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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Easter Film Round-Up Part 2

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

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

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

Film Round-Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Cusp of History

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Scotch

A friend of mine with a misanthropic sense of humour has recently taken to transferring the comic vitriol usually directed against Jews and homosexuals to the Scots. I don't think he really hates 'the Scotch', any more than he hates Jews or gays (hey, he even has some very close Jewish friends), it's just easy to use them as targets for his hyperactive wit. Aside from the fact that they seem to be able to decide government policy in England whilst apparently leaving us very little power to influence anything on their side of the border, I would rather not be so bold as to attack Scots or their fine land. In fact, having just returned from north of the border, I can say I've been very much refreshed by my weekend break - some coastal fresh air and sunshine is always welcome. In fact, I'm refreshed enough to write about Scotland's best export.....

No, not Scotch whisky, but Teenage Fanclub of course. Anyone who knows me will no doubt attest that they are one of my favourite bands. Why? Not because of their musicality - they are more than adequate players, but not particularly audacious or inventive. It's because of their sublime songwriting - which is as honest, affecting and touching as anything I've heard. They are a band I hope never try to reinvent themselves - they don't need beats or samples to make their music sound fresh. Instead, it's a chiming, timeless sound, strongly influenced by great American pop music - The Byrds and Big Star particularly. Their critics find them too close to Big Star's sound for comfort - but they miss the fact that, initially at least, they found favour in America with the same community that lauded Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. Their critics are also blind to the subtle evolution in their sound - from the melodic but grungey sound of 'Bandwagonesque' and 'Thirteen', through to the full harmony and country-tinged melancholy of 'Grand Prix' and 'Songs From Northern Britain'.

Like the Beatles, they are blessed not just with one or two great songwriters, but three. Norman Blake has been the most consistently and dependably marvellous, from early classics like 'God Knows It's True' and 'The Concept', to the quietly ambitious 'Did I Say', a beautiful new tune recorded for their recent greatest hits collection. He has always been able to capture straightforward emotional truths with a sincerity that always seems natural, never earnest. A simple declaration of love in a Norman Blake song never sounds trite or sentimental, just joyous and life affirming. 'I Don't Want Control Of You' is arguably his most direct and most successful song, with a glorious melody and crystalline production that not even an unnecessary cheesy key change can ruin. Gerry Love has been more unpredictable - occasionally edgy, otherwise direct, he often reaches similar results to Blake through a more roundabout process. His advice for us to 'Take The Long Way Round' is worth heeding, 'Going Places' has a delightfully catchy arrangement and 'Sparky's Dream' was a rare and much-deserved chart hit. Raymond McGinley has tended to be more obtuse. enigmatic, even occasionally more aggressive. He has taken longer to really impress as a songwriter. On 'Grand Prix' he produced two gems, the strident opener 'About You' and the slightly bitter 'Verisimilitude'. His best song is, unsurprisingly, his least convoluted and most shamelessly direct, 'Your Love Is The Place Where I Come From'. I simply adore this song - from the delicate vocal harmonies that only come in during the second voice, to its subtle modification of traditional pop song structure, even its comedy golckenspiel part is heartwarming, and is always visually exaggerated during gigs. His contribution to the greatest hits package -'The World'll be OK' is also brilliant - a slow-burner for sure, McGinley's songs always seem slightly more intellectual and deliberate, but it features some genuinely excellent guitar playing and a touching lyric.

I love this band because they are reliable. When you go to a TFC gig, you know what you will get - there will be no confrontational shunning of popular songs, there will be spirited performances, exhuberant guitar solos that buzz with energy rather than ego or virtuosity, even some amusing onstage banter. There will be no visuals or performance art. Just the songs, which surely speak for themselves. It's criminal that these songs have always been so undervalued and under-promoted. 'Grand Prix' looked like it might join the Britpop bandwagon - and it was so much more worthy of gold or platinum status than Menswear, or even Supergrass and Oasis. Event though it sold respectably, there were no number ones. Nevertheless, they soldier on, despite lack of record label support, and are currently making a new album. I simply can't wait.

