! Action!

Lots to write about at the moment – especially as posts have become infrequent due to photoshoots, rehearsing and housewarming parties amongst other things.

I’ll start with two absolutely splendid gigs. I thought I’d written about the Broken Family Band so many times that a review for their Green Man warm up show at The King’s Head in Crouch End would be entirely superfluous. Not entirely – as this proved to be pretty much the best BFB gig I’ve seen outside Cambridge’s Strawberry Fair festival, where they always earn their rapturous reception. They were on home turf of sorts here too, as singer Steve Adams now lives ‘just round the corner’ from the North London venue, more well-known as a comedy club but increasingly home to some fine music-themed evenings. Adams was on top form throughout the gig, his trademark dry, borderline-misanthropic humour almost being overworked.

The augmentation of the band to a six-piece really made the evening special. BFB gigs always come deliriously alive when Timothy Victor joins them to play banjo, perhaps somewhat oddly, as he is probably the least animated member of the band onstage. He does however seem to galvanise them into reaching a higher level of energy and enthusiasm, and tonight saw the band channel their ragged, carefree abandon into something highly entertaining. Also joining the band was a girl accordion player (sadly I’ve completely forgotten her name), who added richness and depth to the sound. Also in evidence was a carefully selected setlist, incorporating more songs from the excellent ‘Jesus Songs’ mini-LP, which is too frequently given short thrift. After a visceral reading of ‘Mother O’Jesus’, Steve Adams admitted that they don’t often play the song, perhaps because of the potentially alienating harsh falsetto shriek of the chorus melody. It was a pleasing surprise for me. Some older songs were brought out of retirement too, including the more reflective ‘Song For Robots’ and ‘Gone Dark’ which provided effective balance for the more raucous and unrestrained quality of the newer songs (‘The Booze and The Drugs’ and ‘You’re Like A Woman’ already seem to be live favourites). They also reprised their madcap cover version of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Diamonds In The Mine’, a song they truly make their own. Wonderful stuff.

From a tiny pub basement to what some people have (unfairly in my view) described as a ‘Victorian monstrosity’ and a ‘shed’, Alexandra Palace. Why do people have such a problem with this venue? For large shows, it’s a much more satisfying location than Wembley Arena (hardly less isolated after all) or the hideous Earl’s Court. Whilst the notoriously muffled sound isn’t ideal, to my ears it’s really no worse than the problematic Brixton Academy. Certainly a venue of this nature requires a performer to command the stage and involve the crowd, which is exactly what Nick Cave did last Thursday night. Some rather pious longstanding followers of The Bad Seeds have declared it the worst Nick Cave gig ever on his messageboard, some of them denying those (such as myself) for whom this was a first viewing of Nick Cave any right to have an opinion on the event. I’ve been meaning to see The Bad Seeds for years, but time, money and circumstances have always conspired against me.

For my money, this was an excellent show. Cave is perhaps less ponderous and detached a songwriter than he once was, even embracing self-effacing humour on the recent double set ‘Abattoir Blues’ and ‘The Lyre Of Orpheus’, excellent albums which unsurprisingly provided the bulk of the material for this one-off show. He’s also a magnetic and compelling performer, with limbs flailing everywhere and a now powerful voice that frequently veers (mostly effectively) away from the well-trodden path of conventional melody. Behind him, the band (featuring two of more or less everything, including drummers) cook up a storm. The absence of recently departed Blixa Bargeld is felt much less keenly than one might expect. The combination of the two reaches its zenith with the frighteningly apocalyptic gospel of ‘Hiding All Way’ and ‘There She Goes My Beautiful World’, where the gospel backing vocalists add a touch of soul to the proceedings. The former ends with a violent pronouncement – ‘There is a WAR coming!’ which sounds both chilling and thrilling at the same time. Another clear highlight was the strangely infectious and gripping ‘Come Into My Sleep’, which worked very well indeed.

Most of the gripes seem to have been with the setlist, which certainly favoured the most familiar material from the back catalogue. This wasn’t an intimate club show though and in front of the broadest audience he has yet managed to attract, Cave wisely opted to perform his most enduringly popular songs. What made them powerful were the subtle changes in arrangement, often to incorporate the gospel choir. The melody for the moving ‘Ship Song’ was subtly recrafted (‘a song about ships-n-history-n-shit’ according to Cave), whilst Warren Ellis’ wildly inventive violin playing re-animated ‘The Weeping Song’. ‘Red Right Hand’ was dispensed with surprisingly early in the set, but seemingly with undiminished enthusiasm and commitment.

It would have been great had the set been slightly longer (just over 90 minutes always seems like a bit of a scrimp from an artist with such a substantial catalogue to chose from). This might have allowed for some selections from ‘The Boatman’s Call’ or ‘Nocturama’, two of the many Cave albums left entirely ignored tonight. I also found my attention momentarily wandering around the time Mick Harvey strapped on an acoustic guitar, with a particularly slow ‘O Children’ and a slightly lightweight ‘Breathless’ not quite able to compete with the frenzy and fervour of the more relentless songs. Clearly the intention was to provide balance – again this might have been more effectively achieved with songs like ‘He Wants You’ (from ‘Nocturama’) or ‘Brompton Oratory’ (‘The Boatman’s Call’). Order was restored with a blisteringly intense version of ‘The Mercy Seat’.

These minor concerns seemed like quibbles after a wonderful encore, which managed to effortlessly combine new material (‘The Lyre Of Orpheus’ with amusing audience participation) with older classics (‘Do You Love Me’) and surprise selections (‘Darker With The Day’) ending with a brutal, excoriating version of ‘Stagger Lee’, with Cave shrieking and kicking his legs like a demented banshee, leaving everyone in stunned awe. If the end is nigh, it’s better to end on a high.

There are also a handful of new albums that I’ve yet to cover, starting with the outstanding ‘Leaders Of The Free World’ from Elbow. Just three albums into their career, Elbow’s great skill so far has been in crafting significant variations and developments in their sound whilst retaining a distinctive and recognisable character. Much of that character comes directly from the dour but dryly humorous vocals and lyrics of Guy Garvey – and his development continues apace here. Musically, ‘Leaders…’ is substantially less abrasive and rhythmically chaotic than ‘Cast Of Thousands’, instead opting to emphasise the band’s talent for layered arrangements, melancholy atmospherics and flowing, effortless melodies. There is a preference for acoustic instruments here, whether it be the delicate guitar lines of ‘The Everthere’, the restrained strum of ‘An Imagined Affair’ or the more unusual plucked strings of the marvellously titled ‘Picky Bugger’.

These are consistently high quality, emotionally captivating, slow-burning songs of the kind that Chris Martin simply cannot write. Garvey is completely engaged with sense experience, emotional feelings and, particularly on the title track, with global politics as well. Here, he combines feelings of personal frustration with anger at ‘the commander-in-chief’. Garvey claims that ‘The leaders of the free world are just little boys throwing stones/and it’s easy to ignore until they’re knocking on the doors of your homes’. The song goes beyond critique and into the realms of palpable menace, particularly with its chilling closing lines (‘passing the gun from father to feckless son/We’re climbing a landslide where only the good die young’). It has an epic quality and tremendous power.

Elsewhere there’s a lingering melancholy perfectly captured in quietly affecting opener ‘Station Approach’ with its delicately chiming chords. Better still is the brilliant first single ‘Forget Myself’, which has a massive chorus for which even the overused adjective ‘soaring’ might actually be appropriate. It’s songs this striking that should catapult them into the mainstream. Memories of the hauntingly beautiful ‘Switching Off’ (one of the highlights of ‘Casts Of Thousands’) are conjured by the gradual swell of ‘The Stops’ and ‘Great Expectations’ is wonderfully evocative, relating an unwitting exchanging of vows on the 135 bus to Bury.

It’s mostly restrained and controlled, but its brilliantly consistent and frequently touching. Only on the twitchy ‘Mexican Standoff’ do they really attempt to recreate the unpredictable stuttering rhythms that characterised parts of ‘Cast Of Thousands’. Liberally ‘borrowing’ the riff from Radiohead’s ‘National Anthem’, it marries Morrissey-esque murderous self-deprecation (‘Your sweet reassurances don’t change the fact that he’s better looking than me/Yet he’d look ideal ‘neath the wheels of a car’) with a relentless, turbulent energy. It serves as reverse respite from the mournful balladry that characterises much of the rest of the album.

‘Leaders of The Free World’ continues and expands the band’s talent for atmospherics and arrangements. Somehow, even when they resort to a plodding chug they manage to imbue it with real depth and vision. They may not have a chance of deposing the leaders of the free world, but Doves and even Radiohead might do well to check their mirrors – Elbow have made a strong bid for the epic rock crown.

I must confess that I’m having a little trouble appreciating ‘Love Kraft’, the latest from the dependable Super Furry Animals, despite some well-intentioned perseverance on my part. There is a clear consensus that the Super Furries have ‘matured’ since the neo-psychedelic excess of ‘Rings Around The World’. On their last album, 2004’s ‘Phantom Power’, this meant for an album of breezier, less riotous pop songs. That album rewarded patience to some extent, but there’s something of a paradoxical oppressiveness in the consistently relaxed, hazy vibe that pervades ‘Love Kraft’. The tempos are consistently slow (and frequently plodding), and there is perhaps an over-dependance on ‘Surf’s Up’-era Beach Boys influences, with lush arrangements and mellifluous harmonies predominating. Given that ‘Love Kraft’ is the band’s most democratic effort to date, with Gruff Rhys frequently deferring on lead vocal duties, it’s odd that it’s also probably their most one-dimensional record too.

This is not to say that ‘Love Kraft’ is without its fair share of impressive moments. ‘Lazer Beam’ is loose and funky, a close relation to both ‘Juxtaposed With U’ and ‘Ice Hockey Hair’. The opening ‘Zoom!’ is spectacular, offering more than 8 minutes of choirs, strange electronics and slippery melodies. If ‘Atomik Lust’ were the only slow song on the album, it would stand out as a highlight by virtue of its bizarre switches from infectious pastoral whimsy to freaky distorted chug. It demonstrates once again that SFA can frequently throw more ideas into one song than most bands have in their entire careers. The lyrical sentiment also seems to echo the new ‘maturity’ of their sound in its desire to abandon the confusion of hedonism for something more stable and comforting. This theme is deftly encapsulated in the seemingly throwaway line about wanting to see the end of Citizen Kane. Of the latter tracks ‘Psyclone!’ stands out, perhaps because it has a slightly playful quality.

