Bloc Party & The Cribs Live

Alexandra Palace
Friday 14th December


If a band is trying to gage how far they have progressed, playing Alexandra Palace is the acid test. “Let’s pretend for a moment that this is a sweaty little club instead of a huge exhibition centre,” pleads Kele Okereke. When you are facing a hall more suited for a political conference than a gig, this isn’t an easy task. Bloc Party manage it with a jerky medley of understated style and in-your-face bravado.

The Cribs find the transition less comfortable. Chaotic kings of sticky-floored settings nationwide, in front of a larger audience they sound flat. ‘Our Bovine Public’ is a disastrous opener marred by the venue’s notoriously troublesome acoustics and poor timing. Things improve with ‘Hey Scenesters’, the Jarman brothers mastering the mix between enthusiastic thrashing and maintaining rhythm.

Three albums in, the band have an array of songs to choose from, but pluck mostly from latest record Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever. Despite the catchiness of singles ‘Moving Pictures’ and ‘Men’s Needs’, there is a surprising lack of reaction from an audience still muttering about the injustice of £3.50 pints. ‘Another Number’ is the highlight, raising spirits and arms in an enthralling surge of simplicity. But Ryan’s inability to perform a trademark stagedive due to the gap between him and the audience is ironically representative of the distance between The Cribs’ sound and its suitability for venues like this.

Bloc Party have a few more tricks, a few more hits, and a lot more showmanship. These don’t make a band great, but they make a crowd move. ‘Positive Tension’ is unleashed early, a juddering, uneven triumph; ‘Banquet’ follows sharply, still sounding audaciously fresh.

Singer Kele revels in his shape-shifting role, simultaneously a siren of despair and a symbol of debauchery. He exudes energy during a raucous rendition of ‘She’s Hearing Voices’, he glows with emotion through a tender ‘So Here We Are.’ Matt Tong may look like an IT expert and has an annoying tendency to take his shirt off, but he drums with imagination and tenacity, keeping an ungainly momentum to Bloc Party’s performance.

They generate a thrilling sense of occasion that peaks as the band reappear with latest single ‘Flux.’ Often you wish Russell would stop messing about with effects and just play his guitar; here, the sound soars, lasers blaze above and the track zips by with outrageous rapidity. ‘Sunday’ adds balance and warmth, before a wired race through ‘Helicopter’ and the grand exploration of ‘Pioneers’ complete the set. Bloc Party pace the gig expertly, controlling its tone. Everyone leaves feeling it speeded past, yet was exhaustingly epic. Test passed.

Kings of Leon Live

Kings of Leon
Brighton Centre
Thursday 6th December

Kings of Leon look angry. “You guys sing along,” shouts Caleb Followill. “Because the technicians are fucking terrible tonight.” They’re definitely annoyed. Having made the move to venues that resemble airport terminals, they now have to adjust to sound systems that have all the subtlety of a 747.

Despite the technical problems, the preachers’ sons show why they’re able to fill such vast venues. Opening with Slow Night, So Long, they play with carnal force and relentless tenacity. Black Thumbnail continues the coarse, spirited sound of a band in charge. The stage set is sparse; four large screens show images ranging from a creepy pole dancer to Caleb’s impossibly skinny legs. It feels aptly uncluttered, providing a platform for the music, not a distraction.

With so many arena-friendly anthems, the band can be selective with their setlist. However, they lean heavily on latest album ‘Because of the Times’, following the logic that this record catapulted them into indie’s top bracket, so should be flogged mercilessly to keep them there. McFearless showcases Nathan’s ferocious drumming, full of beguiling flair and mesmerising complexity. Fans is dainty and well-received, while On Call’s bellowed refrain reverberates passionately. But once they charge through Camaro’s clunky chug, preceding a droll Ragoo and a plodding Arizona, the new songs sound saturated.

Where are the band’s brash, grubby roots? Except a snappy shot of Holy Roller Novocaine, songs from debut album Youth and Young Manhood are conspicuous in their absence in the first hour. The unkempt rawness that made Kings of Leon fresh and invigorating is also missing. Milk is delivered with sincerity, but the set begins to lag.

Thankfully, a thunderous Molly’s Chambers revives proceedings, a bombardment of plundering masculinity. Suddenly, Spiral Staircase flashes past in a whirr of frenetic gusto, Trani adds an atmosphere of epic oddity and chaotic order is restored. The Followill family return to cajole the throngs with a smouldering rendition of ‘Knocked Up, before Four Kicks and Charmer close in an assault of blazing, primal rage.

Kings of Leon seem a more mature, less reckless outfit and poorer for it. Their newfound ability to produce hit singles (or the public’s newfound ability to realise they write hit singles) will ensure they have time to regain their edge. With such a powerful arsenal of songs, coupled with genuine instrumental ability, they’re still an incredible live prospect - even with poor sound, a soulless venue and a lop-sided setlist.

Tottenham Hotpur 3-2 Aalborg BK

Juande Ramos’ Midas touch in the UEFA Cup continued as he oversaw Tottenham Hotspur surmount a 2-0 half-time deficit to defeat Aalborg BK.

Ramos has won the tournament with Seville two years running; his new side are well placed to reach the knockout stages after a victory that looked very unlikely at one stage.

Aalborg out-battled and out-thought Spurs in the first half and were good value for their two goal lead. But Tottenham stormed back after the break, blitzing the opposition with three goals in 20 minutes. Second half goals from Dimitar Berbatov, the impressive Steed Malbranque and substitute Darren Bent sealed a 3-2 win.

White Hart Lane was stunned into silence after one minute and 50 seconds when Thomas Enevoldsen, the Aalborg striker, scored with a venomous shot from 20 yards. Collecting lifelong Spurs fan Martin Pedersen’s throw, he shrugged off a half-hearted challenge from Robbie Keane, the Tottenham captain, before rifling the ball past Paul Robinson’s despairing dive.

Spurs were tentative after this early setback and the ball broke down in central areas too often. Jermaine Jenas injected some pace into their play in the 15th minute when his driving run forced a corner, but the home side’s attacks were not as direct or as frequent as Aalborg’s.

As Tottenham’s frustrations grew, so too did the Danish side’s confidence and they began dictating play. Young Pyo Lee, playing in an unfamiliar right-back role, was caught napping as Rade Prica raided down the wing. Lee appeared to bundle him over in the penalty area, but the referee gave a corner.

Spurs did not heed this warning. In the 37th minute, Lee was again out of position and Prica took full advantage. He crossed accurately to Kasper Risgaard, who stabbed the ball in from three yards after getting in front of Michael Dawson.

Aalborg were playing their 19th game of their European campaign, having qualified through this season’s Intertoto Cup. They had won only two of their previous fixtures, drawing six. Yet their organised approach outwitted Tottenham’s unbalanced play in the first half.

Juande Ramos didn’t scream at his players at half-time; it appears this isn’t his style. “The most important thing is to explain things,” he said. “Not to shout at them, but to solve problems.”

He did this by introducing Darren Bent for the woeful Lee and Tom Huddlestone for Jermaine Jenas, who picked up an ankle injury. Huddlestone made an instant impact. After 39 second-half seconds, his subtle through-ball fed Dimitar Berbatov, who slid in to poke the ball past Aalborg goalkeeper Karin Zaza.

The visitors looked shell-shocked as Tottenham increased the tempo and tenacity of their play. Altering their formation to 4-3-3, with Bent joining Berbatov and Keane in a three-pronged attack and Didier Zokora slotting in front of a back three, rejuvenated the home side.

Berbatov revelled in the improved service he was given. After 50 minutes, he showed strength and hunger to power past two defenders before squaring the ball to Bent. His shot was blocked, but Keane calmly laid the rebound off to Steed Malbranque, who smashed it into the roof of the net.

Aalborg dropped deeper as they sought to steady themselves, but this only allowed Huddlestone to pull the strings in midfield. He was able to bring Spurs’ wide players, largely ineffective in the first half, into play. Malbranque probed intelligently on the left, while Aaron Lennon’s speed caused havoc on the right.

It was Lennon who created the winner for Bent, Ramos’ other inspired substitution. Gareth Bale’s free-kick was parried out to the diminutive winger and he drilled the ball to Bent who poached from four yards.

Their endeavour in the first 45 minutes had drained Aalborg’s energies and they lacked the guile to force an equaliser. Ramos’ half-time changes turned the match around. But the Spaniard is aware his side need to improve if they are to progress further in this competition and climb the Premier League.

“At the moment we are conceding too many chances,” he said. “We can’t rely on us scoring three goals each time.” With such sloppy defenders, he may have to, but with so many attacking options, they just might manage it.

UK Flavours Press Release

UK Flavours Festival – British-Russian festival of new culture

The territory of the Peter and Paul Fortress, Saint-Petersburg

A new type of festival set in the Russian heartland of Saint-Petersburg is set to promote multiculturalism through music this summer. Lily Allen tops the impressively varied mix of acts, with Dub Pistols featuring The Specials’ Terry Hall also on the line-up.

UK Flavours Festival, organised by The British Council, will celebrate the positivity of diversity in society. However, it doesn’t want to force-feed these values, preferring to allow an eclectic musical line-up to illustrate its message. The all-day festival will attract a wide range of people from Saint-Petersburg; its 4.7 million population includes over 50 different ethnicities.

The line-up depicts the evolution of multicultural influence in British music. With reggae, ska, dub, bhangra and jungle all developing into fashionable music trends as the decades have passed, as a consequence they have integrated into mainstream music.

The Russian public will see this first-hand in headliner Lily Allen’s work. Debut album Alright, Still owes its ska-tinged melodies heavily to the influence ethnic minorities living in the UK have had on British culture. Lily says: "I listened to punk, ska and reggae when I grew up, courtesy of my parents' record collections.” Heavy radio rotation has made Lily a rising star in Russia, while the huge popularity of her MySpace site also extends to the country.