Re:Invention

£150?!?! Think about it, pop fans. Someone is having a laugh at your expense. This is the cost of the best seats for Madonna's one night only show at Earls Court as part of her Re:Invention tour. If you can only afford a mere £50 you'll have to be content to sit at the very back, content to watch a mere speck dancing around the stage. Still, at least the speck will probably change costume quite a lot. Are 101 costume changes really worth that kind of money though - and is it really worth £100 more to be at the very front of Earls Court - that place is a cavernous hell hole regardless of where you're seated. I won't be attending - but I'm hoping the title of the tour isn't a misnomer. For much of her career, Madonna has made self-reinvention a habit, cultivating a perpetually shifting image and persona. In recent years, however, she seems to have settled into a more predictable maturity. She had become consistent and dependable. Occasionally, this has produced fantastic pop music (most of 'Ray of Light' and the less self-conscious moments on 'Music'). The 'American Life' album seems a little staid and graceless - it's no real step forward from 'Music' and doesn't seem to add much to her iconic legend. She's never been the greatest of singers either - she can hold a tune, but has little expression or control. She is therefore better described as an intelligent entertainer. At that price, she had better be entertaining - she had better re-invent herself again.

Another artist seemingly obsessed with re-invention is Prince. And he's back on a major record label. Sony have agreed to distribute his new album 'Musicology' worldwide. It's not as if Prince ever went away - initially his irrational madness and impulsive behaviour made for entertaining speculation, even whilst the quality of his output was deteriorating markedly. More recently, however, he seems to have become an elusive, even marginal figure. Reportedly an active Jehovah's Witness - and making preposterous concept albums such as N.E.W.S. available from his website, he has remained prolific, without connecting with the millions of people that admire his best work. I heard the title track from the new album on radio 2 last night - which was bizarre in itself - it's been ages since I last heard a brand new Prince track on a national radio network. It's instantly recognisable as Prince - and is characterised by his full and adventurous vocal arrangements. Musically, it doesn't sound all that audacious, despite its lack of formal structure, but that's maybe just because Prince pushed the envelope as far as he could during the 80s with his string of classic albums. Nobody else has produced a body of work as consistently astonishing as his albums from Dirty Mind through to Sign O' The Times, certainly not his legions of imitators. It seems that now he's re-embraced the name everyone knows so well, and returned to the commercial world, we'll be hearing a lot more of him.

Reinvention is certainly the name of the game on the new album from Bonnie 'Prince' Billy. Will Oldham has obviously enjoyed confounding expectations here, taking a fan-voted selection of his greatest songs under the Palace moniker, and re-recording them with a selection of extremely proficient Nashville session musicians. Much of this album is remarkably cheesy - there are full vocal choirs, glockenspiels, unashamed lead guitar frills and even sax solos. None of these things are what we have come to expect from the usually stark, darkly humorous songs of the last three Bonnie 'Prince' Billy albums. Some of the songs actually benefit from unrestrained and expansive arrangements. 'Ohio River Boat Song' - essentially a folk song in its original form anyway - works perfectly as a slice of honky tonk Americana, with plenty of rapturous pedal steel. The new version of 'Riding' is as dark as anything he's produced, with a sinister string arrangement from the extremely talented Andrew Bird (check out his album 'Weather Systems' on Fargo records - it's well worth a listen). Elsewhere, Oldham just seems to revel in pushing things to almost comic extremes - the cooing choir on 'The Brute Choir' being the most obvious example. 'New Partner', one of his very best songs, is smothered in brass and guitar for an almost gospel re-take. I find it undeniably stirring, but some people seem to resent Oldham for burying the tune at the heart of the song. Whatever your take on these new recordings - they certainly make for a striking contrast with the sparce, occasionally aimless atmospherics of his last album ('Master and Everyone'). At the very least, they make a convincing case for Oldham as a significant artist, striving not to repeat himself. He is still a genuine original, sometimes deeply moving, often wilfully unpredictable.

So - what am I doing to re-invent myself? At the very least, I'm going to enjoy my trip to Scotland this weekend, which is a well-earned break and a chance to catch up with some close friends. I'm in a state of limbo, not writing or recording music, barely even performing it, certainly not working with it. I need to kick some doors down, create something interesting, vent my frustrations, be more pro-active.