Recorded in Catalonia, ‘Love Kraft’ maintains a lazy summery haze throughout (‘Ohio Heat’ may be its defining track). It’s musically impressive, with Sean O’ Hagan’s string arrangements underpinning the thickly textured arrangements, many of which repay close attention (if the soporific mood hasn’t already taken effect). Nevertheless, there’s also the lingering sense that it’s all a bit laboured, and much less instinctive than the esoteric sensibility that fuelled their earlier material. Much of ‘Love Kraft’ is very pleasant, particularly when digested in smaller doses, but will SFA ever record something as exuberant and thrilling as ‘Ice Hockey Hair’ again?

By way of contrast, ‘Twin Cinema’, the third album from Canadian supergroup The New Pornographers sees the band expanding their reach beyond a straightforward power-pop brief into something more angular and consistently rewarding. Despite the presence of Destroyer’s Dan Bejar and the beguiling Neko Case, this once again seems to be Carl Newman’s project. Any fears that he used up all his best songs for last year’s solo album ‘The Slow Wonder’ are very quickly assuaged. ‘Twin Cinema’ is simply a superb collection of turbulent, unpredictable pop songs.

The ramshackle, highly energetic opener quickly sets the tone, its puchy call-and-response vocals adding to its sense of urgency. Elsewhere, Newman’s penchant for infectiously melodic, relentlessly upbeat songs is indulged with the crisp ‘Use It’, ‘Star Bodies’ and the utterly outstanding ‘Sing Me Spanish Techno’, as composed and inventive a song as he has yet written. Neko Case shares vocal duties with two other female vocalists and isn’t provided with anything quite as rollicking as ‘Mass Romantic’, instead opting for the more measured delivery evident on ‘These Are The Fables’.

What makes ‘Twin Cinema’ so distinctive is the more angular, edgy quality to many of the songs. ‘Three Or Four’ is jerky, whilst ‘The Jessica Numbers’ seems to veer in several different directions at once. Dan Bejar’s songs are usually more wilfully obscure, but ‘Jackie, Dressed In Cobras’ has vibrant energy as well as structural complexity. On listening to ‘Twin Cinema’ for the first time, I felt that Dave Fridmann surely must have had a production credit somewhere along the line, such were the colossal, clattering nature of the drums. The sound is raw, but also somehow considered. The chaotic sound of Kurt Dahle’s drumming really works against Newman and Bejar’s quirky melodies. File with Low’s ‘The Great Destroyer’ and Sleater Kinney’s ‘The Woods’ in the small pool of 2005 exhibiting indie groups with established sounds branching out from their self-imposed restrictions.

Remarkably, this weekend also left time to watch a couple of new DVDs – two of the most challenging and unconventional films of the year so far, Jonathan Caouette’s Tarnation and Fatih Akin’s Head-On. Both movies seem to be made to a very specific aesthetic. The former was supposedly edited entirely on Apple’s iMovie software and essentially one man’s entire life and family history exposed on film, the latter a corrosive and extreme portrait of doomed love among the Turkish community in Germany. Both make for severely uncomfortable yet grimly compelling viewing.

‘Tarnation’ has won Best Documentary awards but the term ‘documentary’ doesn’t really apply here. It would not be exaggerating to stress the originality of Tarnation’s composition – it is like a cinematic autobiography comprising cleverly manipulated still images, home video footage, student film clips and, most importantly, samples of the films and music that most influenced the life and work of its director. The latter is particularly well deployed, from the childhood memories soundtracked by Dolly Parton and Glen Campbell to the haunting elegies of Mimi Parker and Low, via his relationship with boyfriend David, soundtracked with the appropriately giddy Magnetic Fields song ‘Strange Powers’. The resulting collage of sound and image is powerful, occasionally even gut-wrenching.

If the film is to be taken at face value, then Caouette has clearly had a pretty hellish existence – his mother fell and injured herself at a young age and subsequently suffered depression. Her parents followed flawed advice to send her for electric shock therapy, which seems to have left her devoid of any sense of self or sanity. Caouette claims to have been physically and emotionally abused in a serious of foster homes, before returning to his grandparents, with whom he clearly has an ambivalent relationship. The footage of Caouette interrogating his mother and grandparents makes for the most unsetting moments of the film – simply because his subjects do not appear to give their consent to his filming them. At what point did amateur home video become part of this wider project? Is it morally justifiable to expose the suffering of an entire family in this way? The fact that Caouette clearly cares deeply for his mother, despite everything, perhaps serves as his own justification.

Mercifully, ‘Tarnation’ isn’t only about familial dysfunction – it also encompasses Caouette’s fascination with underground and outsider art, his precocious homosexuality (established at a young age – Caouette claims to have disguised himself as a woman to attend New York gay clubs from the age of thirteen). It demonstrates his development as an artist, from hilarious footage of him hamming it up for the camera as a child, via student zombie movies towards a final finished product. ‘Tarnation’ is interesting as much for its insider commentary on artistic development as it is for the harrowing story it has to tell.

I’m not sure that I’d like this film to act as any kind of precedent. Whilst its remarkable and exciting that it has last demonstrated that DIY initiative can result in success (at least if you manage to secure Gus Van Sant as your Executive Producer), it would be easy for the independent market to become saturated with candid, real-life memoirs such as this. For the moment, though, Caouette’s film is worth cherishing for its searing honesty, as well as for its deceptively simple, highly effective cinematic vision.

‘Head-On’ is violently intense film-making that would make for an intriguing double bill with ‘Tarnation’. It’s a fictional story, but it doesn’t seem any less frighteningly real. It begins with a car crash and ends in quiet tragedy and in between there is a whole wealth of doom and gloom. There are sudden and shocking scenes of self harm, rape and assault sequences, as well as a devastating act of jealous rage.

Where ‘Head-On’ succeeds is in its entirely plausible depiction of its central relationship. After both attempting suicide, Cahit and Sibel, both Turkish and living in Hamburg, meet at a psychiatric clinic. Sibel is desperate to escape the restrictive clutches of her family, who prevent her from having free relationships but will accept a marriage to a Turk, no matter who he is. She asks Cahit to marry her, on the basis that she will act merely as a room-mate. She will be free to have sex with anyone she choses, as will he. All he must do is agree to meet her parents on a regular basis and pretend that their marriage is going well.

A lesser film may have given us a conventional narrative in which the two realise they love each other after all and it all ends happily. The realisation of love is actually merely glanced over in the film, with Akin preferring to concentrate on the trauma that follows. Following a jealous act of violence, Cahit ends up in jail and Sibel ends up in Istanbul, where she rejects a safe life in favour of torrid hedonism. The scene where she is assaulted and stabbed is made all the more shocking because, having realised she is under threat, Sibel seems to provoke the inevitable by picking a fight herself. It is extravagantly cruel. Cahit suffers similar cruelty at the film’s conclusion, although chance plays its role here and the suffering is emotional rather than physical. The central performances throughout are naturalistic and convincing, resisting the obvious temptation to over-perform.

‘Head-On’ is not without its flaws. Sometimes it feels too much like it is an attempt to recapture the punk aesthetic of the mid-seventies, as its kinetic camerawork and boomingly loud soundtrack attest. Some of the characters are poorly drawn – we actually learn very little about Sibel’s family other than that they live by judgemental and restrictive conventions. Still, the film has a raw power and gritty reality that make it impossible to ignore, although it offers very little in the way of hope.

Note To Self

Readers of this blog might be interested in the tracking list I've just set up at Rate Your Music for the best albums of the year so far. It's more or less in alphabetical order (no doubt there's a schoolboy error in there somewhere). I'll try and update it when I get the chance - but right now it goes as far as I've heard - namely the new albums from Mew and Elbow, the latter of which is a serious contender for album of the year. Full review coming very soon!

http://rateyourmusic.com/lists/list_view/list_id_is_27682

For Every Highway There's A Cul-De-Sac

Two artists who have kept on doing their thing to little or no fanfare release new albums this month – Manchester’s Alfie and former Longpigs and Pulp guitarist Richard Hawley. Oddly, the lesser of the two releases seems to have suddenly captured critics’ attention. Whereas the Alfie record sees the band expanding their reach with more ambitious song structures and a serious attempt to break out of the indie ghetto, Hawley’s ‘Coles Corner’ merely adds extra strings and reverb to an already familiar formula.

Alfie have travelled a long way since their Twisted Nerve beginnings, even if their slim commercial pickings might disguise this. They have now moved beyond the fey pluckings of ‘A Word In Your Ear’ into something still bucolic, but much less comfortable. With ‘Crying At Teatime’, they have not shied away from the big arrangements. What is most impressive is that these arrangements feel entirely integral to the more ambitious songwriting on display. ‘Crying At Teatime’ finds room both for comfortingly familiar whimsy and for a more expansive approach.

The first half of the album is particularly successful, with the phased guitars and seventies west coast elements of first single ‘Your Little Religion’ sitting surprisingly well alongside the early Pink Floyd-esque psychedelic trappings of the song’s melody. ‘Look At You Now’ is similarly ambitious, striving to avoid the restrictions of conventional song structures, whilst the title track injects a welcome burst of pace.

‘Crying At Teatime’ suffers a little in its second half, with the pace and tone becoming a little uniform, with the songs arguably less distinctive, and the more stereotypically dour tones of Lee Gorton’s vocals coming increasingly to the foreground. This is a small criticism though. Whilst it’s not a great record, ‘Crying At Teatime’ is clearly the work of a promising band continuing to try out new ideas and sounds.

I wonder whether Alfie have failed to reap commercial rewards precisely because of their increasing ambition. These are songs with unpredictable twists and turns and wispy, elusive melodies. The sound of the album is decidedly cohesive and the tracks might well meld into one on first listen. The subtle charms of ‘Crying At Teatime’ are really only revealed with repeated listens.

With his debut mini album and ‘Late Night Final’ album, Hawley seemed like an intriguing prospect brimming with potential. This was certainly old fashioned, barroom music, but the songs carried a glow of genuinely warm nostalgia and considerable charm. With much of ‘Coles Corner’, not only is there the sense that Hawley is delivering diminishing returns, but also that the timeless, old-time atmosphere is starting to feel more affected and less convincing with each passing release.

In places, ‘Coles Corner’ proves that it’s a very thin line between a reverent recreation of the past and schmaltz. Hawley presumably intended the sugar rush of strings on the title track and grandiose first single ‘The Ocean’ to expand his reach, but the result is something sickly and lachrymose. If there is a new element on ‘Coles Corner’, it is an attempt to capture some of the polished warmth of the classic Bacharach/David hits. However, the dreamy, romantic feel of these tracks feel like an assumed persona rather than something actually experienced. This sensation is brought into stark relief by the more delicate ‘(Wading Through) The Waters Of My Time’, where Hawley imitates Johnny Cash in both tone and phrasing. Where once the dour Sheffield reality meeting the Nashville fantasy was quietly compelling, it now feels like a formula that has been repeated ad nauseum.