Lily’s status as a successful mainstream artist is seen as the culmination of a cultural and musical progression that is reflected in the line-up. This journey is shown from Glaswegian bhangra outfit Tigerstyle Sound System, via London’s reggae stalwarts Misty in Roots, right up to Dub Pistols hip hop, dub and ska concoction. There are also two Russian bands on the bill, W.K.? and I-Laska. It is completed by militant hip hop collective Fun-da-mental and dub artist/producer Mad Professor.

The festival takes place in the stunning setting of the Peter and Paul Fortress. Founded over 300 years ago, it stood as a symbol of oppression. It was used as a jail for political prisoners including Trotsky and Dostoevsky. Now, as host of the UK Flavours Festival, it will stand as a symbol of a new, multicultural Russia.


Fans will watch acts while standing on the picturesque beach, looking out to the Baltic Sea. They will be able to gaze on the musical portrait of the city the line-up represents, while costume parades and 22 hours of daylight will add to the carnival atmosphere.A conference will be held by the British Council in Saint-Petersburg the day before the festival to promote its purpose. The day after the main event, Franco Rosso’s classic 1980 film Babylon will be screened. Biographies of artists playing are below:

The British Council
The British Council is the UK’s international organisation for educational opportunities and cultural relations.
We operate in 233 towns and cities in 109 countries and territories worldwide.
We build relationships and understanding between people in the UK and other countries and increase appreciation of the UK’s ideas and achievements overseas.
The areas we focus on are creativity, education and civil society.
We are a non-political organisation which operates at arm’s length from government.
Our income in 2005/06 was £517 million, of which our grant-in-aid from the British government is £189 million.

Lily Allen: Having conquered the UK, the USA and most of the Western world, Lily is setting her sights on Russia. Her flowing pop style, which incorporates the ska and reggae music that influenced her from a young age, has become a mainstream sensation. Her first single ‘Smile’ reached Number One in England, while debut album ‘Alright, Still’ cracked the American Top 20. The singer-songwriter is now as well known for her outspoken antics and the devotion of her MySpace fans as for her music. However, her incisive lyrical observations, youthful exuberance and laid-back delivery make her a fascinating live performer.

Dub Pistols featuring Terry Hall: The band formed after Barry Ashworth and Jason O’Bryan realised they shared a love of The Clash, The Specials, Andy Weatherall, King Tubby and Public Enemy. These influences, together with hip-hop, dub, techno, breakbeat ska and punk are all thrown into the Dub Pistols sound. They soon attracted the attention of Terry Hall, singer with iconic band The Specials. After collaborating on a single, Hall is now an integral part of the line-up. His laconic singing style is now inspiring a whole new generation as Dub Pistols genre-mashing style brings them more and more success.

Fun-Da-Mental: One of the few uncompromising bands in terms of not only sound but also politics, Fun-Da-Mental are fiercely anti-racist and outspoken. Since 1991, this variety of rappers, poets and singers has been crafting music that melds Eastern and Western influences into a hip hop sound.

Misty in Roots: A reggae institution, Misty in Roots have been at the forefront of the genre in England for four decades. They are noted for their powerful roots reggae sound and uncompromising lyrical vibrations. The group are active supporters of the Rock Against Racism movement and their social awareness comes through in the music they make.

Mad Professor Ariwa Posse: Mad Professor is one of the country’s most prominent dub producers. He launched his own label, Ariwa, which consistently produces some of the Britain’s most important reggae and dub acts. Many of these will join Mad Professor at UK Flavours Festival, bringing a different sound to the people of Saint-Petersburg.

I-Laska: Playing a home town show, this 6-piece band delivers unorthodox reggae and funk. The multinational line up is open to experimentation, making every gig a unique experience.

W.K.?: Meaning ‘Who Knows?’, the name signifies the determination of this Moscow-based band to create their own musical style. The result is a mixture of Break Beat, Drum’n’Bass, Electro, Funk, Hip-Hop, Dub and Reggae. No strangers to entertaining big crowds, they even organised their own festival of live electronic music - ‘Vdokh.’

Tigerstyle Sound System: Scottish DJs, who blend their roots in Bhangra with trip-hop. Using rap music as inspiration for their own sound, they have cut white label mixes for rap stars including Busta Rhymes, Eminem and 50 Cent. Notably they contributed to a remix on Raghav’s hit single ‘Angel Eyes’ which charted at No.4 in the UK charts. Their music makes people dance, but is also an exploration of their identities.

Operator Please & Good Shoes Live

Operator Please & Good Shoes
Concorde 2, Brighton
Tuesday 20th November


Operator Please sound sketchy, rough and natural. They look fresh, if a little bit frazzled, and genuinely animated. They sing a song about ping pong called ‘Just A Song About Ping Pong.’ It’s fast, jumpy eccentricity with an Aussie twang and a violin.

There are certainly more inventive bands around; some of The Maccabees are inside Concorde tonight, for a start. The five-piece may include a violinist, but this isn’t affecting Arcade Fire grandeur and doesn’t intend to be. ‘Get What You Want’ is a bass-driven canter to a bouncy chorus, showcasing the band’s style. The aforementioned table-tennis tribute is well-received, while new single ‘Leave It Alone’ shares its charged pop sensibilities. They may not be ground-breaking, but as the keyboardist giddily galumphs around behind her instrument, their quirky enthusiasm is infectious.

Operator Please have the beguiling advantage of striving to elevate their exposed potential. Good Shoes have long since passed the point of acceptance and acclaim. The kids strutting around in the groups patented ‘I’m in a band but I’ve got no talent’ merchandise emphasises this. Yet recognition seems to have gleaned an edge from the Morden outfit.

That t-shirt slogan contains an endearingly gentle insecurity that seeps out of tracks like ‘Blue Eyes.’ The jerky lure of the song’s angular (it’s impossible to write about Good Shoes and not call them angular) riffs is joined with lyrical nervousness that transfers onstage in physical form. Now though, frontman Rhys Jones looks confident, unnervingly comfortable. He beckons the crowd to join in a frantic ‘Never Meant To Hurt You’, while the band climb aboard speakers.

This newfound showmanship has distinct advantages. The audience is active and laps up the energy swirling around the pillared cove of a venue. The band are more direct, notably on ‘Nazazin’, all sparring guitars and gabbled lyrics. But they also relax enough to slow down, with melodies forming more frequently and lyrics resonating more clearly. ‘Morden’, the band’s most thoughtfully-shaped song, has the room to breathe and sounds increasingly striking with this space.

A couple of new tracks are aired, not departing from the trademark snappy dizziness of older songs like closer ‘All In My Head.’ They leave without encore or fuss, content at the crowd’s thirst for more. Good Shoes are in transition, no longer hot new things, not yet established. Their catalogue of hits, snapshots of suburbia, are easily liked and impressively performed. As they continue the bravado will swell, but they need to combine it with the nervous energy that made them so exciting originally.

The Raveonettes - Lust In Music

Sune Rose Wagner is a pretty insouciant character. Not surprising really – last year he accepted death.


When a Hawaiian holiday went wrong, there looked to be no way back. “I was surfing, but I can’t really surf. My board almost knocked me out; I was stranded for half an hour, nobody could see me. I just let go, I felt very warm and calm. I wasn’t afraid.” Thankfully for him, and for devotees of his band’s inimitable brand of garage-pop, some fortuitously-placed coral reef intervened. A few months on, The Raveonettes have returned with a new album. It’s no wonder the pressures of a hectic touring schedule seem a rather minuscule grievance. Gigwise has found a genuinely humble rock star.

Don’t confuse this humility with contentment though. New album Lust Lust Lust is the result of a brooding, self-examination for Sune, its sole songwriter. As the title suggests, it deals with issues of relationships. “It’s primarily based on personal experiences,” he admits. “It’s a reflection of my life in New York City.” As he glances around at the stuffy underground changing room we’re sitting in, it’s clear he’s a long way from home. The cosmopolitanism of The Big Apple can be heard in the variety of influences and styles The Raveonettes utilise. But so can a more sinister side; the paranoia of frenzied city life, the claustrophobia that can destroy relationships. Sune remarks: “Sometimes I wonder, is it natural for a man and a woman to spend their entire life together?”

This gives away his need for solitude. “I never write when I’m on tour. I can’t write unless I’m alone, all my ideas go away when I’m with other people.” Does this explain the lack of songwriting involvement for Sharin Foo, The Raveonettes' demure female singer/guitarist? “I tried writing with Sharin; we went away to a winery to write together. But I just froze…..She’s happy that I write the songs, it’s always been that way.” The personal feel of tracks such as ‘Blush’ and ‘Black Satin’ – Sune’s ode to his near-death experience – is rooted in Sune’s insular but prolific songwriting style.

While Sune lives in New York, Sharin, his fellow Dane, resides nearly 3000 miles away in Los Angeles. He ponders the make-up of The Raveonettes. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like a band as we’re often apart. Yet we always seem to be doing something together.” Onstage, the duo is a much clearer partnership. When thinking of boy-girl two-pieces in modern rock, The White Stripes immediately spring to mind. The musical make-up of that pairing mirrors The Raveonettes in that the male is the songwriter and driving force behind the sound. But live, the connection between the two bands ends. Whereas Jack White dominates, a virtuoso performer, Sune and Sharin are grounded in parity, as their harmonious singing and sparring guitars illustrate. “We never even talk about it,” assures a perplexed-looking Sune. “It’s just natural.”


Sharin brings luscious vocals and a carefree stage presence to the band, complimenting Sune’s reserved manner in front of a crowd. But they aren’t born entertainers, believing the intricacy of the music they create is enough to enrapture their audiences. “We just got off a tour with The Cribs, they were really cool guys. They play with such energy, just go crazy. I was like, ‘Why don’t we have that?’ But we have a different style; still intense, just different.”

What overrides everything Sune does is a delight in control. He took personal command over Lust Lust Lust’s artwork, convincing The Raveonettes label to spend the cash to make it 3D. “I thought there’s no way Fierce Panda would agree to it, so I did a sales pitch to them, and they bought it.” Being in charge onstage is also important to him. “I prefer our own gigs, where if we fuck up, we can laugh about it. I’m more nervous at festivals, where people might not know our band and you don’t know how many will turn up. We’ll hopefully do lots of festivals this summer – Reading, Glastonbury – I’ll be checking the schedules to see who we’re up against!”