This is the first post - so perhaps it's understandable that I'm experiencing a little performance anxiety. So far today has been one of those days where minor cock-ups have dominated. I've lost my wallet and subequently discovered I left it in a car. I've spilt water everywhere, spoiling some important documents. Anyway, I'll do my best. What you can expect from this blog is lots about the music and film I like, and most likely even more about what I adamantly dislike (I have to admit that I'm much better at articulating negative reactions than positive ones). So plenty about culture. I'll try and keep politics to a minimum - but there will no doubt come a time when I'll be unable to resist it.

Highlight of my week so far has been seeing Hot Chip live at the XFM X-Posure night at the Barfly on Monday. OK, so I'm biased as I used to play drums for them - and since then, I've seen them play roughly the same set about 100 times. Yet, there is no denying that they keep getting better and better. There's real humour and shameless energy in their performance now, and a genuine sense that they really are enjoying what they do. In a world where the worthless po-faced anthemic indie of Keane can grace the top 10 I find their poptastic synth crusading deeply encouraging. They've been described by the NME as 'gameboy bedroom funk' (or something along those lines). This is clearly meant as a complement, but it's a bit misleading. This is not computer game music - it's party music, with intelligent wordplay and celebratory conviction. When I was in Hot Chip, the band definitely had a split personality - divided between guitar-led mordant reflection (which many people compared with Will Oldham) and Timbaland/Neptunes inspired electronica. With 'Keep Falling' and 'The Ass Attack', they have possibly pushed the latter to a dizzying zenith. Whilst they now integrate together on stage perfectly (all five are staged in a line formation at the front of the stage) the path ahead is surely to re-introduce some of the more ponderous and reflective elements to their music. At the moment 'Krap Kraft Dinner' does this most effectively. At the very least, it has an irresistable chorus. I'm sure there will be many similar gems on the forthcoming debut album 'Coming On Strong', out in June on Moshi Moshi records. Check out their website for more details, they're always gigging (www.hotchip.co.uk).

I've picked up a few interesting records this week. 'The Pyramid Electric Co.' is actually the new album from Jason Molina, who now seems to trade under a variety of enigmatic monikers, including Songs:Ohia and The Magnolia Electric Co. Whereas his previous album was with an electric band, with substantial arrangements underpinned by a defiantly raw production, this is skeletal, underplayed and uncompromising. It contains just seven songs, most of them very long, some of them slightly meandering. All benefit from a palpably eerie atmosphere, and some wonderfully restrained guitar playing. Molina's voice is as striking as ever, and his bleak worldview is conveyed with striking clarity. With the benefit of a few more listens, this may prove to be his most original recording yet. It's available on vinyl (with a free CD version inside the sleeve) from Secretly Canadian records.

The wonderful Sufjan Stevens has returned with 'Seven Swans', unbelievably his first official UK release. Stevens is a musical chameleon who has produced splendid, lavishly arranged orch-pop with his last album 'Michigan' as well as some largely unlistenable electronica. This new venture gathers together the tracks that didn't fit on the 'Michigan' album, and mercifully seems to represent a retreat from his modest proposal to record an album for all 50 US States (after all, he can only stall for inspiration when he gets to Kansas, surely?). It's more economic than 'Michigan', and many of the songs build to cumulative effect. There's a lot of unadorned banjo playing, which is remarkably refreshing. His voice is soft and understated whilst the songs are suitably lilting. What is certainly new here is a religious dimension to the lyrics - a lot of vengeance and divine justice, demons and witches. I've yet to decide whether or not he's striving too hard for profundity. In terms of its sound though, this is as captivating and compelling an album as you might expect to hear all year.

I'd hate to end on a positive note - so I'll sign off today with a rant. Now I'm not a musical snob - I can admire pop music as much as the next man, but how shit is 'Amazing' by George Michael? In our office, we have radio 2 on all day and they seem to be forcing it upon us at least once an hour. It's that horrible leap between notes when he sings 'I think it's amaaaa-zing!' that makes me cringe most. Completely irrational, I know, but it's irksome. That coupled with the fact that the production is so bland and the lyrics so painfully earnest is causing me to suffer unwanted bouts of nausea at all-too-predictable intervals during the day.

A long post - I'll be doing some job applications tonight so no doubt there will be plenty of ranting about online forms in the next few days...