‘Coles Corner’ does however have a number of highlights, mainly when it is at its most underplayed and restrained. ‘I Sleep Alone’ is mournful and stately, whilst ‘Born Under A Bad Sign’ manages to transcend its reverent title by conjuring an endearingly reflective mood. It is the closest track here to the debut mini album, in its sound, pacing and even the shape of its melody. The wonderfully titled ‘Who’s Gonna Shoe Your Tiny Little Feet’ perhaps doesn’t quite live up to its moniker, as its melody is underwritten and obtuse, but its refreshing just to hear something a little further from Hawley’s well-beaten track.

‘Coles Corner’ is mostly difficult to object to – it sounds lovingly crafted and is often nuanced and detailed. If it were to serve as an introduction to Hawley’s oeuvre, it would justifiably be warmly received. It’s not the emotive classic Hawley still promises though. For that, he will have to drift further from the admiring recreation of a classic sound. Next time, a little more Sheffield and a little less Nashville might just do the trick.

Taking Stock

There's a plethora of potentially superb releases still to come this year:

August

New Pornographers - Twin Cinema
Laura Veirs - Year Of Meteors
Super Furry Animals - Love Kraft
Alfie - Crying At Teatime
Richard Hawley - Coles Corner
Death Cab For Cutie - Plans

September

Elbow - Leaders Of The Free World
Sigur Ros - Takk
Jackson - Smash
Oceansize - Everyone Into Position
Broadcast - Tender Buttons
Mew - Mew and The Glass Handed Kites

October

Broken Social Scene - Broken Social Scene (previously known as Windsurfing Nation)
Grandaddy - Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla (mini album)
John Cale - Black Acetate
Franz Ferdinand - You Could Have It So Much Better With Franz Ferdinand
Animal Collective - Feels
Boards Of Canada - The Campfire Headphase
Depeche Mode - Playing The Angel
Gravenhurst - Fires In Distant Buildings

Albums with unconfirmed release dates - Kate Bush, Hot Chip, Liars, System Of A Down

Three Months In The Life Of A Cinephile

It’s been absolutely ages since I’ve written anything about cinema – but don’t think that’s because I’ve stopped attending films. So far in 2005, there have been some impressive movies but few, if any, stand out classics.

That situation may now finally have changed with Kim Ki-Duk’s imaginative, evocative and distinctive 3-Iron. I would recommend that any tedious golden ageist still insisting that world cinema is in terminal decline should run rather than walk to see this fine film. It is deeply mysterious, opaque and occasionally confounding, but its languid pace and meticulous control of tone and atmosphere mark it out as a notable and original cinematic achievement.

Kim has been labelled the ‘bad guy’ of New Korean Cinema, largely because of uncomfortably brutal films such as ‘The Isle’. Critics began to hail a change of style with his serene and ponderous take on monastic Buddhism in ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring’ (remarkable chiefly because of its extraordinary location and staging). That film still contained brief moments of unhinged violence, and the glacial pace of 3-Iron is similarly punctuated with moments of savagery, some systematic acts of vengeance, others seemingly more random and unpredictable. All are rendered compelling and grimly amusing by the novel use of the sport of golf – hence the film’s title.

The film tells the story of Tae-Suk, a young deliverer of fliers for a Pizza takeaway business who breaks into unoccupied houses while the owners are away. Somewhat unconventionally, he doesn’t steal anything. Instead, he merely house-sits, dutifully hand-washing the laundry and even repairing faulty electrical appliances.

During one of his spontaneous invasions, he is shocked to find the house occupied, as he meets the mysterious, long suffering Sun-hwa, victim of a cruelly loveless marriage to an insensitive, controlling and violent husband. In languorous, entirely wordless scenes, they gradually fall in love. After the husband is casually dispatched with some carefully aimed golf drives, the two head off together in search of more houses to occupy.

Kim evokes the love between Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa with considerably skill and control. 3-Iron assumes a somewhat elegiac quality during its middle section, and the use of some spectacularly cheesy recurrent pop music creates a surprisingly convincing sense of intimacy and discovery. The film seems to exist entirely within its own moral universe – some actions seem to occur with no recrimination whatsoever, whilst others are swiftly punished.

Some critics have criticised the more otherworldly and fantastic elements of the film’s final third. After breaking into a house and finding its occupant dead, Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa perform a ritual burial which lands Tae-Suk in jail. In some brilliantly staged and highly comic scenes, Tae-Suk trains himself to disappear in jail, eventually mastering even his own shadow. The film’s conclusion allows Sun-Hwa to continue the illusion of her marriage, whilst Tae-Suk returns to be a constant presence in an extraordinary ménage-a-trois, always unseen and unnoticed.

It’s a brilliant conceit, but one that perhaps doesn’t make much sense when approached from a purely realist perspective. However, 3-Iron is decidedly not a realist film. It is primarily a ghost story, whereby Sun-Hwa is initially rescued from her life as a living ghost in a cruel marriage to embark on different haunts elsewhere. Tae-Suk’s self-disciplining enables him to become a ghost – the presence that is always there, but only visible to Sun-Hwa. The result is a curious and occasionally unsettling film, but also a film of considerable beauty and boldness.

Prior to 3-Iron, the only other really outstanding film of 2005 so far has been Ousmane Sembene’s Moolade. Sembene is often cited as the father of African cinema and his latest film has won plaudits across the world. A film about the unpleasant problem of ritual female genital mutilation in Africa might not exactly be considered a ‘date movie’, but rest assured that Sembene has crafted as entertaining a film as could possibly be made about such an uncompromising and provocative subject. Sembene’s film is critical of the barbaric tradition, but without being judgemental or unsubtle. It is an even-handed treatment, careful to recognise the considerable hold of tradition over African village society. It is this emphasis that clears this remarkable film of any charges of didacticism. Indeed, the film’s resisting protagonist, Colle, characterised with powerful sympathy by Sembene, herself resorts to another form of tradition, the protection or moolade that provides the film with its title.

Sembene realises that omnipotent dichotomy between tradition and impending modernity with elegance and understatement. All the women of the village are empowered by their transistor radios, which bring them news of the wider world. Particularly relevant is the fact that even their own government has condemned the practice of excision, yet the all-male village council, insists on its continuation, as no man will accept an uncut woman for a bride. When the village council burns these radios in an attempt to force the rebellious women into submission Elsewhere, there are intriguing characters, including the wonderful Mercenaire, who brings goods back to the village from his travels, and succeeds in profiting from them considerably. His scenes are mostly characterised by light humour, although he eventually becomes a key player in the village dispute, meeting an unpleasant end in the process.

The dispute begins when Colle, who has already refused to have her own daughter cut, provides a place of protection and refuge for four young girls who have run away from an excision ceremony. Interestingly, the confrontation appears to take place entirely between women – the mothers of the daughters who want their children returned and to complete the ceremony (along with the terrifyingly witch-like exciseurs themselves) and Colle and her family. It is only later that men become involved, not least when the dispute reaches the level of the village council. Colle’s husband is shocked by her actions, but only forced to intervene when he is convinced that her intransigence has publicly humiliated him. Despite a barrage of physical abuse, Colle stands firm, and the intercutting of her violent and public punishment with It is at this point that the film broadens its scope – the women are no longer simply protesting about the brutality and danger of excision but are rebelling against the Patriarchal structures of their society and the right for control over their own bodies.

The film is brilliantly executed and staged with precise economy. The location is limited purely to the small village, but its layout is convincingly engineered with real attention to detail. There is a palpable sense of community here, built on self-reliance and subsistence, but with a brace of unresolved tensions. Unlike 3-Iron, Moolade is determinedly realistic, but without the relentless dourness of British equivalents such as Ken Loach or Mike Leigh. Despite the grimness of its subject matter, Moolade manages to sustain an upbeat, frequently comic tone right up to its avowedly uplifting conclusion.

This might be considered a step too far with the wishful thinking of the film’s conclusion. Yet, how could it have ended with anything other than victory for the women? It might provide a note of feel good sentiment that might be somewhat divorced from reality, but the alternative is simply far too grim. It ought also to be noted that the victory does not come without a tinge of sadness, although to reveal any more detail here would be to greatly diminish the harrowing impact of one of the film’s key later scenes. In addition to this, Sembene’s assertion that tradition can be remoulded for positive, progressive action renders the other side of the debate redundant. It becomes a matter of independence against slavery. The victory of the former leaves a lingering impression of dignity and triumph, long after the credits have rolled. Brilliant.

I am still unconvinced by the new hero of American independent cinema David Gordon Green, whose unmistakeable debt to Terrence Malick takes on a new twist with Undertow, to which Malick lends his name (and presumably also his wallet – he’ll need some return on his investment as he is not to be rushed on making movies of his own) as Executive Producer. Green’s acclaimed debut George Washington was massively overpraised, simplistic and slightly dull as it was. Its follow-up, All The Real Girls, in spite of its hideously awful title, was by contrast underrated. Here Green and cinematographer Tim Orr combined their evocative sense for environment and natural beauty with a convincing depiction of a complex emotional relationship. The film captured the relationship’s intimacy, claustrophobia and subsequent confusion powerfully, without resorting to conventional narrative or finding reductive explanations for the actions of its protagonists.

Undertow is a much more conventional film, dependent on a somewhat contrived plot arc and clearly indebted to Night Of The Hunter, Charles Laughton’s sole film as director. Britain’s Jamie Bell, still most famous for stepping into a pair of ballet shoes as Billy Elliot, does a noble job in gritty southern mode as the young lead – it’s a real shame that he wasn’t given more ambitious material to work with.

To its credit, Undertow starts promisingly, with Bell’s Chris chased from his girlfriend’s house by her father who, suspecting him as a tearaway and troublemaker, fires shots at him. Chris impales his foot on a rusty nail in a wooden board, and the audience has to laugh and wince simultaneously as he continues to run with the board attached to his foot. It’s a bravura opening sequence, and one that at least hints that Green and Orr can do kinetic thrills as well as understated moods.

There is then a lengthy period of scene-setting, in which we become familiar with the family’s isolated farm home, whereby the days consist of hard physical work and little social engagement. Chris has a sickly younger brother Tim, played with charm by Devon Allan, who induces unpleasant bouts of vomiting through eating mud, paint and all manner of other inedible substances. Their father favours the younger child, preferring a ‘tough love’ approach with Chris. This isolated, rather backwards atmosphere is established carefully by Green, although it is never clear exactly when this film is set. Is this meant to be modern America? If so, I was constantly reminded of the key line of Warren Zevon’s song ‘Play It All Night Long’ - ‘There ain’t much to country living- sweat, piss, jizz and blood!’