There are few bands in direct competition with The Raveonettes style. They’re still all B-Movie chic, fashionably alternative with just enough substance. Groups like The Ronettes influence their 50s/60s vibe, though the experimentation and melodious tendancies of The Velvet Underground are equally evident. “I still listen to the same stuff I always have, but everything around me influences. Recently, I Googled Best Screenplay Oscar winners from the 1970s, got hold of these obscure films and now some of them are my favourites. I like searching…”

This absorption of pop culture extends to technology, which Sune is keen to use to involve fans in the band’s progress. “We posted lots of demos onto MySpace, and we take the comments from fans into account. I love that closeness.” They are also giving away tickets to their current UK tour to fans that send messages asking for them. For a band four albums and seven years into their career, they have a remarkable openness. This extends to critical responses to their music. “I don’t mind if reviewers give the album two out of ten or eight, as long as they have an opinion. Don’t give it a six, have something to say about it. Give me something I can use.”

The urge for feedback of any kind stems from a writer’s mindset. The Raveonettes new album is barely released, but Sune’s attention is already turning to how to make the next one better. “I wanna go home and write really fucked up songs. More fucked up than these ones. I wrote 100 songs for Lust, and will have that many again for the next one.” But surely his enthusiasm wanes with the constant grind of touring and recording? “I get to write and to play music, I don’t have to get up in the morning and I get to hear my songs on the radio – I love that shit!” If nearly drowning leaves everybody with such intensity, creativity and enthusiasm, maybe we should all take up surfing.

The Raveonettes Live

The Raveonettes
Brighton Barfly
Thursday 15th November 2007

“I used to live in Brighton,” says The Raveonettes’ Sune Rose Wagner, with a wry smile to some friends in the crowd. Maybe this is how a rock gig in a raw little venue has appropriated this homely, wholesome feel. The band play nostalgic music with an ear to the future, garage rock with an eye on ‘50s pop; there’s something for everyone to enjoy – and everyone seems to.

As Sune saunters onstage, he appears distant but at ease. Fellow singer/guitarist Sharin Foo glides into view looking equally comfortable; a radiant muse for Sune’s understated persona. They plough into new material with little introduction. ‘Blush’ stands out as a showcase for sun-soaked guitars and simple rhythms. The duo is joined by a drummer who provides a platform for their gentle two-pronged guitar combination.

Old favourite ‘Love In A Trashcan’ allows those whose tapping feet desire more strenuous movement to scratch their itch. The more aggressive, direct performance gets bodies jumping and adds an increased energy to the setting. New single ‘Dead Sound’ has a similar catchiness that maintains the momentum, but with increased subtlety.

The negative of two combating guitarists is that the noise they create can overawe the harmonies they perform. They sing in unison, Sharin’s ethereal voice soaring over Sune’s lower murmurs, making a distinct and charming vocal pairing. However, on more raucous numbers like ‘Attack of the Ghost Riders’ and thunderous closer ‘Aly, Walk With Me’ these voices are lost under a blanket of noise.

There’s a relaxed atmosphere that swallows up any annoyance at unpolished playing and dodgy sound, aided by the band’s eagerness to interact. Sune reacts to glowsticks being thrown at Sharin by defining The Raveonettes as “old rave.” Later, they play Stereolab’s ‘French Disko’ because they believe their cover to be far superior to Editors’ attempt.

Where they excel is in delicacy and minimalism, times when Sune’s hauntingly intimate lyrics can be heard and Sharin’s ghostly presence savoured. ‘Black Satin’ provides such a moment, its pulsating riff matched by considered, refined singing. ‘Here Comes Mary’ is another captivating song of oppositions. It’s dreamy refrain hides sinister undertones in a gentle but edgy saga of suicide.

The Raveonettes mould their live show into a nuance of passionate intensity and passive melancholy, always keeping a flow to proceedings. This makes every melody float past but remain ingrained; the show does likewise. It’s unspectacular and not instantly striking, but the Danish duo and their songs have a captivating allure that warms the crowd – friends of the band or otherwise.

XFM Big Night Out - Maximo Park & The Maccabees Live

Maximo Park’s second album was rubbish. The Maccabees have been plodding out the same set for the last two years. The chances of this night out being as big as its name suggests are slim. The possibility of everyone staying in the pub to watch the rugby is high. So how was this gig so bloody good?

Regretfully, Pete and the Pirates are sacrificed in favour of Jonny Wilkinson and “Swing Low Sweet Chariot”, meaning Gigwise is left with a mad dash to catch The Maccabees. They are already onstage as throngs of patriotic gig-goers bustle into the Academy. With the excitement of greetings and jubilation of English victories, the band struggle to press their authority over the hubbub. ‘Toothpaste Kisses’ is lost beneath its own daintiness and the boisterous crowd’s inattentiveness.

Their set needs something to trigger a turnaround. This duly arrives with ‘Latchmere.’ The childish purity of its refrain echoes around with gleeful contagiousness. There’s a gripping nonchalance to Orlando Weeks’ vocals that compliments the jarring riffs and anomalous stage presence. ‘Precious Time’ combines insecure build-up with a tumultuous climax, ‘First Love’ buzzes with a zealous energy that spreads to the crowd and the recovery is complete.

As Maximo Park burst onstage with archetypal enthusiasm, Paul Smith leaping and leering, it’s soon clear their show won’t be typical. Opener ‘The Coast Is Always Changing’ is tight and focused, Smith looks positively manic and the most dismissive of observers can’t help but be hooked. They almost ruin it by playing ‘A Fortnight’s Time’ next, a painfully feeble song including the chorus, “five times five equals twenty-five, don’t you know your times-tables by now?” However, solid playing and Smith’s undeniable passion carry it off.

He orchestrates the tone of the set. When he races around the band is frenetic, when he screws up his face in pantomime anguish they are subtle, giving his showmanship a platform. The bass player still looks like he’s wandered onstage and nobody dares ask him to leave, but with Smith’s histrionics and a hyperactive keyboardist the visual spectacle matches the musical performance.

The explosive catchiness of ‘Apply Some Pressure’ and ‘Our Velocity’ are dispatched amid expected bedlam. ‘Books From Boxes’ adds a winning earnestness to proceedings, while other past singles ‘Going Missing’ and ‘Girls Who Play Guitars’ appease the masses. But the surprise is the triumph of Maximo Park’s less-lauded tracks. ‘Limassol’ is a paranoid riot, while ‘Russian Literature’ manages to be more captivating than pretentious.

‘Graffiti’ closes powerfully, before the night continues with a DJ set from everyone’s second-favourite curly-haired ex-Popworld host. Alex Zane has an easy job; after sporting success, impressive bands and cheap Carling, the mood is elated and the dancefloor full.

Jack Penate - Live Review

Jack Penate

The Old Market, Hove
Sunday 7th October

With his debut album’s release only hours away, Jack Penate looks nervous as he meanders onstage hid beneath a hoodie. Soon though, fuelled by the screams of an adoring crowd, pure adrenaline releases the born performer inside him.

His anxiety is shown when he races through ‘Spit at Stars’, often a centre-piece of his sets, to open the show. The tension, coupled with Jack’s own frenetic style, makes it seem over prematurely. Soon though, he is charming his way through anecdotes about “breaking in his new guitar” and throwing up last time he came to Brighton. Phew, he’s finally relaxing.

This is clear as he rumbles into a tumultuous rendition of ‘Got My Favourite.’ It includes an extended intro that burns away the image of Penate as sensitive songwriter. The alteration of numerous tracks, while showing rapid musical progression, suggests he is tiring of them already. The readiness to rearrange and alter is as much for his own enjoyment as for the audiences.

When performing balladic numbers, such as the sparkling delicacy of ‘My Yvonne’, there is restlessness in the room that makes the arrangements seem even sparser. However, Penate’s voice proves emotive enough to resonate over the hubbub and deliver passable presentations.

The songwriting contains an innocence that the setting exaggerates. The Old Market - complete with makeshift drinks desk - resembles a school disco, especially as it is brimming with excited teenagers. The shaky lyrical simplicity of ‘We Will Be Here’, including “Embrace your sleeping sweetheart with hush/The words I love you mean so much,” manages to be poignant rather than mushy.

The whole set seems an appetiser for the combination of much-loved singles ‘Torn On The Platform’ and ‘Second, Minute or Hour.’ Both are accompanied by the elated backing vocals of a satisfied crowd, plus the bandy-legged joyfulness of Penate’s chaotic dancing. In these tracks, he achieves the middle ground between affecting subtlety and electrifying showmanship.

Nevertheless, they are overshadowed by a cover of The SOS Band’s ‘Just Be Good To Me’ sandwiched between. Backed by a deep, throbbing bass line and a frankly giddy drummer, Jack’s high falsetto slides over the track with a cheeky sneer. The choice is inspired, the delivery audacious, the night complete.

The fact a cover proves the highlight illustrates the lack of a strong catalogue of songs, but Jack Penate’s endearing manner and the few dazzling tracks he does possess make him a flawed yet enduring live treat.

The Killers - Sawdust

‘Tis the season to be jolly – unless you’re a music reviewer. In a plentiful period, pickings are slim. While children look forward to presents, the music industry gives gifts of turgid greatest hits churned out with tedious inevitability. The Killers haven’t sunk this low, disguising their cash cow as a B-Sides and rarities collection.

The Las Vegas quartet’s albums are notorious for their lack of consistency. They mix bona fide pop classics with misplaced overindulgence on sub-Springsteen epics. Sawdust has a similar variety of quality. ‘Under The Gun’ is a pulsating cut of gleaming synths and vociferous drums. An Abbey Road recording of ‘Sam’s Town’ shines similarly, showcasing Brandon Flowers’ underrated vocal exuberance.