The atmosphere is pierced brutally by the arrival of Deel, the boys’ Uncle, freshly released from prison and harbouring some lingering grudges. Rather predictably, he is a spurned lover, having staked his claim to their mother first, before their father fell in love with her too. Haven’t we seen this kind of slow building confrontation before? When the inevitable violence ensues, it is appropriately savage, but the descent of the rest of the film into mundance chase movie seems thoroughly disappointing and uninspired.

Deel wants the set of valuable coins the boys and their father have stored, and which Chris hurriedly retrieves as he escapes the scene. In between chase sequences, there are moments of breezy charm and insight – such as the black couple who allow the two boys to work, stay for food and earn some money (a neat reversal of the usual southern black/white relationship which is handled sensitively). Yet, every time Green and Orr allow their talent for developing dreamy moods to predominate, Deel turns up again and off they run through the woods.

Had Undertow simply been about Chris and Tim’s escape from a restrictive lifestyle and quick assumption of independence, it might well have been convincing and compelling. The relationship between the two brothers, with Chris emerging as guardian and protector, is touching and believable. The erosion of Chris’ trust in humanity, combined with his natural tendency towards forgiveness, also makes for the construction of some intriguing scenes later in the film. Sadly, the imposition of a rather unimaginative and derivative storyline proves frustrating, and the film feels like an unsuccessful conflation of two separate identities. For an evocative and distinctive mood piece, you’d be better off with Gus Van Sant’s remarkable Elephant. For a simple, plot-driven film, then there are many more substantial options than this.

These might well include Carlos Sorin’s charming Bombon El Perro, a straightforward and endearing film that it is very difficult to dislike. Set amidst the dusty flat landscape of Patagonia (its long, straight roads are marvellously captured here), this tells the story of how one man’s life is suddenly transformed after he is given a giant dog, a prime example of a rare breed.

After losing his job at a gas filling station, mechanic Juan Villegas (played by a non-professional also called Juan Villegas) is reduced to travelling the isolated, thinly populated area and trying to sell hand-crafted knives. He attempts to retain a cheerful, positive demeanour in the face of adversity, as he struggles (at a relatively advanced age) to find gainful employment. Villegas has an extraordinary face – and whilst he only really delivers one expression during the entire picture, that expression can be deadpan, good natured, confused and nonplussed all at the same time.

The acquisition of Bombon (frequently called Lechien during the film – simply The Dog) delivers some overnight results. Juan can now get work in the field of security (although not even the dog can stop him from being something of a generous pushover) and can jump the queue at the bank because the manager is friends with a dog trainer and is immediately taken with this particular specimen.

The scenes in which Bombon rides across the plains in the front seat of Juan’s car are exceedingly funny, both man and dog sharing the same steadfast facial expression. If there’s an In League With Paton award for performance of the year – it might have to go to this dog! The dog show scenes also have a sweetly humourous feel – it’s easy to feel bemused at how seriously the owners take these competitions. Even more inspired is Bombon’s utter failure as a stud for hire – he seems completely uninterested in providing these kind of services, much to his trainer’s frustration.

The film is light, breezy and sedate – but it may just be deceptively simple. It does not gloss over the social and economic problems of the new Argentina, particularly in its early scenes, and the key theme appears to be the newfound status granted to Juan by his new companion. It quietly reveals some significant truths about how we treat each other in the world of ‘human resources’ and whilst it’s by no means as serious (or as overwhelmingly sad), it reminded me a little of Laurent Cantet’s masterpiece L’emploi du Temps.

The more I ruminate on Paulo Sorrentino’s The Consequences Of Love, the closer I get to the conclusion that it is really quite a remarkable film. I imagine it’s a film that will benefit greatly from repeated viewings as its droll humour, underlying sadness and incredibly slow pace have to be yielded to in order to appreciate the full impact.

It is a stylish and mysterious film about an enigmatic and opaque character, the chain-smoking ‘business consultant’ Titta di Girolamo (played with deadpan irony and seemingly emotionless sophistication by the wonderful Toni Servillo). It is emphatically not, as many have bafflingly suggested, a thriller. Perhaps these critics have been blinded by what transpires to be a mafia theme (this would be a considerable plot spoiler were it not already given away in virtually every review the film has received). Girolamo has spent the last eight years living in an anonymous hotel room, entirely isolated and foregoing all social interaction (even with the hotel staff). The glacial pacing of the film reflects the extraordinary regularity and monotony of his routine. Each Wednesday morning he injects himself with heroin, an action he performs to emphasise the enforced routine of his existence, without ever becoming physically dependant on the drug. Once a week, he is given a suitcase of cash to deliver to a possibly criminal bank account.

Sorrentino’s film is one of the most technically masterful films of recent years, with memorably accomplished camera work, and a disorientating synaesthesia of hallucinatory auditory and visual effects, achieved through rigorous and intelligent editing. The sound is particularly impressive, strongly reminiscent of the amplified ambient effects used to considerable effect in Gus Van Sant’s ‘Elephant’. If this display of virtuosic technique might risk emphasising style over substance, it’s worth noting how these effects serve to emphasise the gradual unravelling of Girolamo’s carefully constructed exterior. We observe how his defences are gradually undermined by his burgeoning feelings for the beautiful, flirtatious hotel barmaid, and the film ends with a series of devastating revelations.

The lingering sense at the end of this film is one of profound sadness – of a life controlled and ultimately wasted, of a life denied real friendship or love. Estranged from his family and basically held captive, Girolomo is a genuinely tragic figure. The film’s conclusion is both shocking and devastating. It raises complicated moral questions and more than rewards the necessary patience that the rest of the film demands.

If only to avoid being branded a high-minded film snob (come off it, Ghostbusters is still one of my top five favourite films!), I occasionally give in to the temptation to watch a high grossing blockbuster. I’ve thankfully avoided the third (please let it be the last) film in the bloated Star Wars prequel trilogy, so it may as well be yet another film in the never-ending Batman franchise, with Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins taking us right back to the origins of the story. Nolan is a director of considerable talent (‘Following’ and ‘Memento’ are two of the most impressive and structurally audacious films of recent times) and given that superhero movies are one of my guilty pleasures, I anticipated this film with considerable relish, even if I might ponder whether it is really what Nolan wants to do, or simply where the hard cash is.

After the lightweight and insubstantial diversions of the Joel Schumacher films, Nolan’s film promises a return to the dark, serious vision of the Tim Burton era Batman. On this count, it certainly delivers, providing a backstory for the character which reveals his motivations for selecting the Bat character (Bruce Wayne is confronting his fears) and his research into the nature of evil following the cruel slaying of both his parents. All of this was hinted at in the earlier films, but Nolan has made it the centrepiece of his version of events.

I’m surprised that more critics haven’t picked up on the numerous post-9/11 ‘war on terror’ references that pepper the film. Rescued from torture in prison by Liam Neeson’s League Of Shadows, a group with motivations and methods seemingly very similar to those of Al Qa’eda, Bruce Wayne ends up at an isolated mountain training camp where he learns swordfighting and close combat skills. When challenged to kill another man in cold blood, he cannot do it, thus revealing the crucial difference between the crime fighting vigilante and his terrorising enemies – he (Batman) has respect for human lives. The final confrontation is also brought into sharper relief in light of the recent London bombings as it essentially involves a terrorist act involving chemical weapons that threatens the very infrastructure of Gotham City.

I’ve always admired Batman most among the superheroes because he appears to be a superhero without any specific superpowers. Instead, he has to rely on science, technology, determination and sheer practical ingenuity. Nolan’s film demonstrates these elements of the Batman character with vivid detail, as we see the preparation of the costume and the development of secret weapons through the assistance of Morgan Freeman’s scientist, rebelling against the nakedly corporate mindset that dominates the once philanthropic Wayne Corp, controlled as it now is by a callous megalomaniac played with righteous glee by Rutger Hauer (might there also be deliberate parallels between the charitable gestures of Bruce Wayne and those of Bill Gates? Both the fictional character and the real entrepreneur show a similar mix of ruthlessness and generosity).

The success of Batman Begins lies in its absorption of many of the elements of fear and trembling that dominate the current international climate, and the extension of them into the realms of fantasy and the absurd. A superhero film hardly needs to be constrained by the concerns of plausibility after all – and Batman Begins, whilst serious in its devotion to superhero fandom, doesn’t forget to provide some thrills along the way.

Central to this is the inspired casting of Cillian Murphy as The Scarecrow. With his extraordinary features, he is enticingly handsome, but also very sinister looking. He represents the seductive face of evil, and he relishes the potential for revelling in over-acting. He makes the entire film his stage. Christian Bale does a creditable job as Batman/Bruce Wayne but doesn’t really bring any new elements to the table, despite being gifted with Nolan’s elaborate backstory. Katie Holmes is simply too good to be true as the liberal lawyer potential love interest.

Batman Begins has all the elements of a great blockbusting superhero movie – the evocation of Gotham City is particularly spectacular, as well it should be as much of the film was apparently shot on location in Chicago rather than bound to a studio set. Nolan demonstrates his talent for capturing harsh futuristic landscapes as well as his knack for developing a range of ideas. The question now is where he goes next. Has he gone too far down the road to Hollywood blockbusterdom to produce anything as original and distinctive as ‘Memento’ again?

No Show For Old Crows

...But a plethora of excellent releases from solo artists make up for it.

I had been hoping to post a review of the Old Crow Medicine Show gig at Lock 17 today, but a bunch of callous terrorists have dashed that. I gather that the gig went ahead as planned (as most small venue events have despite recent events) but there was little way of us getting there. Moaning about public transport has always been a favourite pastime of Londoners, but it has reached new heights as we come to realise that the transport network is not merely unpredictable, but also easily exploited by those seeking to maim and kill. It’s not a fun time at the moment, made worse by the attempted attacks this week and the intimation that these have not been isolated one-off events. The thought that London may now be facing a sustained assault is not something anyone particularly wants to have to face.

Still, in a spirit of stoicism, life must go on – and as ever there’s a backlog of new CDs I haven’t got round to reviewing yet, not least three lovely promos I’ve picked up in the last couple of weeks.

First up is ‘Humming By The Flowered Vine’, the rather convolutedly-titled third full length from Laura Cantrell. It comes dedicated to the memory of John Peel, which endears it to me before I’ve even heard the music it contains. Cantrell’s voice is a treacly confection, lending this album a deceptively straightforward quality. Much of it is soft, delicate and understated, and it occasionally veers into whimsical terrain. Like her previous releases, there are only a handful of self-penned songs, the rest of the album being given over to interpretations of traditional material and cover versions of country standards. The covers, however, cannot be considered mere filler as they are absolutely fundamental to the shape and pacing of her collections. They also demonstrate just how comfortable Cantrell is with her material – she has a vast knowledge of country music as any listener to her radio thrift shop show will surely attest.