Yet also present are versions of ‘Where The White Boys Dance’ and ‘Glamourous Indie Rock and Roll’. This record is going to appeal to existing fans, not attract new ones, so why include old album tracks as familiar as Brandon’s bristling moustache? Plus, as anyone who has visited a cheesy nightclub knows, dance remixes of ‘Mr. Brightside’ are less fun than spending Christmas with that aunt who has more cats than sanity.

The covers included summarise the inequality of the 18 tracks. Dire Straits’ ‘Romeo and Juliet’ is poorly executed, oozing lethargy and lacking bite. Then, inexplicably, ‘Shadowplay’ defines how to cover a song, altering it significantly but preserving its heart. The Killers take Joy Division’s gloomy genius and marry it with a neurotic fizz that brings glam, while maintaining just enough positive tension.

Sawdust is the shavings on the studio flaw that have gathered as the band has crafted a career. It lacks precision and flow; it’s overlong and inconsistent. But it does have inspired moments, namely Lou Reed singing gibberish lyrics of “Ring around Rosie,” on the quirky paranoia of new single ‘Tranquilize’. For a moment, it’s 1972 again.

The Killers are a band that wears their influences on their silver-sequinned sleeves. Although Sawdust is only essential for superfans, if it turns them on to Reed’s eccentricity, or Joy Division’s electricity, it’s a worthwhile exercise. And at least it’s not a bloody greatest hits.

Radiohead - In Rainbows

For many, Radiohead ceased being merely a band long ago. The devastating expansion of their development has consistently revitalised music. Now they’ve set their sights on revolutionising the way we buy it. Which is thoroughly intriguing and commendable, but only if the end result is an album equally praiseworthy.

‘In Rainbows’ doesn’t disappoint. If you have a shrine to Jonny Greenwood in your bedroom, or ever tried to fabricate a squint to venerate Thom Yorke, then it might. It isn’t era-defining (OK Computer), isn’t utterly radical (Kid A), isn’t full of riffs that make your head dance and your body ache (The Bends.) It’s, essentially, ten beautifully crafted, thought-provoking tracks that mark a band from Oxford’s return to form.

The key is the composition of an album, rather than a jumble of collective ideas placed under one name. There is togetherness within the record that gives it purpose and clarity. This makes it seem less reckless, seemingly safer than its predecessors. However, it constructs a cohesiveness that produces accessibility. The sombre devotion of ‘All I Need’ and the strident assault of ‘Jigsaw Falling Into Place’ are examples of Radiohead’s reaffirmed affection for melody and solid songwriting.

Opener ’25 Steps’ electro-tinged stomp suggests the experimentation of Yorke’s solo work will be central, before the rollicking, guitar-orientated whirr of ‘Bodysnatchers’ demolishes this conception. Nevertheless, neither technical-filled tinkering nor testosterone-fuelled thrashing dictate. Instead, a stripped, sensitive feel dominates. ‘Nude’ and closing track ‘Videotape’ are excruciatingly bare laments that mysteriously mesmerise. ‘Reckoner’ is sent soaring by Yorke’s aerial vocals; his voice is a flux of wavering emotion that underpins the album with soul and verve.

The record is only available for download and buyers decide the price, a seemingly commercially dismissive statement. Yet, conflictingly, it is a certain economic success. It remains lyrically evasive, but the scope for interpretation is huge. A band of oppositions and intrigues, as ever, Radiohead’s essence remains elusive as they continue to evolve. However, if new to their music, ‘In Rainbows’ is a good place to start searching. If you’re already a devotee, the glorious exploration continues…..

Kanye West - Graduation

The self-appointed saviour of rap is all grown up as he releases the final act of his college trilogy. But rather than graduate with honours, the gradient of his grades is descending steadily downwards.

Despite moments of dazzling lyrical flair and numerous biting hooks, Kanye West fails to live up to past standards. Previously, he possessed a charming self-consciousness that precariously balanced his gargantuan ego and created a likeable streak within every verse.

Now, with the advent of international superstardom, he believes the hype. ‘Champion’ and ‘Barry Bonds’ are both exercises of self-gratification. What set West apart was his determination not to rely on rap clichés of guns and girls, accompanying his bravado with social relevance. Instead, this is replaced by ropey drones like ‘Drunk and Hot Girls.’

West appears indefatigable in his quest to sample every song ever written. Here his cuts include Elton John, Daft Punk, Steely Dan, Public Enemy and Michael Jackson. Live, his blurring of boundaries and embracing of all genres sounds fresh and innovative. On record, the excessive barrage of borrowed beats (12 tracks include samples – one regrettably features Chris Martin) suggests a lack of original thought.

However, there are highlights, such as ‘Can’t Tell Me Nothing’, an honest account of fame’s trappings including insight like “I feel pressure, under more scrutiny; and what I do? Act more stupidly.” Elsewhere, Number One single ‘Stronger’ is a fizzing, vibrant assault on the senses. Sadly, the gems are too infrequent.

Three tracks include the word ‘Good’ in their titles; Graduation is exactly this. But is that really enough? “I’m doing pretty good as far as geniuses go,” he muses. No, Mr. West, geniuses don’t do pretty good. They do exceptional, inspirational, revolutionary. This album cements his standing as rap’s premier performer, but its ordinariness is more a testament to the unhealthy state of the genre than the brilliance of its creator.

Reading Festival Review 2007

Reading Festival Review 2007

Radio One/NME Tent

Top Twelve:

12. The View (Saturday, 10:30)
The four-piece arrive in a climate of mounting delirium; "The View, The View, The View are on fire," fills the tent and lungs. They knock out a tumultuous rendition of 'Coming Down', awash with blazing riffs and raspy vocals. Then it all goes wrong: Kyle says hello. At least, I think he does, couldn't be sure. Bar the odd squeal, he's incoherent. The tent is surprisingly subdued, except for the tight-knit gang of flag-waving disciples centre-stage.

Perhaps The View don't lend themselves to festivals. Fans familiar with lyrics lose themselves in the nursery rhyme simplicity of 'The Don' and 'Skag Trendy's shabby charm; interested passers-by are perturbed by the slack playing and slurred singing. However, these Scottish scamps have catchy singles in abundance. Just when they appear ready to crumble beneath their own incompetence, Kyle blurts out the arrestingly relevant phrase: "I've had the same jeans on for four days now." The ragtag allure of 'Superstar Tradesman' is equally snappy and suddenly, somehow, the set is salvaged.

11. The Subways (Friday, 20:25)
After a lengthy break, The Subways look hungry. Billy is positively rabid as he storms across stage, climbing amps, drums and scaffolding. New songs such as 'California' don't quite reach such dizzying heights as their writer, but such is the tenacity of the performance it is immaterial. It's as intense as indie can get, if not as inspirational. Their one-dimensional nature is displayed when stating: "I feel like I should say something poignant, but I've got nothing to say so I'll just rock out!"

Nevertheless, they do "rock out" impressively. Demure bassist Charlotte still sings backing vocals like a drowning cat, but plays solidly and adds passionate enthusiasm. The pace is relentless, the drums loud and the mood charged. The tempo builds until climaxing with 'Rock and Roll Queen.' It reduces the crowd to a heaving body of salivating followers in one swoop of unrelenting power, confirming this band is back.

10. Good Shoes (Saturday, 14:15)
This is the biggest crowd Good Shoes have ever played for, and it shows in a tentative start. But after 'Ice Age' thaws those suspecting the band's brand of music is all style over substance, they're caught up in the catchiness. Visually and musically they look worryingly manufactured, from their identikit art-rock look, via their glossy backdrop, to their choppy rhythms. Thankfully, singer Rhys Jones looks like a builder and sings with an earthy, awed expression that stops them becoming annoyingly fashionable.

This allows the tunes to dominate without pretence. The beguiling 'We Are Not The Same' actually unites the crowd, to the extent that when asked if anybody is from the band's hometown, it seems most of those present claims to be. Their aforementioned London dwelling is given an affectingly damning portrait in 'Morden' as Good Shoes combine insight with ridiculously memorable choruses. Ending with 'All In My Head", a jerky, prickly ride finishes with hooks stuck in heads and feet, however well attired, tapping away.

9. Get.Cape.Wear.Cape.Fly (Friday, 18:05)
Sam Duckworth provides the tent with a sense of universal enthusiasm as Get.Cape.Wear.Cape.Fly manage to be emotive without being irritating. He looks like an unusually trendy lecturer, and rushes about the stage like he's late for a class. Trumpets blend with laptop melodies to fashion a rich sound that compliments Duckworth's colourful and wholesome voice.

There is an epic quality to 'War of the Worlds' that defies its fussiness, a notion picked up upon by those watching eager for anthems rather than musings. However, it isn't just huge sing-alongs; Duckworth finds time to be subtle – sometimes bordering on whiny – but his everyman feel and charisma carries him through. It's back to crowd-pleasers for finale 'Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager'. As its chorus echoes into the evening mist, Get.Cape.Wear.Cape.Fly leave Reading a much bigger act than when they arrived.

8. The Sunshine Underground (Sunday, 15:10)
After starting off sounding exactly like the other 723 dance-orientated indie band on show this weekend, The Sunshine Underground gloriously catapult themselves above such regularity. 'Put You In Your Place' is a feast of cowbells and war-cry lyricism, edging the band away from humdrum mediocrity. They grasp a feeling of woozy enjoyment, uniting the dynamism of The Rapture with The Cribs' boozy sense of fun.

Meaty bass lines maintain order, allowing sparse guitars to reach giddy heights when unleashed. The vocals glide over the overall sound, adding texture without being central to matters. Refined enough musically to remain tight, there is still a shaky quality to 'The Way It Is' that is enjoyably shambolic. 'Borders' contains a mellower groove that hints at a developing subtlety, but it is the gleaming pop slice of 'Commercial Breakdown' that elevates these promising Leeds funksters from chancers to contenders.

7. Brakes (Saturday, 12:45)
Brakes are all about urgency. "Smash, smash, 500 megatonnes of smash!" The music is driving, all-action and purposeful. It struggles to contain itself, with many songs over in 30-second explosions. From the thrust of their opening command to face the stage they're here to grip, not provide background music for an indifferent afternoon gathering. Their success is signalled by the amount of people leaving their seated solace to stand up and move.