‘Humming…’ certainly has its moments of, ahem, hummable sweetness, most notably the lovely opener ‘14th Street’ (which somehow manages to make stalking an entirely innocent activity) and Cantrell’s own ‘California Rose’ (a wonderfully restrained country shuffle). Elsewhere, however, there are signs of burgeoning ambitions, not least on guitarist Dave Schramm’s ‘And Still’, which alternates between passages of elusive calm and more striking punctuations, characterised by some expressive fretwork. Best of all may be the traditional murder ballad ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ which Cantrell inhabits with genuine sympathy and understanding.

Throughout, Cantrell’s voice rarely veers away from the melody line – she is a rare breed of singer these days, almost entirely eschewing virtuosity. This makes her all the more adept at handling the constrained emotions of country songs. It’s particularly illuminating to hear her tackle something like Lucinda Williams’ ‘Letters’, the song sounds more vulnerable when stripped of Williams’ gutsy, guttural character.

‘Humming…’ so comfortably fits into a rich seam of tradition that it almost feels like an enticing invitation to another era. From it cover art to the photograph of Cantrell next to a piano inside the sleeve, much like The White Stripes, there seems to be a particular aesthetic at work. Whereas The White Stripes often leave a lingering, knowing smirk, there can be little doubt that Cantrell is entirely sincere. I’ve been meaning to investigate her earlier albums for some time. On hearing this, my resolve is much stronger.

However, Cantrell’s carefully constructed homage to the likes of Kitty Wells and Patsy Cline rather pales into insignificance next to ‘We Will Become Like Birds’, the third official album from the wonderful Erin McKeown. I’ve been hotly anticipating this album since seeing McKeown play an awesome solo show at the Islington Academy and I’m pleased that it does not disappoint. It also doesn’t sound anything like I was expecting it to, perhaps because the Judy Garland tinges and slightly jazzy guitar flourishes of ‘Grand’ are largely absent. In their place is a polished, focussed and immediately accessible collection of breezy pop songs, brilliantly executed and intelligently enhanced through subtle production trickery. Whereas ‘Distillation’ and parts of ‘Grand’ required several listens to reveal their full charms, ‘We Will Become Like Birds’ is immediately memorable and frequently touching. It is a ‘pop’ album in the purest sense and it deserves to achieve sales to reflect this.

It opens with ‘Aspera’, an almost Neil Young-esque slow trudge (which McKeown pulls off surprisingly well) and ends with ‘You Were Right About Everything’, a tender, subtle and affecting ballad. In between is a whole plethora of melodic invention, from the unusual intervals of ‘Air’ to the genuinely anthemic choruses of ‘To The Stars’ and ‘White City’. The latter, particularly, is unlike anything else McKeown has written – its quick tempo and rousing chants providing both immediate pleasures and a lingering impact.

There is a thematic coherence to ‘…Birds’ that reflects the overall confidence of the music and the performances. Many of the songs are songs of courage and defiance, which seem strangely appropriate to the current mood in London. What could have appeared brash and ugly in the hands of, say, Toby Keith, is delivered with grace and elegance by McKeown. Her vocals are consistently light and breezy, but she also demonstrates an inventive talent for lithe and unpredictable melodies. This is songwriting of the highest quality, unafraid of genuine sophistication. Class.

More solo artist action comes from the playful, gleefully chameleonic Jamie Liddell, whose second album ‘Multiply’ entirely forsakes the confusing glitch and stutter of his debut and instead adopts a more funky approach. My friend Alex from Club Treehouse has denounced this as ‘absolutely awful…like a digital Jamiroquai’, whilst my former co-presenter on student radio think it’s one of the best albums of the last five years. I’d probably disagree with both of these views, as they seem to be somewhat extreme. There is far more fun and panache on display here than you might reasonably expect from the twat in the hat, but there are some significant problems, particularly with track sequencing, which rather dilute its overall impact.

It starts brilliantly. ‘You Got Me Up’ is short and decidedly sweet, a lush refashioning of the spirit of Sly Stone. ‘Multiply’ sees Liddell inherit the mantle of more gritty soul singers such as Otis Redding or Joe Tex, and he does this with such natural and unforced enthusiasm that it is hard to resist, even if the song is essentially a genre pastiche. Even better is ‘When I Come Back Around’, which signifies that a more questing and original spirit is at work. There’s certainly a detectable Prince influence, but the falsetto vocals and wurlizer keyboards are filtered through a rather more modernist prism, with a more twisting and unpredictable production style. It’s also an incredibly infectious song, with an incredible energy and confidence.

Things continue to move away from the conventional as the album progresses. ‘A Little Bit More’ makes elaborate use of layered backing vocals (one of the few hints at Liddell’s more uncompromising vocal loops live show), whilst ‘The City’ is stripped right back to just a beat, skeletal bass line and expressive vocal performance. It all makes for incredibly exciting stuff.
The problems arrive because, perversely, Liddell decides to conclude the album with a series of slower, less exhuberant songs, which quickly deaden the pace. Whilst not exactly ballads as such, Liddell clearly aimed to use these as vessels through which to channel the more sultry and seductive spirit of classic soul. Of themselves, they are not entirely unsuccessful, although perhaps a little derivative for comfort. Placed together, they bring an otherwise irresistibly invigorating album to an unexpected and uncomfortably muted conclusion.

It would be easy for the success of The Pixies reunion (although I had my own reservations) to blind us into deifying Frank Black as a solo artist. Nevertheless, 'Honeycomb', his umpteenth album, does bring some surprising pleasures. For this one, Black has indulged himself by going off to Nashville and recording with the musicians largely agreed to have the best chops in the business - Dan Penn, Spooner Oldham and Steve Cropper among them. Reportedly, none of them had heard of The Pixies or even had any idea who Frank Black was. This doesn't seem to matter one jot because the record has such a gentle, easy charm that the combination of a more restrained Black with these session and songwriting legends seems entirely comfortable.

Whereas Black's last few albums with The Catholics have tended towards the conventional and uninspired, this collection offers more considered arrangements and more ingratiating tunes than Black has mustered recently. There are also some audacious covers, among them a slow, drawling and surprisingly effective rendition of Penn's legendary 'Dark End Of The Street'. OK, so this is a standard, and a song so undeniably brilliant it would seem impossible to ruin. Nevertheless we should credit Black with resisting the temptation to transform it into an angsty, primal grunge howl, and instead playing it mostly straight, whilst exaggerating its tempo and phrasing to accommodate for his vocal limitations.

Of Black's own songs, 'I Burn Today' is an effective break-up song, commendable mostly for its restrained and controlled style. Where previously, Black would have articulated his rage in rather more predictably aggressive tones, here he barely rises above a whisper. 'Lone Child' is more rhythmically dynamic than one might reasonably expect, and makes excellent use of the skills of the musicians to create an evocative atmosphere. 'Another Velvet Nightmare' is rather more sinister and despairing.

Its true that it all becomes rather homogenous towards the end, and much the same countrified soul mood is preserved throughout. Perhaps in the hands of a better vocalist this wouldn't have mattered so much (indeed, the combination of Penn and Oldham on the outstanding live reuninion 'Moments From This Theatre' largely avoided this pitfall), but it's a minor criticism of what really represents an interesting diversion for Black and proof that he isn't only now concerned with the big money promised by new Pixies material. I absolutely despise the journalistic cliche of the 'return to form' but, seriously, when was the last time Frank Black produced an album this assured? You'd have to go back to the rather more scattershot, but equally endearing 'Teenager Of The Year'. It's not really a 'return to form' as such, as this is an idiom that Black has given little hint of exploring before (and will probably abandon just as quickly for his next release). It's more of a curious aside.

Nationwide Mercury Music Prize

The nominations were announced this morning:

Bloc Party – 'Silent Alarm'
Hard-Fi –'Stars Of CCTV'
Kaiser Chiefs – 'Employment'
MIA – 'Arular'
The Magic Numbers – 'The Magic Numbers'
Coldplay – 'X&Y'
The Go! Team – 'Thunder, Lightning Strike'
Antony And The Johnsons – 'I Am A Bird Now'
KT Tunstall – 'Eye To The Telescope'
Maximo Park – 'A Certain Trigger'
Seth Lakeman – 'Kitty Jay'
Polar Bear – 'Held On The Tips Of Fingers'



As ever, many of these options seem safe and predictable (the bland Coldplay, the twee Magic Numbers and the Blur-lite Kaiser Chiefs particularly spring to mind). The Kaiser Chiefs have immediately been elevated to the status of favourites - but surely MIA is exactly the kind of here-today-gone-tomorrow hip production tosh the Mercury judges tend to admire (Roni Size, Talvin Singh etc).

Its interesting that Antony and the Johsons were eligible - born in Chichester but now firmly based in New York. This is by some considerable distance the best album in the list.

It's also pleasing to see Seb Rochford's Polar Bear receive a nomination, although very surprising that it did so over Acoustic Ladyland's more heavily publicised 'Last Chance Disco'. I'd have been tempted to nominate both!

This looks like a very media/corporate list - more so than usual. The rise of Hard-Fi is somewhat baffling to me, and whilst I enjoyed the Magic Numbers live - on record they seem to be insufferably twee and prissy. Bloc Party's nomination is less objectionable but they are hardly musical pioneers. At least they haven't nominated the truly ghastly James Blunt (currently topping both the UK singles and albums charts) and the absence of the overrated Tom Vek is also somewhat surprising. I must confess that I know absolutely nothing about Seth Lakeman.

As ever, most of the key British albums of the last twelve months are notable by their absence.
Where are:

Patrick Wolf - Wind In The Wires
British Sea Power - Open Season
Jamie Lidell - Multiply
Roots Manuva - Awfully Deep
Four Tet - Everything Ecstatic
Brooks - Red Tape
Teenage Fanclub - Man-made (I don't think this was eligible)
Doves - Some Cities
King Creosote - Rocket DIY

Sadly Matthew Herbert's essential Plat du Jour and the Clor album seem to have been released too late (25th July) to be eligible this year. That means they will no doubt miss out on next year's award as well.

Polar Bear and Antony and the Johnsons are the only nominated albums of sufficient quality to merit receiving an award. Will the judges show that they have sense and taste this year?

Music Will Provide The Light You Cannot Resist

R.E.M. wow Hyde Park 16/7/05

R.E.M.'s massive Hyde Park gig may have been postponed due to the tragic events of last week, but the impact of the band's performance was certainly not diminished. In fact, despite Michael Stipe not making any specific references to the events as he had at the band's other UK concerts last week, some moments here resonated with increased poignancy, particularly a hypnotic version of 'The Outsiders' (which ends with the words 'I am not afraid') and the strident 'Walk Unafraid'. As it was now the final date of the band's gargantuan world tour, it was a night of many surprises.