The set roams from angry rock to tumbling folk, suggesting a wide range of input but leaving a nagging lack of direction. Still, with lumberjack shirts and receding hairlines they look likeable amidst a bill of image-conscious posers. Brakes are a teasing pleasure in their visual normality as well as their audible talent. The show is summarised by the raging growl of 'I Can't Stand To Stand Beside You' following a 20-second soundtrack demanding to "Pick up the phone!" Quirky, but not pretentious, Brakes give a forceful show of live music.

6. Cold War Kids (Sunday, 17:00)
Their set of stonewashed, bulky blues is greeted largely with apathy. Sandwiched into a Sunday line-up more nu rave than a song called 'Made-Up Genre' sung by a six-foot glowstick, they appear out of place. This doesn't stop them being doggedly thrilling. The headstrong stomp of 'Tell Me In The Morning' begins to make inroads into the docile crowd. 'We Used To Vacation', a tale of alcoholism sung with a strangely rousing aura of despair, continues this.

As the band battle on with their hulking, desolate sagas it slowly dawns that they are blessed with a singer with a voice of such clarity and authoritative power that ignorance is no longer possible. Drifting passers-by are now involved, the resolutely apathetic tapping their feet, when 'Hang Me Up To Dry' gallops in on its pounding bass line. Everybody hoarsely shouts along, shocked that they know the words, before wandering off with the vague recollection that Cold War Kids were actually dreadfully good.

5. We Are Scientists (Saturday, 21:15)
"Welcome to Reading Festival. It started two songs ago and ends in 35-minutes." After plodding out a couple of average tracks, such audacious self-confidence could seem inappropriate. Then you remember We Are Scientists are less a band and more a comedy act that punctuates their jokes with hammering riffs and sticky hooks.

They keep playing new songs that contain lots of "wooah-oh" chants, sounding decent at best, like Kaiser Chiefs covers at worst. But nobody seems to mind.
'Cash Cow' raises standards with its repetition of splintering build-ups and crashing responses; now the tent is in dancing mood. 'It's A Hit' obliges this temper in a flurry of whirring guitar, whereas 'The Great Escape' buzzes by with hyper vitality. The brilliance of the set is noticeable in the speed it whizzes past, aided by inspired onstage bickering and generous helpings of killer choruses.

4. Jamie T (Sunday, 19:10)
It is quite possible to love Jamie T's records and hate his live show; such is the canyon of difference between the two. The addition of The Pacemakers, his splendidly roguish band, creates an altered sonic prospect. Instead of 'Calm Down Dearest' sounding harmonious and fanciful, it is revamped into a chaotic, but equally engaging mess of melody and drive. Introspective lyrics take a backseat to charged rock and roll, with many songs recognisable only fleetingly.

This may frustrate some, but is original and exciting in its recklessness. 'So Lonely Was The Ballad' is brutally speeded up double time as Jamie's drawling delivery rings sharply. There's an edge, a sensation of occasion that marks the slot as exceptional. Tradition is kept in 'Salvador's shadowy menace, as well as the bedlam of 'Sheila.' Every track stings with potency; as he sings on 'Operation', it's "all thriller, no filler."

3. The Pigeon Detectives (Saturday, 16:50)
In weather so swelteringly hot that even the most self-conscious fashionistas are forced to wear geeky shorts and Factor 15, Pigeon Detectives singer Matt swaggers into view wearing a full-length black coat and dark shades. Indoors. No image managing from this lot then. They seem to have turned into a less grating version of The Fratellis: huge hooks, huger hair and songs that appeal to the white-van-man in us all.

If only to confirm this is big, loud, stupid music, before a raucous rendition of 'Romantic Type' they ask: "Have you all got hands?" Honestly. Yes, yes we have, thank you very much. But then the tune is more infectious than anything you can catch from using the toilets here - a bouncing, vibrant ode to lust. Suddenly those hands he was so interested in are involuntarily in the air. Songs of girls and boys, late nights and fights, hurtle past. A mob of bodies is held captive by each pacy tale, 'Take Her Back' provoking especially anarchic scenes. In a flash, it's over – strangely replaced by a strong urge to buy lager and kebabs.

2. The Maccabees (Sunday, 16:05)
The Maccabees encompass the idiosyncrasy that thrives in the small tents at Reading Festival. They combine it with the pomp and chant-friendly refrains that thrill the main stages – often simultaneously. Exactly how "Latchmere's got a wave machine!" has developed into an ear-splitting sing-along lyric is one of life's mysterious pleasures. The band is a rare mishmash; uncomfortable mannerisms quiver in every peculiar reference, quietly confident ambition gushes from every riff.

Orlando's voice fizzes with a perturbed insecurity, complimenting the stop-start beats and unassuming eccentricity of his band. In the whistled mooch through 'Toothpaste Kisses' he plays acoustic amid screams of adulation; he is slowly gaining star status. But it's the collective that shines; a gang mentality ensuring the sense of satisfaction onstage diffuses into the baying fans. Steve Lamacq called them "a bit special" when introducing; 40 minutes later, his praise is justified.

1. Klaxons (Sunday, 22:35)
The largest crowd inside the tent all weekend bulges into one vivid hallucination of colour as Klaxons race through 'Atlantis To Interzone.' Lights flash, glowsticks sail through the air and sirens blare. The crowd doesn't quite dance, doesn't quite mosh - it's more a hectic, elated fumbling. The atmosphere reeks of the deranged joy this band blossoms under. 'Golden Skans' just inflames things further.

But something's different. The usual cacophony Klaxons make – danceable yes, though not exactly musically polished – has been replaced by noises resembling melody. Apocalyptic melody, but melody nonetheless. The reason for this newfound accomplishment is an extra member, due to Jamie breaking a leg. While he is free to stalk the stage threateningly clasping a crutch in tow, the newcomer plays bass in an orderly manner and creates a bit of rhythm to accompany the mayhem.

Being the final act of the festival, the crowd is appropriately unreserved. Klaxons feed off this burgeoning enthusiasm, becoming increasingly unrestrained. During 'Magick' they bask in a prolonged ovation mid-song. Soon though, the chaos continues as Reading Festival 2007 goes out in an inferno of breathless, luminous fun.

Terrible Two:
2. Brand New (Friday, 21:20)
This is fist-clenching, warbled rock for angst-ridden teens and ill-adjusted adults. The music is dull and repetitive. The singer sounds like he is about to cry, but the blandness of the music completely fails to explain the anguish in his voice. This renders the vocals false and lifeless, making the intended uplifting choruses flat and limp.

Listening to Brand New makes you wonder if your ears need examining, not only to repair the damage 45 minutes of miserable, fake-punk has done. Also to check they are working correctly because, incredulously, people are enjoying this! The person to the left is so emotionally involved that their make-up is running. His girlfriend is enjoying it too. To complete this horrible scene, the singer has a tendency to roll on the floor screaming. For future reference, this isn't exciting or innovative – it's plain annoying.

1. Hadouken (Sunday, 13:30)
Hadouken have discovered an echo device for their microphones, and are determined to use it. In fact, they seem convinced the device will grow ineffective unless used regularly. By regularly, I mean every song. The singer recites lyrics like he is reading down a long list, before squawking like a bird protecting its eggs at the end. In their defence, this grinding brand of electronic rock and distorted beats may sound better in a filthy hovel at 1am rather than a sunshine-soaked tent at 1pm.

There is no defending their generic reproduction of the same song throughout their set. 'That Boy, That Girl' is an effects-laden blast of cutting, perceptive party music that sneers at the most unsavoury of indie music's effects. But they play this song in various forms, with differing titles and less catchy hooks, over and over again. Every song sounds so similar that they merge into one long drone. It would be music to fall asleep at the back of the tent to, if that echoing mic wasn't so excruciatingly loud. When they finally do play 'That Boy, That Girl', it's difficult to notice, let alone care.

V Festival 2007 Review

V Stage, Hylands Park Chelmsford

10. Goo Goo Dolls – Sunday, 1.25pm – 1.05pm.
Being past it is problematic, especially when you weren’t particularly great in your prime. However, Goo Goo Dolls don’t let this bother them as they entertain a swelling afternoon crowd with their meandering brand of inauthentic rock. They couldn’t look less cool if they daubed their heads in red bandanas and dyed their greying hair. Hang on – the bass player’s wearing a red bandana, while singer John Rzeznik has definitely been at the Just For Men.

But then, when you have a barnstorming, inexplicably epic anthem like Iris in your arsenal, nothing else really matters. Despite the rest of the set sounding like budget Bon Jovi, Iris transforms the lethargic audience into a huge, cheesy choir, screaming back the words with gusto and glee. In three minutes of infectious 80s stadium rock, Goo Goo Dolls become the perfect hangover tonic.

9. The Fratellis – Sunday, 4.50pm – 5.40pm.
Playing to one of the largest crowds of the weekend, the Scottish scallywags deliver what the punters want: scuzzy, gutter-dwelling geezer indie. The seemingly endless stream of big hooks and gibberish lyrics is gobbled up hungrily by the baying fans. While Henrietta is merrily disorderly, Creeping Up The Backstairs is riotous. While Dog In A Bag is a bawling brawl, Nuts From A Hippy is a bass-fuelled frenzy. Their amps are dubbed with the question “Nae Danger?” Well, there is nae danger of a song without a chugging riff and a shouted chorus.

Nevertheless, although all variety and subtlety are lost, the barrage of noise appeases the jumping crowd as it readies itself for the finale. When it arrives, riding on a tide of testosterone, Chelsea Dagger is the crown prince of bloke anthems. The band play it at double-time, moving the crowd from rowdy to rapturous and leaving even the most cynical doubter admitting The Fratellis know how to rouse a rabble.

8. KT Tunstall, Sunday, 3.35pm – 4.20pm
Dressed completely in angelic white, but sporting a punky streak of blond in her flowing mane of hair, KT Tunstall aims to bridge the often unbridgeable gap between commercial success and credibility. Blessed only with a hoarse, unremarkable voice, she pulls through on guts and hard work. Every stomp of her foot, wail of her accent and strum of her guitar seems an effort. But all this labouring produces a pleasant, likeable sound.It is inexplicably pop, but is also scented with heartfelt, folky lyrics.

The Other Side of the World bubbles with longing as KT delivers an earnest performance. Set-closer Suddenly I See is received most warmly; she does this brand of hand-waving sing-along fodder better than most. However, there is a resolute determination to her performance that raises it above the merely enjoyable, into the realms of the credibility she clearly craves.

7. Paolo Nutini, Saturday, 3:35pm – 4.40pm.
The only thing in more plentiful supply this weekend than average singer-songwriters is drizzle. Happily, Paolo Nutini is sufficiently superior to most of his soppy peers to make standing in said drizzle worthwhile. Although middle-aged women stand impatiently screaming “Play Jenny!” throughout, he resists the temptation to become a bland crowd-pleaser.

Unafraid to rattle into extended jams, he even spirals into a comical “I wanna be like you-ooh-ooh” ode to The Jungle Book. When he does play a ragged version of Jenny Don’t Be Hasty, it is a rollicking treat that is closer to Bruce Springsteen than James Blunt. Looking stylishly wasted, Nutini has grit and attitude to compliment his numerous chart-bothering, housewife anthems.

6. Kasabian, Sunday, 7.40pm – 8.40pm.
Having headlined the second stage last year, Kasabian found themselves shunted sideways to play penultimately on the main stage this time around. Opening with the electrifying groove of Shoot The Runner, they play with a fearsome intent that suggests they deserve a desired headlining slot sooner rather than later. Guitarist Serge is all verve and grace, while singer Tom stalks the stage with a rabid, infectious energy.

The band releases the same feelings of fervent masculinity as The Fratellis, but everything seems multiplied in scale. The hooks are huger, beats meatier and vocals more snarling. Processed Beats reverberates inside the chests of the sweaty hordes as Tom triumphantly knights them, bellowing “you lot are Empire.” There is even time to showcase a more delicate side on Me Plus One, before the festival-slaying refrain of L.S.F confirms Kasabian as Britain’s premier lad-rockers.

5. Rodrigo Y Gabriela, Sunday, 12.30pm – 1.00pm.
This Mexican duo doesn’t use flashy stage sets and gimmicks. Or drums. Or bass. Or even vocals. Relying purely on their ability to play guitars in a rapid, sunshine-tinged manner, they hold onlookers spellbound. With cameras stuck onto their instruments to allow the audience to glimpse their extraordinary musical prowess, Rodrigo Y Gabriela open the V Stage on Sunday with a delightful set of Latin-laced, toe-tapping numbers.

A cover of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here sees many of the crowd fill in the words as Rodrigo encourages the nodding heads to join in. There is a curiously contained atmosphere, possibly explained by the peculiarity of festival-goers witnessing such original music gracing the same stage James Morrison would soon be playing on. But the quality of the finger picking – at one stage becoming so intense Gabriela’s strings break – and improvising is undoubted. Different and exhilarating, Rodrigo Y Gabriela are a surprising pleasure.

4. Editors, Saturday, 2.30pm – 3.10pm.
Having been handed an afternoon set-time, thankfully the weather holds out long enough for Editors to play in suitable conditions. This means the expected sun doesn’t arrive; instead the band’s uncompromisingly atmospheric rock is allowed to flourish in a fittingly overcast gloom. Tom Smith’s gothic, almost operatic vocals dominate over soaring riffs that agitate the feet and stir the brain.

As All Sparks sizzles past, replaced by the blistering attack on the senses that is Bullets, you realise Editors have secretly amassed a back catalogue of brooding hits capable of altering an indifferent gathering into a swaying mass. Their spiky rhythms and haunting melodies conjure images of Joy Division sound-tracking a Dracula film. Who knew afternoon sets at V could be so darkly engaging?

3. Foo Fighters, Saturday, 9.20pm – 10.50pm
Dave Grohl surveys the crowd like prey, a crazed tribe leader with a hungry, maniacal glint in his eye. He had cajoled fans over to the V Stage (away from The Kooks, headlining elsewhere) by serenading them with a secret acoustic set earlier on. Now, he makes his intentions clear. Touching opener Everlong is quickly dispatched as the high-octane rock marathon begins. Breakout, Monkey Wrench and a brutal rendition of Stacked Actors all fly by in a blur of scorching guitars.

Soon, Dave finds time to banter with the crowd, giving a nod to “a band I used to play drums in….” No, not Nirvana – Juliette and the Licks. In these moments, he steers Foo Fighters with trepidation between seriousness and slapstick, unsure whether to remain menacing or mischievous. Best of You’s dangerously gruff roar restores the tone as the satisfied crowd repeat its refrain; finally, the band blast through closing number All My Life. They can roll out festival-pleasing sets like this with ease, but the intensity they achieve marks every one as memorable.

2. The Killers, Sunday, 9.20pm – 10.50pm
A British festival this summer just wouldn’t feel complete without Las Vegas’ finest bringing a dose of powerful glitz to the proceedings. So it is no surprise that this festival-ending set is a set to end all festivals. For a crowd that demands more hits from its artists than Pete Doherty does from his dealer, The Killers are ideal. Every single song seems cosily familiar as the band manufactures a togetherness that includes the whole audience. Brandon pouts and poses, guitars and jackets shimmer, the jumping throng below them laps it up.

Somebody Told Me is expertly executed, its bass line whirling over expectant faces. Numerous tracks from latest album ‘Sam’s Town’ keep the atmosphere frenetic. Bones sexily combines glam with danger; Read My Mind confidently pacifies those hoping for a dash of sensitivity amongst all the hedonism. Then it was left to the heavyweight combination of universal favourites Mr. Brightside and All These Things I’ve Done to complete the festival. While the former even made a girl cry, the latter made every attendee cry out joyfully; this was a masterclass of rock showmanship.

1. Kanye West, Saturday, 4.50pm – 5.40pm.
The fact a rapper could represent the spirit of a festival in such all-encompassing terms speaks much of V Festival’s nature. Including a greater range of ages, outlooks and styles can lead to a more saturated, somehow diluted weekend. But in Kanye West’s genre-ripping, convention-defying set, the principles of V come together seamlessly.

With eager fans donning his trademark slit sunglasses he blitzed the stage with current Number One single Stronger. Merging his signature cheek with the brash sound of Daft Punk, it signalled for a sample-heavy set combining energy with wit.Amy Winehouse, The Verve and Timbaland all receive the West reworking treatment as his disjointed but enthralling show continues. On Through The Wire, he sings less “about coke and birds, more like spoken word.” His reluctance to purely rely on rap clichés, instead embracing music rich history, moves Kanye from average to astounding.

He races exuberantly across stage while his string section delivers Touch The Sky. Fans here for MOR acts join with indie scenesters in reacting to the infectious American. The brilliance of the 50-minutes, mirroring V itself, is in its diversity, its inclusiveness and, ultimately, its sense of fun.

Stinker: Pink, Saturday, 6.10pm – 7.10pm
Pink is the scariest woman I have ever seen. Scowling and grunting, she owns thighs capable of crushing every indie twiglet in attendance like a particularly irksome insect. This alone doesn’t lower her further than the soppiness of James Morrison, or Snow Patrol’s bland soullessness. It doesn’t even induce wretching like Just Jack’s corny Mike Skinner impression does. What makes Pink the weekend’s stinker is her self-appointed status as preacher to the masses.

Whenever a singer states they are going to get serious, it’s a cue to run. When Pink says “I wanna get political with y’all,” it’s a cue to chop your ears off with the nearest blunt object. After playing the mundane drawl of Dear Mr President it’s unlikely Mr. Bush will be seriously considering major policy changes. The accompanying images of dead soldiers and crying children don’t exactly ignite the festival spirit, so it’s back to plastic punk.

There is time for a cover of What’s Goin’ On, which convinces middle-aged flower pop fans to attempt hitting notes higher than their IQs. Finally, Get The Party Started is mutilated by a combination of Pink’s voice – too wavering be punk, too barking to be diva-like – and Brian May’s evil twin plodding out an excruciating electric guitar solo continuously. This butchering of music may be fine for teeny-bopper-filled arenas. But please keep it out of our festivals.

Kate Nash - Made of Bricks

The melodious melancholy of her first hit may have enlivened the charts, but Kate Nash’s debut album doesn’t quite surmount the hype built up around her.

Made of Bricks has been rushed out following the refreshing, massive success of ‘Foundations’. The track is a tantalizing pop creation; a distant hopefulness simmers in the twinkling piano while disillusionment is gradually nurtured with each awkwardly candid line. It sounds almost naively mature, charmingly mirroring its clumsy yet accomplished writer.

‘Foundations’ neatly encapsulates the album as a whole. The bits that sound sincere and fresh are here, but so is the cringe-worthy bluntness and misplaced social commentary. While the defiant ‘Mouthwash’ contains driving drums and fervent vocals, ‘Dickhead’ resembles the results a bored schoolgirl would achieve in a double GCSE Music lesson.

Lyrically, Nash is more Peggy Mitchell than Joni Mitchell. Simplicity and straightforward storytelling replace any deeper meaning in the music. For a generation that loves Big Brother but hasn’t heard of George Orwell, this is effective.

Why dress up feelings in metaphor and characters when stating “I like to play,” or even “I’m sitting with my friends getting drunk again,” will suffice? “I” dominates the record, yet it remains only superficially personal.

However, occasionally the Londoner makes peculiarly quaint observations on turbulent young love that both endear and enthral. ‘We Get On’, a Motown-influenced tale of unrequited devotion, carries heartbreakingly ironic satire such as “I don’t even have an opinion on that tramp you’re still seeing.” In these inspired snippets, Nash merges warped introversion with the pizzazz of a truly individual artist.

Numerous sloppy songs threaten to send Made of Bricks crumbling into mediocrity. Nevertheless, catchy hooks are frequent enough to satisfy the mainstream interest. More importantly, there are sufficient smatterings of brilliance to suggest Kate Nash is a real talent.