First, a few words about the support acts. We arrived a little later than planned, so only heard Jonathan Rice whining from outside the park. It sounded more than a little earnest and worthy from a distance.

Idlewild were up next, and gave us a generous ten-song set. Here is a band that continues to mature and develop with every album, and with material from excellent new set 'Warnings/Promises' sitting comfortably alongside older gems, this was a remarkably confident performance, especially given that they were using a dep drummer. Highlights were 'El Capitan' and 'I Understand It', which are their most structurally ambitious songs to date, as well as improved versions of 'Little Discourage' and 'A Modern Way Of Letting Go'. This band seem to have polarised their fanbase by moving in a more melodic direction, abandoning some of their uncontrolled aggression along the way. The comments that they now sound rather like R.E.M. are not too wide of the mark, although they've yet to incorporate anything resembling Peter Buck's Byrdsian twang. Roddy Woomble certainly makes for an intriguing frontman, and he remains one of the most intelligent and literate lyricists around in British music at the moment. He is showing no signs of being short of ideas.

Sadly, we had to do without Scouse revivalists The Zutons, so we leapt straight to the crushingly uninteresting Feeder who blustered their way through several hit singles. They appear to be one of those bands who remain completely off my radar, yet I seem to recognise a baffling number of their songs. Their older material is punky, but uninspired (see the horrendously simplistic 'Buck Rogers'), whilst the material from the last couple of hours drifts towards plodding tempos and clunky arrangements. All the lyrics and titles seem worthy and dull, lacking any engaging imagery ('feeling a moment', 'just the way I'm feeling', 'we tumble and fall' etc), whilst the melodies never rise beyond the merely conventional.

Bursting on to the stage with little fanfare, R.E.M. break straight into 'Bad Day', a thrilling and effective opener (although they had recently been opening with less predictable 'I Took Your Name'), then moved swiftly on through 'What's The Frequency, Kenneth' and 'The One I Love'. This made for a robust and exciting trio with which to begin proceedings, and it effectively allowed them some freedom for more unusual choices later in the set.

Those choices began relatively early on with a faithful rendition of 'Sitting Still' from their debut album from 1983, with new drummer Bill Rieflin doing an excellent job of imitating Bill Berry's direct and propulsive backbeat. It was a genuine surprise and one of the highlights of the set.

Even more surprising was how well material from 'Around The Sun' sat with their established classics. Even though the album has sold far less respectably than even 'Reveal' or 'Up', it was refreshing to hear so many in the crowd singing along with 'Leaving New York' and 'Electron Blue'. 'Final Straw' sounded fleshed out and less tentative than it had sounded when first performed back on the 2003 tour - it actually worked more convincingly as a protest song this time around. Best of all was a stunning rendition of 'The Outsiders', with Michael Stipe surprisingly convincing when taking on Q-Tip's rap. Peter Buck seemed to be a much more significant presence in these live versions, producing a whole gamut of strange and wonderful sounds from his electric guitar, occasionally even hitting and shaking it for unusual effect. Sadly, not even the extra energy afforded by live performance could rescue the unspeakable 'Wanderlust' - currently my least favourite R.E.M. song by some distance. Why was this chosen as a single for heaven's sake?

The band have worked hard on expanding their arrangements. Whilst the Monster tour was characterised by deliberately straightforward, heavier interpretations of songs, and the Up tour was striking for the integration of keyboards and electronics, recent tours have tried to reconcile these two trends with the countrified sound which might be more familiar to fans of 'Out Of Time' or the southern gothic of 'Automatic For The People'. The presence of multi-instrumentalists Ken Stringfellow and Scott McCaughey remains fundamental to this approach, and the careful orchestration of vocal parts at the close of 'Leaving New York' proved particularly striking. Their keyboards, organ and extra guitar also help to flesh out the sound.

Recent REM gigs have tended to focus on a particular album or period. The 2003 Brixton Academy show focussed heavily on 'Fables Of The Reconstruction' as it had been recorded nearby, and tonight's show had a little subsection devoted to 'New Adventures In Hi Fi', one of the band's most impressive and underrated recordings. 'Electrolite' clearly remains a band favourite, and it seemed wonderfully aposite for such a beautiful, summery day. More unpredictable was a fiery, vitriolic take on 'So Fast So Numb', during which Stipe seemed particularly energised, adopting ever more unusual postures. Then, amazingly, the band were joined on stage by Patti Smith for a devastating 'E-bow The Letter'. Smith's failing microphone undoubtedly muted the initial impact and, clearly unable to hear herself, she looked increasingly tentative and uncomfortable. Having been comforted by Stipe, she shared his microphone. Finally audible, her voice sounded rich and mesmeric. The two together on stage provided a quite extraordinary spectacle, and their relationship is clearly one of genuine intimacy.

All the usual suspects were here of course, with a dependably touching 'Everybody Hurts', a haunting version of 'Drive' and a closing mass singalong of 'Losing My Religion', still one of the most emotionally complex lyrics ever to have struck such a unified chord. It was great to hear 'Me In Honey', one of the less frequently performed songs from 'Out Of Time' and another surprising selection. It's easy to quibble about setlists, and I'm still slightly frustrated that 'Up' and 'Reveal' now seem to be rather neglected (only one song from each), but this was still a well-judged set, carefully constructed to appeal to all setions of the band's remarkably wide audience.

The encore was generous, including 'Imitation Of Life' and an endearing 'Nightswimming' with Michael Stipe sitting on Mike Mills' piano before collapsing on to the keys and planting an unexpected kiss on Mills' cheek. It was a little marred by some unnecessary synth strings - it would surely have been better to leave it as just piano and voice rather than attempt to mimic the John Paul Jones arrangement from the album version. The final run of a truncated 'It's The End Of The World...' running straight into the charmingly silly 'I'm Gonna DJ' ('Death is pretty final/I'm collecting vinyl/I'm gonna DJ at the end of the wooooooorld!') and then the now established finale of 'Man On The Moon' worked particularly well. The band then seemed reluctant to leave the stage, lining up at the front to milk the applause and sing a quick burst of 'it's the end of the tour as we know it'. Mills and Buck then proceeded to carry Stipe off stage.

R.E.M. have clearly put aside the differences that emerged during the protracted process of recording 'Up' and have re-established themselves as a touring act par excellence. Even if their albums have (at least partially unfairly) been viewed as delivering diminishing returns, they still seem able to sell vast numbers of concert tickets on every tour they do. Perhaps this is because of their real quality as entertainers - Stipe remains a charismatic and imposing presence, dancing in a uniquely strange fashion and completely unafraid of the performance aspect of his role as singer. The band also play close attention to the wider dynamics necessary to make huge concerts of this nature successful - they use a mind-boggling array of flashy cinematic techniques to make the big screen footage interesting (perhaps even diverting), including colour filters, grainy textures and quick edits to pre-recorded video footage (particularly effective during 'Leaving New York'). They also make good use of house lights shining on to the audience, a similar trick used by Bruce Springsteen during his marathon shows. Another outstanding performance - until next time then....

London

After several days of immense positivity now this. A horrific, scary day during which my thoughts are with friends and families of those affected.

It feels inappropriate to attempt any kind of analysis of this right now. On a personal level, I would simply add that, whilst stranded in Kings Cross unable to get any form of transport, I was horrified and disgusted to be kicked out of The Pakenham Arms pub for not spending enough money on drinks, even after I had offered to buy not just more drink but also food. This was so far from the kind of attitude that would have been appropriate on such an unpleasant day. Given the advice of the Metropolitan Police at that stage, it was irresponsible. All I wanted to do was watch the news until further advice was available. It was certainly not necessary for the landlord to be verbally abusive when I'd caused no trouble whatsoever.

Outside, there was an eerily calm atmosphere by this stage, and plenty of people helped out to point me in the right direction home. This openness and friendliness made me feel more comfortable and secure.

It would only have taken some minor differences in timings for me to be caught up at the scene in Kings Cross, which is a deeply terrifying thought. This evening, whilst by no means surprised, I am stunned, numb and concerned for the future.

A Gr8 Event?

DISCLAIMER: The views expressed here are entirely my own and are written with my work hat firmly off.

For better or for worse, I felt a part of something at the Live 8 concert in Hyde Park last weekend. I've never seen such a huge crowd of people - it stretched as long and wide as the eye could see. The event seemed to be a protest against cynicism and apathy as much as anything, and as such it may have just convinced me that it was greatly positive. The message was loud and clear - gathering people together can and must effect change. The unsurprising warning from George Bush that Tony Blair can expect little in return for his commitment in Iraq may suggest otherwise, but it will be interesting to see what impact, if any, these international concerts have at the G8 summit.

I have no problem whatsoever with the notion that musicians can have a political voice. There are many who think that musicians should stick to writing songs and entertaining people. This is a profoundly dangerous and anti-democratic sentiment. As Michael Stipe said recently - in campaigning on issues such as the US election and global poverty, he is exercising his right as a private citizen to voice opinions. He also happens to be a public figure and, as such, can disseminate his message to greater effect. All well and good.

Still, I have some reservations I need to get out of the way at the outset. There were times, when performances were juxtaposed with emotive images of starving children, that it felt as if a giant pop concert may not have been the most appropriate way of focussing the world's attention on these significant issues, especially as the event appears to have generated little attention in Africa itself. This was not its aim of course. The focus has been on the G8 summit and what it could achieve, rather than the countries that are themselves in need of debt relief and much more. This is why the criticism over the lack of African artists on the bill rather missed the point.*

My second reservation is that this campaign may sweep broader, more complicated issues under the carpet. Whilst the view that African poverty can only be solved by Africa itself is grossly offensive, even complete debt cancellation is unlikely to resolve the problem. Only a handful of artists involved made any reference to the real problem - the need for a system of fair trade that does not systematically exploit African producers. Even more ignored were the troublesome conditions which will be imposed on countries before they can receive any kind of debt relief: the elimination of corruption (fair enough, but difficult to achieve), but worse, enforced privatisation and free market liberalisation. There is no evidence that this will actually be of benefit. It has certainly created problems in South America. I fear that, should any postive developments come from this, the result may be the creation of elites in Africa, and a massive gulf between the extremely rich and the extremely poor. We must guard against this if real progress is to be made. It's worth remembering that many African countries have repaid most if not all of what they borrowed, but thanks to the wonders of compound interest, now find themselves in debt to the tune of billions.

Thirdly, why has the focus solely been on Africa? Extreme poverty exists elsewhere in the world, and there are vast areas of real suffering that never receive any media attention. Are we simply to ignore humanitarian disasters elsewhere?

Nevertheless, to raise awareness has to be a good thing. I can't help but feel that there is a whole generation (post-the original Live Aid) who know very little about these issues. We can be cynical about the motives of the artists involved (and the likes of Robbie Williams and Pink Floyd have unsurprisingly experienced a massive surge in their album sales over the weekend), but their presence can only help rather than hinder any action. Some artists may have become involved with the Make Poverty History campaign as a result of record company manoevres, but acts like McFly appear to have genuinely had their eyes opened to problems they simply were not aware of beforehand. We should not dismiss their voices. As blandly emotive and cliched as they may sometimes appear, Bob Geldof and Bono do have genuine concerns. It's easy to forget that the former has worked tirelessly for the Commission for Africa, and has at least done some research. Their weaknesses come with their unwillingness to challenge some of the least attractive elements of power politics - will they achieve more by being photographed in friendly poses with Blair and Bush? The message of hope certainly rang loudly through Hyde Park - will it transcend its gates?

Did it work as an event and as a concert? There were certainly problems. The stewarding at the start was hopeless - as huge crowds of people were herded like sheep into one giant mass across three lanes of entrances, rather than into any kind of fair and organised queue. Whilst the concert overran by hours, the onstage and backstage organisation must have been superb - it's almost unfathomable to think how they managed to engineer so many performances by so many acts at one single event. The sound did not carry well across the park, however. As a result, the effect was rather like watching a dodgy, slipping VHS tape on giant screens (the stage being barely visible). The cordoning off of the 'gold circle' seemed completely against the spirit of the event, creating a privileged elite at the front of the crowd.

It was also frustrating that it was so flagrantly hijacked by rampant commercialism (look- there are thousands of free copies of the Daily Mirror strewn all over Hyde Park!). The presence of other, completely inappropriate campaigns also proved frustrating - some I support (No 2 ID has their giant balloons - but this was hardly the time or the place), and the usual suspects who attempt to take over every protest going (hello Socialist Worker). Luckily, many audience members I observed in the queue seemed engaged with the issues (some were openly discussing them), and only a small number of morons laughing through the films of starving children spoiled the mood during the concert itself.

I therefore couldn't help by submitting to the feeling that this was a brilliant, major event. There is always something thrilling about being part of a large, united crowd, and even when I disliked the music, the whole experience still felt uniquely positive. Standing for several hours was something of an endurance test - but a number of remarkable performances made it all worth it on a musical level alone.

The show kicked off on time with a bizarrely inaudible fanfare before U2 took to the stage with Paul McCartney to perform what was apparently the first live performance of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (McCartney had performed the reprise on his recent tours, but not the full version). It felt a little flat, but U2 were clearly awed to be sharing the stage with the former Beatle. Before ushering in their own 'Beautiful Day', Bono asked the crowd 'did that really just happen?' At any other event, U2's three song set (with Bono's overt preaching and the release of a flock of white doves into the air) may well have felt uncomfortably mawkish. Here, something resolutely cheesy and sentimental felt like the perfect opening to the event. 'Beautiful Day' was appropriately anthemic, 'Vertigo' confident and strident, despite its obvious limitations as a song, and 'One' was particularly touching. Bono still has a commanding presence on stage that is impossible to ignore.

Next up were Coldplay - a decidedly mixed blessing. 'In My Place' remains one of their best songs, but Chris Martin's flat intoning of Status Quo's 'Rocking All Over The World' was criminally unfunny. Richard Ashcroft took to the stage for a faithful run through of 'Bittersweet Symphony'. Whilst hardly earth shattering as a performance in its own right, it reminded me what a good song it is, and how Richard Ashcroft appears to have left his talents somewhere in Wigan ever since. Still, even the most ardent of Verve fans must have choked at Martin's ardent flattery - 'this is probably the best song in the world sung by the greatest singer in the world'. Ashcorft could not even be considered the greatest living singer singer in the world, let alone the best ever. Such overstatement may go some way in explaining Martin's own considerable limitations. Someone should introduce him to Roy Orbison and Sam Cooke. They closed with 'Fix You', an earnest ballad that shamelessly references Elbow and, perhaps precisely because of this, may well come to be their best song. Its carefully controlled crescendos linger in the mind.

After a brilliant introduction from Little Britain's Lou and Andy, Elton John provided the day's first genuine surprise. He was superb - a top notch showman wisely opting to perform two of his very best and most rousing songs ('The Bitch Is Back' and 'Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting'). It was a timely reminder that he can be a great songwriter when he puts his mind to it - it's such a pity he's been churning out middle of the road pap for the last 25 years. It was also a shame that his set was soured by an embarassingly, ahem, shambolic Pete Doherty, who teamed up with Elton to perform 'Children Of The Revolution' with committed swagger, but sadly he hadn't bothered to learn the tune. The bizarre pairing was certainly unexpected but in the event, not all that satisfying.

The less said about Dido the better. She is profoundly dull in every conceivable way, from the bland synth pad stylings of her tepid band to her weak and irresolute singing voice. She was completely upstaged by the arrival of guest Yossou N'Dour who demonstrated his talent even whilst duetting on the awful 'Thank You' and his sole UK megahit 'Seven Seconds'. How does Dido manage to communicate to so many people with no stage presence and no charisma? You're in front of 200,000 people woman! Do something!

The Stereophonics strangely started to engage the crowd a little more, despite turning in a perfunctory set with little subtlety. Still, at least they played 'Local Boy In the Photograph', the lyrics of which I still find moving. It's the one indication that Kelly Jones may possess some talent somewhere, even though with bluster like 'The Bartender and The Thief', and plodding tosh like 'Maybe Tomorrow', he keeps it well hidden.

Ricky Gervais bowed to pressure from the crowd and dutifully performed the infamous David Brent dance from The Office for 'one last time', before REM provided a welcome burst of quality. Hard to believe that The Stereophonics were gifted with four songs, whilst one of the world's most significant bands were restricted to just three, but their performance came with their usual verve and vigour as well as an unusual and endearing timing slip during 'Everybody Hurts'. Shame they played three big hits rather than testing the crowd with some of their more overtly political material. Even one of the better, more engaged selections from 'Around The Sun' might have seemed more appropriate to the event. At least 'Everybody Hurts' provided an obligatory lighters aloft moment, hampered by the fact that it was still broad daylight in mid-afternoon. With extraordinary strip make-up across his eyes, Michael Stipe begins to look less endearingly charismatic and more sinister. He remains one of the best stage performers in the business. 'We are REM and this is what we do', he said with customary self-deprecation. What they do is to be consistently the best live act in the world year after year. Long may it continue.

Ms Dynamite proved, aside from Kofi Annan and Nelson Mandela (speaking in Johannesberg), to be the most articulate political voice of the day, arriving at the point crisply and persuasuvely. Her message that 'the debt is surely ours' was warmly received. Whilst many attempt Bob Marley's 'Redemption Song', her remarkable rendition had real character and pathos. She shows every sign of maturing into a major, distinctive British soul voice.

Keane and Travis then also did what they do, but with less overwhelming impacts. Keane do nothing for me whatsover. What some find anthemic, I find turgid and lacking in ambition. Watching their keyboard player's violent and exaggerated motions also induced a slight feeling of nausea. At least they appear to be down-to-earth, genuinely decent people, surprised by their perplexing commercial success. Travis were dependably inoffensive, and despite the recent dip in their profile, monosyllabic titles like 'Sing' and 'Side' obviously still carry memories for many people. Nobody could object to a run through of 'Why Does It Always Rain On Me' either.

Neither could anyone really object to Bob Geldof indulging in a quick rendition of 'I Don't Like Mondays'. The moronic chavs next to us secured their one vaguely funny moment with their chorus chant of 'Tell Me Why! I only have one song...' (it's not true of course - The Boomtown Rats had several hits in their day). It's actually an enduringly good song too, its theme of high-school massacre now genuinely prescient, even though its stylings are entirely copied from Born To Run-era Springsteen.

Revelation of the day was Annie Lennox. As good a pop band as The Eurythmics were, Lennox's solo career has been faltering, and she has shown little sign of the true artistry she is capable of. That artistry was present in bucketloads today - her solo piano rendition of 'Why' proving quietly devastating. 'Little Bird' and an energised version of 'Sweet Dreams' provided more upbeat balance. Her voice was controlled but extremely powerful, demonstrating that she is indeed a tremendously talented vocalist who prefers distinctive, emotive delivery over blandly virtuosic extemporising (others on the bill could learn from this, but more of that later).

Things then started to get more bizarre, and the quality more variable. I went to get Falafel during UB40, but their medley sadly seemed to drift more in favour of their successful cover versions than their earlier politicised material. Why not play 'One In Ten' or 'King' instead?

Snoop Dogg may well have been the source of most of the BBC's complaits, liberal as he was with his language still relatively early in the evening. As others have noted, his exortation to 'put your hands in the air like you just don't care' seemed ill-advised - we're supposed to be here because we do care aren't we? Still, it's difficult to resist the wickedly brilliant 'Drop It Like It's Hot', or indeed some of the earlier Funkadelic-inspired material aired in truncated versions. His laconic drawl remains one of hip-hop's most distinctive voices, even if he is now more cuddly poodle than savage terrier.

I almost warmed to Razorlight during their short set, specifically during a genuinely excellent rendition of 'Golden Touch' with some gospel backing vocalists. Unfortunately, Johnny Borrell's extreme self-confidence (he clearly sees his band performing to audiences of this size in their own right in the not-too-distant future) remains a distraction. Why can't the man keep his clothes on for even a 15 minute set? Still, their energy and boisterous enthusiasm may prove infectious, especially for those who know nothing of their thinly veiled New York punk influences.

Next came what everyone were all waiting for - the 'queen bee of Rock and Roll', Madonna. I'm genuinely glad to have seen her without paying £150 for the privilege, even though the juxtaposition of her jewellery encrusted fingers gripping the hand of an Ethiopian famine survivor provided one of the most uncomfortable big screen images of the evening. Her performance was simply fantastic - she commanded both the stage and the audience and her voice has clearly grown in stature and power over the years. She may now deserve the title of artist as well as star, so convincing were her performances of 'Like A Prayer' and the triumphant 'Ray Of Light'. 'Music' seemed the most appropriate song of the whole event - 'music makes the people come together' runs the chorus, and today it clearly did. The first act to really integrate performance into her act - her dancers and choir making her diva-ish demands for increased rehearsal time seem necessary rather than frustrating. Her cry of 'Are you fucking ready? Are you ready to start a revolution?' may have been the least convincing political rallying cry of all time - but we'll forgive her all that.

Snow Patrol played 'Chocolate' and 'Run', two exhuberant choruses in search of decent verses, or even a middle eight. Hardly a highlight. All the more disappointing then that The Killers, in spite of having delivered a chart-topping debut album, were restricted to just one song, a rousing 'All These Things I've Done'. No doubt the crowd would have appreciated 'Somebody Told Me' and 'Mr. Brightside' as well. They may not be particularly original but they look set to become festival favourites over the next few years.