Interpol - 'Our Love To Admire'

If you’re still searching for the sun-kissed soundtrack to your summer, this isn’t it. If you crave something with a little more substance, Interpol’s haunting third album is more refreshing than sipping Pimm’s in a paddling pool.

After moving to a major label and witnessing Editors find considerable commercial success by plundering their sound, Interpol could be forgiven for trying to appeal to the masses. Instead, they’ve turned inwards to generate eleven songs that gnaw themselves into your consciousness.

Previous album ‘Antics’ hinted at a more mainstream direction; bringing in Franz Ferdinand producer Rich Costey did nothing to dispel this. However, ‘Our Love To Admire’ actually revisits seminal debut ‘Turn On The Bright Lights’, with darker melodies and fewer pop hooks.

‘Pioneer To The Falls’ is a masterful statement of intent, building into an eerily epic opener. Next, ‘No I In Threesome’ demonstrates the band’s dark sense of humour with sneering lyrical suggestions of “Baby it’s time we give something new a try.”

Not likely to be heard on Hereward FM anytime soon.

There are exceptions to this. New single ‘The Heinrich Maneuver’ grooves to a throbbing bass line, while singer Paul Banks delivers a hook just aching to be screamed back at him in sweaty venues worldwide. ‘All Fired Up’ even comes complete with clapping.

But it’s the unusual ability to carve an entire album without throwaway songs that is refreshing. Although standout tracks are sparse, a sense of progression and craftsmanship encompasses the music. Despite lacking immediacy, this is worth investing your time and energy.

Banks’ vocals still set the band apart; his brooding drones perfectly compliment the atmospheric arrangements. Dark, twisted lyrics of lost love soar over the textured rhythm, creating an urgent yet delicate sound. This won’t top the charts, but should be in your collection.

Greg Rose

Festival International De Benicassim 2007

Spain: sun, sea, sand, sangria…..and The Stooges. Benicassim’s heady mix of Mediterranean hedonism, blissful beaches and a high class line-up allowed thousands of Britons to swap their wellies for flip-flops and escape to paradise.

Arctic Monkeys and Muse topped the bill admirably, ably backed by the cream of international indie bands, superstar DJs and a smattering of Spanish artists. But it is the sheer audacity of the surroundings that make this event peerless. Imagine a festival with no fighting, no mud and, wait for it, no rain. Oh, but there was Peaches Geldof – some things never change.

Four days of music ran from mid-afternoon through the night until 7am, meaning festival-goers could avoid the heat of the day. The event was shrewdly organised; afternoon sets consisted of chilled out acts, headliners appeared at 1.20am and DJs closed each night for those who could last the pace. This reduced chances of fans collapsing from heat exhaustion and allowed the action to build up, simmering before exploding into a frenzy of revelry.

Mando Diao kick-started proceedings with a raucous collection of rasping three-minute pop blasts, before Iggy & The Stooges arrived to thrill and disgust in equal measures. Watching a 60-year-old, half-naked man gyrating on a speaker while screaming I Wanna Be Your Dog isn’t exactly family entertainment, but is gripping nonetheless. The band maintained the vitality to match Iggy’s outrageous prancing, while tracks like 1969 inspired the crowd, ordered by a wild-eyed Iggy, to storm the stage. Comic, scary, but also musically accomplished, they threatened to steal the festival at its very beginning.

Bright Eyes couldn’t reach the same heights, with an exasperating set of inconsistency. Although First Day Of My Life was spine-tingling and Four Winds was a rollicking country romp, too often tracks petered into nothingness. Dressed all in white, Conor Oberst strangely resembled Roger Federer at Wimbledon. Sadly, every ace track was followed by double-faults of folk meanderings and whiny vocals.

Rufus Wainwright, then Antony & The Johnsons continued this frustrating singer-songwriter theme on Friday. Both are prodigiously talented, but neither created any intensity despite passionate audiences. Wainwright’s voice wavered self-satisfyingly, while Antony Hegarty chose to play an embarrassingly sluggish cover of Beyonce’s Crazy In Love. Ambitious, but far from bootylicious.

It was left to the old and new guard of danceable rock to ignite the evening. The Rapture ensured everybody crammed inside the huge oven masquerading as a tent got even hotter as they grooved to the infectious Get Myself Into It. Classic single House Of Jealous Lovers sparked riotous scenes, while the pulse of every spiky riff reverberated inside the elated masses.

Klaxons entered this electrifying atmosphere and spiralled it higher. Moving to a later slot due to a 20-hour flight delay, their midnight show wasn’t polished – bad acoustics were accompanied by woeful singing – but was exhilarating. Neon lights blazing overhead, sirens booming and anthemic tracks from Golden Skans to Magik stimulated a feeling of sweaty euphoria. This was less a performance, more a musical assault. Their audience was left to dance until morning to The Presets and Digitalism, energised and excited.

By Saturday, sleepless nights and several San Miguel’s could be seen taking their toll on Benicassim attendees. Instead of hitting the beaches, exhausted, bleary-eyed people appeared to inhabit every speck of shade. While Jamie T bolted through a triumphant set in his oblique style, mixing new tracks with enthusiastically received hits like Stella, many sought solace on top of Portaloos.

Some soothing relief was required; it came in the hairy form of Albert Hammond Jnr. The Strokes guitarist treated the main stage to some exquisite guitar work and dreamy melodies. In Transit sounded like The Velvet Underground would have if Brian Wilson was their frontman, while gleeful whistling accompanied Call An Ambulance.

Then, disaster struck: the soundsystem exploded. A winding sprint to the tent CSS were playing confirmed the problem was festival-wide. The impossible was happening – people looked grumpy. Thankfully, the whooping return of singer Lovefoxx signalled the problem was fixed. While she bantered with the crowd, their set of bouncy, foot-stomping dance sizzled past, taking in the funky bass line of Let’s Make Love and the very persuasive lyrics of Alcohol.

The anticipation for Arctic Monkeys led to ticket-less hopefuls packing the hills surrounding the festival site, while even The B-52s pathetic set of dated disco couldn’t dampen the mood. Subtly siphoning away sloppier tracks from their debut album to be replaced with choice cuts from their latest record created a rounded set from the Sheffield boys. A venomous rendition of Brianstorm was striking, while their numerous bona fide festival anthems were devoured. However, the understated 505, including Alex Turner playing keyboard with great aplomb, highlighted the sense of progress – and fun – Arctic Monkeys now possess.

The progress of Amy Winehouse was highlighted by her actually turning up on Sunday. When she did, the silky sounds of lesser known tracks like Wake Up Alone allowed her to showcase her vocal prowess, after Rehab had appeased the crowd. Looking sultry and accompanied by her stylish band, she seemed in her element as much as the hordes of bopping fans below her.

Kings of Leon made little attempt at crowd-pleasing, filling their set with plodding tracks from their latest album while discarding older gems. New single Fans sounded smooth and likeable, while On Call was boisterous and angry. Nevertheless, generally they sounded tired, with a bemusing uninterested manner. BRMC opposed this, playing their pounding, dirty rock as if their careers hung in the balance. Wearing leather jackets in blistering heat summarised their gutsy, carefree attitude just as well as the thundering blues of standout track Spread Your Love.

Then, Muse were Muse; now so incredible live, listening to them on record is obsolete. New Born sounded ferocious, Starlight boundlessly addictive and Feeling Good haunting. Matt Bellamy basked in rock showmanship, before sunburnt faces brimming with happiness slipped away, satisfied.

Yet, despite scores of bands delivering memorable music, the all-encompassing, uplifting spirit of this festival is its most prominent feature. 65% of tickets were bought by Britons (according, probably inaccurately, to Jamie T,) but the diverse and cosmopolitan nature of Benicassim is still arresting. Take every positive aspect of British festivals; add beautiful weather and a sense of adventure. And, undoubtedly once tasted, repeat annually.

Complaints of a Commuter

“You need to sort yourself out young man. You need some direction. You’re wasting your time.” It’s 01.47am; we’re on the last train home from Kings Cross to Peterborough, getting advice from a woman who keeps hiccupping between words. She’s about 45, drunk, peroxide blonde and a pathological liar. Not your average careers counsellor. It’s just another day commuting.

But I have got direction, I think to myself. (Not daring to argue with the half-cut divorcee in full Boots No. 7 war paint.) It just so happens that my direction is eighty miles south on clapped-out public transport every morning.

The time wasting though – she may have a point. Fifteen hours a week in a carriage decorated a putrid cream, hoping the bloke who sits down next to me doesn’t smell. The greatest journeys start with the smallest steps. What kind of journeys start with removing a half-eaten apple and some ketchup sachets from a frayed, dusty seat? Commuting journeys.

Yet the daily slog to the Big Smoke is as popular as ever. In our technologically advanced age, surely the necessity for everyone to work in the capital is obsolete. However, the population of London more than doubles between nine and five every day. Of course, tourists hoping for a glimpse of the Queen, or even better, a Big Brother reject shopping in Primark, swell this number.

Mainly though, it’s the suited men and women from distant lands such as our own fair Peterborough that fill London. On heroic quests to employment, we bravely overcome terrorism, expensive prices and even relentless London Lite distributors to do the work that makes the country work. Surely a more suitable steed than a rickety train is needed for such a noble quest. Leather seats, massages and free beer; this is the journey fit for such gallant knights

Instead, we’ve got a Vanessa Feltz look-alike still giving us a lecture. The next stop approaches. I pray she’ll get off. She doesn’t, instead loudly detailing her imminent move to India and how she’s down with the kids because she went to a James Morrison gig.

Finally, she departs, tottering onto the platform like an ungainly penguin. The rest of us are now free to dwell in our own mundane little traveller timewarps. The man to the left has an annoying laugh. The girl behind keeps saying “Innit,” to her friend. There’s always something to complain about on the commute.

Arriving back home safely, the train can be put out of sight and mind and the evening can usually be savoured. But rest assured, it will be back in the morning. It probably won’t be on time, mind, but it will be back.