Joss Stone performed customarily barefoot renditions of classic soul material including 'Supa Dupa Love' and 'Some Kind Of Wonderful'. How has she managed to convince the likes of James Brown, Willie Mitchell and Betty Wright that she is a genuine soul talent when she is evidently a diluted, pure commodity-pop repackaging of musical history? I do wish she'd stick to the melody line too. Despite her constant giggling in interviews, she may be starting to take herself a little too seriously.

Scissor Sisters remain a camp pop phenomenon, and at Live 8 they pulled off a neat trick by being the only act daring enough to perform previously unheard material. Their new song 'Everyone Wants The Same Thing' may well be their best yet, immediately infectious and engaging. 'Laura' and 'Take Your Mama' provided wholesome, light-hearted entertainment too. Too many artists on the bill didn't quite have the shameless energy and enthusiasm needed to reach such a large crowd but the Scissor Sisters had the necessary effervesence.

Velvet Revolver were a baffling selection, and were totally awful. This kind of sludgy, corporate rock felt horribly out of place in this line-up, and the band seemed somewhat confused by the whole occasion. They tried their best - but this crowd would obviously much rather see Slash patch things up with Axl Rose and deliver a quick blast of 'Paradise City' and 'Sweet Child O Mine'. Not likely, but we can continue dreaming.

I've never been a fan of Sting but something about his performance here carried substantial weight. Perhaps it was the explicit refashioning of 'Every Breath You Take' into a pointed attack on Blair and Bush, which seemed dignified and intelligent. It was also there in the renewed energy in his performance of 'Message In A Bottle', in which he avoided nostalgia and breathed new life into the material.

Mariah Carey provided the day's real nadir (sorry Adrian!). Her upbeat material is relatively inoffensive, and during 'Make It Happen' she paced the stage energtically and with authority. Unfortunately, she is such a hopeless diva, with backstage crew bringing her water to sip through a straw between every song and performing a horrible version of 'Hero', already one of the very worst songs of all time, with an African Childrens' Choir. She was the first artist of the night whose motivations I genuinely doubted - something about the set seemed insincere, particularly when she closed with a screechy and perfunctory promotional rendition of her latest single, which added nothing to the recorded version.

Thank goodness then for Robbie Williams (did I just say that?) who did his peerless showman act with renewed charisma. As promised, he included Queen's 'We Will Rock You' in his brief set, in reference to the first Live Aid event. He was also the only person to thank Midge Ure, who whilst still involved in the trust in some capacity, appears to have been sidelined from its public front. Williams' material may be cringe-inducing at times, but at least he made up for the crowd's notable antipathy to Mariah's self-indulgence with an inevitable singalong-an-'Angels'. He flew over from LA, where he has clearly been residing for several months, and many seem to think he has used Live 8 as a means to relaunch his career in the UK. He hardly needs to though - he could record himself pissing in a pot and it would still sell by the truckload.

Then came the elder statesmen of the rock establishment. Both The Who and Pink Floyd were spectacular. The former played 'Won't Get Fooled Again', a song that still burns with righteous fury, even though its composers now look more like University lecturers than rock stars. Pete Townsend is actually a supremely talented and intuitive guitarist, not just for the whilrling arm pyrotechnics, but for some inventive and subtle mid-song finger picking too. I've always found Pink Floyd to be on the dull side of worthy, but they performed four of their most enduring songs and seemed genuinely pleased to have patched up their differences. Even Roger Waters, notorious for his diffidence and arrogance, radiated newfound warmth on stage, dedicating the poignant and endearing 'Wish You Were Here' to the reclusive, troubled Syd Barrett. They even reclaimed 'Comfortably Numb' from the Scissor Sisters, making rich and inventive use of visuals on the big screen as they performed. Dave Gilour's fretwork was thrillingly skilled, and the sound quality was at its fullest and most convincing during their set. They may be chief executives in the business of denial at the moment - but surely a full reunion tour beckons?

Paul McCartney closed things off with brio, duetting with George Michael (who still shies from ever performing his own work live) on 'Drive My Car', delivering a surprise, highly kinetic version of 'Helter Skelter' before launching into a rather icky 'Long and Winding Road' (never his best song) and the previously announced all-star chorus of 'Hey Jude'. Cheesy in the extreme, but a necessarily unified and uniting conclusion to a quite remarkable mass gathering. Whether na na nas can change the world though may be more doubtful.











*The curious paucity of black artists on the bill in London appeared to have a wider implication - the crowd was shockingly, overwhelmingly white. This is hardly representative of modern Britain!

Reinventing The Wheel

I've not been spending much money on music lately (mainly because I don't have much to spend!) - but two albums which cautiously reshape established formulas have struggled to leave my CD player in the last few weeks.

The first and most heavily publicised is 'Get Behind Me Satan', the latest effort from The White Stripes. The packaging retains the band's love for stylised artwork, and the music still fits neatly into their defiantly minimalist framework. Yet, as many reviews have suggested, there's something different lurking here too. Partially, it's the instrumentation - although the idea that Jack White has abandoned the guitar is slightly misleading. There's certainly much less of the sharp, aggressive electric fretwork, and much more acoustic strumming. There's also plenty of piano. White has used this before, usually for the slightly twee side of the band's catalogue, but here he uses the piano as a full bodied rhythmic instrument, and the result is some of the band's most driving and insistent work. The critics perhaps make rather too much of the marimba, which sounds wonderful, but appears only on one track.

So is this a crisis of confidence or a bold new direction? I don't think it's really the latter - this is still recognisably a White Stripes album, just a more difficult and unusual one. Quirkiness has been amplified on a number of tracks - 'Red Rain' and 'The Nurse' both have familiar and exhilirating bursts of guitar noise, but the comfortable elements are refracted through a distorting lens of woozy weirdness. Both tracks are excellent, the latter sounding particularly exotic. 'Little Ghost' is a breakneck bluegrass hoedown - I'd like to think White gained the inspiration from it from The Broken Family Band, although I doubt he's familiar with Cambridge's finest.

Elsewhere, 'My Doorbell' is outstanding, a rare example of Meg's rudimentary drumming making for a simple, effective groove. The vocal phrasing is crisp, and the thudding piano chords and weight and energy. They replay the same trick for 'The Denial Twist', demonstrating how easy it would have been to make a rather repetetive album. All credit to Jack and Meg that they have resisted this temptation and have instead opted for confounding variety - 'Forever For Her (Is Over For Me)' is a brilliantly mournful stately ballad and 'Take, Take, Take' with its depiction of an encounter with Rita Hayworth, is one of the album's most singular and evocative moments.

Sometimes its hard to know whether Jack White lovingly recreates traditional forms, or whether he is actually parodying them. This is a particular problem with the final track 'I'm Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)', a gospel tinged blues that hits all the right buttons, both with its lyrics and melody, but has a slightly detached, possibly ironic tone. It could be the perfect kiss-off, or it could be a clue to the band's approach for the whole of 'Get Behind Me Satan'. Turned over within a matter of weeks, was this a calculated gambit, or an unrestrained bit of fun that actually managed to secure a commercial release?

Either way, it's an intriguing, fascinating record - and one that they probably needed to make. The single 'Blue Orchid' suggested they were all too happy to remake 'Seven Nation Army' all over again - but this has not proved to be the case. Here, they show a willingness to do as much as they can within their aesthetic, and actually begin to show some real creative drive. That their most ambitious record also appears to be their least pre-conceived record to date shows that they have managed to retain all that made them special - an instinctive appreciation for the visceral force of blues-inspired music, a howling, primal form that still serves them well, even in quirkier, more muted form.

Earlier this year I crafted a highly critical review of 'Trials and Errors', a live album and the first official release from Jason Molina's new band Magnolia Electric Co. To these ears, the performances seemed stodgy and mostly overlong, and it did not bode well for the forthcoming studio album. That record has now been granted a full UK release. Entitled 'What Comes After The Blues', it is by some considerably distance the most accessible album that Molina has penned to date, and is likely to put yet more distance between him and his friend and mentor Will Oldham. It also comes as a merciful relief that it is also an absolutely fantastic record.

Not always known for his sensitivity in production techniques, somehow Steve Albinini has managed to muffle the colossal and insensitive drum thud that marred the live album. In fact, much of the playing here, whilst frequently exhuberant and spirited, is a great deal more subtle than I had expected. Even the most conventional tracks, where Molina's current Neil Young fixation is most apparent, have a wistful melodic appeal and are arranged with more restraint and care than anything on 'Trials and Errors'. 'The Dark Don't Hide It' opens the album with a sugar rush of chiming guitars and slide solos, along with a strident, almost infectious melody. It's a powerful statement, but actually somewhat misleading for the rest of the album. Elsewhere, Molina appears more reflective and less blustery.

There are two superb examples of this - the eerie and mysterious 'Hard To Love A Man', which is beautifully performed to emphasise its ambiguities. More familiar is the charming, melancholy 'Leave The City', which bears a slight resemblance to Scott Mackenzie's 'If You're Going To San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair)', but manages to find its own distinctive voice by virtue of some beguling trumpet melodies.

Lyrically, this is clearly an unashamed attempt at capturing the great American vernacular. There are numerous references to highways, roads and north stars which place this firmly in Springsteen territory. The inspiration, according to Molina himself, was Hank Williams' 'I Have Seen The Light', a statement made explicit in the concluding song, cunningly titled 'I Have Not Seen The Light'.

The album is structured so that the calmer, acoustic moments come towards the end. This is not a structuring policy I would expect to appreciate - but it works surprisingly well here, as it allows the album to develop an increasingly elegiac mood. The final few tracks will be familiar to long-term Molina fans, but they are more immediate and less elusive than anything on 'The Lioness' or 'Didn't It Rain'. 'Hammer Down' and 'North Star Blues' are particularly memorable.

Throughout Jennie Benford plays a very effective Emmylou Harris to Molina's Gram Parsons, and she even contributes one quite remarkable song, the genuinely moving 'Night Shift Lullaby', which may as well have been written especially for me! The tone is vulnerable and delicate throughout, but Molina's voice appears to have assumed a new force, which works very well wheh paired with Benford's sweet harmonies.

The title 'What Comes After The Blues' is also illuminating. This is not a blues album as such, but it is full of the resonances, cadences and wisdom of traditional American music. Molina has now firmly placed himself in a songwriting tradition (that of Dylan, Young and Springsteen) and, as such, 'What Comes After The Blues' may be unfairly dismissed as his most conventional work. This would be a mistake, however. There is still some of the raw brilliance of the later Songs:Ohia albums here and plenty of Molina's distinctive way with mood and atmosphere. A remarkable album.