Just how do us commuters do it every day? Well, it’s a struggle believe me. Although perhaps I’m not in any position to comment – I’ve only been doing it for four days…..

The Great Escape Festival Review

It’s five in the morning at Brighton Pier and a guy with an acoustic guitar has just pulled over a van. He’s then climbed on top and freed a seagull trapped on a wire using a knife procured from a shifty-looking stranger. Welcome to The Great Escape Festival 2007.

Seagull saving aside, an enormous collection of new bands along with a smattering of established acts is the reason why 5000 people have flocked to the seaside. From Canada to Camden, France to Finland, an international melting pot of music is on offer.

Or maybe three days of queuing in the drizzle. Having enjoyed a soothing set of quaint folk from Dan Mangan in the shark pool of the Sealife Centre, spirits are high. But then, even with a magic Press Pass in tow, entry into Concorde 2 to watch CSS is impossible. Lines of people snake along the seafront looking disgruntled as they are turned away, so it’s off to catch 1990s instead.

Inside the cavernous treasure trove of Audio, the Glaswegian three-piece sounds like a budget Franz Ferdinand. Shout-along choruses and choppy riffs dominate songs like You’re Supposed To Be My Friend. They contain the lyrical depth of a Nuts magazine subscriber and are sung by a man who looks like Johnny Borrell’s uglier, yes uglier, brother.

However, it is undeniably danceable and a great pre-cursor to Foals, Britain’s best new band. Dashing across to Komedia, rumours abound that Yoko Ono has been spotted watching The Gossip in the giant cow tent aptly named the Udderbelly; thankfully this frightful combination are nowhere in sight as Foals launch into a frenetic set.

Electrifyingly frantic vocals dominate their layered sound, with a pulsating bass line during Hummer producing a euphoric atmosphere in the sweaty crowd. Funky yet edgy, this Oxford five-piece are inimitably fun and deserve your immediate attention.

Next up are Gallows, apparently rock’s new messiahs, here to breathe life into the stale musical climate. Actually, they’re all aggression and attitude with no substance. They may have a snarling frontman and a raucous live presence, but songs like Abandon Ship are basic and unimaginative. The crowd is manic, the guitarist slashes his face open with his instrument and utter mayhem ensues - but where are the songs? More disappointing than Brighton beach having no sand, this band is hideously over-hyped.

Waking up slightly dazed, still angry at Gallows for repeatedly calling the whole crowd c***s, a decidedly more relaxed day is planned. An unexpected afternoon treat is found at the Udderbelly as Emily Loizeau serves up some blissful balladry. Mixing between French and English, she strokes her piano delicately while delivering ethereal vocals. Shaun Ryder even waits patiently outside for her to finish, before giving a keynote lecture. This festival can be surreal.

More feminine songsmithery follows from Adele, a girl who talks like Lily Allen but sings like Dusty Springfield. Amy Winehouse comparisons are inevitable as Adele shares her soulful delivery, but couples this with an understated innocence.

Kid Harpoon continues the barrage of unassuming talent onstage. He cajoles the audience with the sweetly melodious Charlie’s Dreaming before exchanging banter with The Kooks’ Luke Pritchard. The Red Roaster Café’s newly-acquired Greenwich Village feel is completed by Kid Harpoon’s impressive musical resemblance of Dylan circa 1963. It’s engulfed in a glow of camaraderie as The Mystery Jets, Hadouken and Scroobius Pip all gaze on.

Belatedly, it becomes clear that the only people in here are in bands. With just a 70 person capacity, it is strikingly intimate and each syllable uttered is much clearer than the crowds’ alcohol-affected heads. But the fans can’t get in! Several hundred stand outside in the cold, watching through the window. Everybody’s waiting for Jack Penate.

The London troubadour bounds onstage as the window rattles dangerously. Eventually he is forced to turn sideways so those outside can see, such is the adulation. He melds contemporary lyrics with the timeless skill of sheer showmanship, sparking a mass sing-along with latest single Spit At Stars. Guitar held aloft, Penate dances like Elvis and sings with surprising range and expected passion. There’s a permanent contorted grin on his face - maybe he realises he’s on the cusp of success.

Smartly dressed gig-goers still wander about anxiously as the night draws to a close, desperate to get inside one of the 20 venues hosting bands. Many don’t end up where they wanted to, but The Great Escape has a habit of unearthing unforeseen delights.

This is the case on Saturday when, following seemingly every man in Brighton descending in Walkabout for the F.A Cup Final, a man on stilts plays the A-Team Theme on a trombone. Then, a dash down to the sunshine-basked beach is interrupted by the spectacle of ridiculous Helsinki collective Eternal Erection playing aboard a vehicle called the Funky Bus.

But tonight is Brighton boys The Maccabees’ homecoming – the miniscule Honey Club is the setting. The Draytones warm up the already sweltering venue with a gritty half-hour of garage rock. Sounding like The View without the pop singles, there’s nothing to hate, but nothing to adore.

Candie Payne then saunters into view. Atmospheric and brooding rock spreads under the low ceilings, drowning out Payne’s jazz-tinged voice. Strangely resembling a Motown singer fronting a rock and roll band, it’s interesting but doesn’t quite fit. Beautifully crafted songs are lost in a whirl of guitars, marking this as a missed opportunity.

The Maccabees have grasped their chance hungrily, as shown by the euphoric reaction when they emerge. Earlier, they happily posed for pictures in the bizarre setting of Harry Ramsden’s. Now, they’re in full-on indie icons mode. Blasting through Latchmere amid riotous crowd scenes, the local heroes jagged sound jolts even those cowering at the back into life.

Stop-start time signatures breed a skittish atmosphere as the band manages to contain the adrenaline of their performance into short, sharp bursts. It seems The Maccabees are preaching to the converted as every word is screamed back at them by adoring fans. Singer Orlando Weeks’ warbled vocals – he sounds like he’s just been stung in the mouth by a wasp – fit with their fizzing style perfectly.

As the contagious First Love signals the end of the gig and the festival, the beach is flooded with confused, but happy faces, looking for the next party to go to, the next memory to find. The Great Escape can be frustrating when venues reach capacity or when a band doesn’t deliver. But with an open mind and a bit of luck it can be spectacular. You might even save a seagull.

Review - Cat Power

Right...I'm taking a considerably more gonzo take on this reviewing lark today. Seeing as it's been a difficult few weeks and the amount of work i've got done ranges from managing to get out of bed to buying bogof pizzas at the repulsive sainsbury's down the road, I'm amazed I'm doing anything mildly productive. Do forgive me.

Anyway...this gig happened in lovely Kentish Town not eleven days ago. It was ten days ago. I wasn't going, I had two enormous law exams the following day. But Cat Power does own a voice so hauntingly soothing I thought it could be therapeutic.

Having met my brother's charming fiance in a place called Harrow-On-The-Hill...(I know, I didn't think that was a real place either) I trundled alone down the Tube to meet Mr Sean. Durkin, fellow connoisseur of Cat Power's blissful blues.

Upon arrival a young lady from Brooklyn, New York decided to engage me in conversation. It was fun, she talked funny. Then, to our amusement, the back door opened where three groupies (men groupies exist and are definitely worse than their female counterparts) were met by a buck-toothed beauty. Said beauty told two that they could come backstage. Third, bespectacled, whiney, groupie was told "She doesn't remember you, you can't come in." He got all grumpy and had to stand in the cold. Oh how we chortled.

Once inside, we sat, we drank (well, Sean did) and we saw a support act whose name evades me stumble about the stage, fall over and act, to steal a lyric, like Oliver Reed at an Irish stag do.
Then came Cat. If you haven't heard her last album, 'The Greatest', then stop reading and go get it. Sounding a cross between Joni Mitchell and a less-shouty Karen O, singer Chan (said 'Shawn', not like Jackie Chan) Marshall is both husky and heavenly. She covers Sinatra's 'New York New York' and oh do we wanna be a part of it.

Now, my only previous viewing of Cat Power live was on Jools Holland. Her angelic tones were matched by a striking femininity - white dress, pale skin, Dusty Springfield without the heartache, Marilyn Monroe with a singing voice.

Tonight though, she's dressed in jeans. She dances like a student, sauntering around, sipping from a coffee cup and smoking a cigarette. By the way - smoking is only cool when Chan Marshall is smoking. She could probably make being an RE teacher cool, mind. But some of the other-worldly, ghostly aura of Cat Power is lost by her dressing more like Gabby Logan than the Angel Gabriel.

However, when she sings Empty Shell it doesn't matter if she looks like Mel C. An achingly beautiful melody is accompanied by painfully bruised lyrics, as sorrow is encapsulated with every syllable. If you ever want to break up with someone, play them this song - they'll understand. Okay, no, they probably won't, scrap that. If you ever want to break up with ME, play me this song - i'll understand. That may be the most obtuse advice ever given. Use it wisely.

The band wind up playing a medley of The Stones, Otis Redding and Cat's own piercingly moving classic, Lived In Bars. Put those in a sandwich and no board is needed, they'll sell themselves. Although selling songs via sandwich boards is an interesting proposition. I'd be more likely to invest in them than anything Unicef are trying to flog.

On that bombshell, as a fictitious Norwich-based character once uttered, that will do for this rant. Oh, no, wait. Liverpool played Chelsea in the Champion's League the same time as the gig. Sean (big Liverpool fan), upon hearing Liverpool have won on penalties, gets up and shouts "Fucking get in there" and does some macho posing at the exact moment Cat Power is singing a delicate ballad. Surrounding crowd are not happy, Sean exits stage right. I stay seated, embarassed but jubilant. Sean returns, we celebrate secretly, then the gig continues. And that is all.

If you've read this, don't worry. I'm acutely aware this is drivel and it won't happen again. If it does, i'll be out of a job and my planned summer shifts at BeerSeller will become altogether more permanent. If that isn't motivation I don't know what is.

Tell me if this amused you or informed you in any way. If not, I just wasted, ooh, a good 12 minutes of my life. As Paul Smith said, I didn't even check the spelling.


Word Count: go on, I dare you...