Jarvis Cocker and Jeffrey Lewis - Live

Jarvis Cocker and Jeffrey Lewis
Shepherd's Bush Empire, London
Wednesday, 26th November 2008

Anybody wondering how to be a rock star despite being a provincial nobody, who hasn't quite grown into their body, let alone their mind, should watch Jarvis Cocker. The permanent outsider's classy performance is a quirky blueprint for a seminal set (though most acts could probably manage without the overhead projector).

It begins with Jeffrey Lewis opening proceedings in his inimitable fashion, with tape recorder and Jarvis' OHP in tow. A tribute to The Fall is wry, while a tale of a nun-murdering monster captures his taste for vague weirdness aptly. The spark he can sometimes balance in his croaky delivery and offbeat observations isn't quite lit and many of his smarter songs are dismissed without his backing band to lend a hand. However, his dry wit, chatty, scatty nature and endearing youthfulness – despite the growing bald patch - sets up affairs well, managing to be as thoughtful as it is gregarious.

Then, following a memory-jogging DJ set from Rough Trade, whose 30th birthday the night celebrates, Jarvis takes to the stage. As his band start up, the bespectacled singer strides into view, majestic with cane in hand and a new beard on display. Then, he wanders off again. As the fervour builds, he loiters calmly, before his familiar gargle signals the set's start. It's an entrance of pomp and authority and is soon backed up by a jumping rendition of Caucasian Blues. This announces the corporeal sexual theme that lingers in the margins of his songs, often bursting from the undercurrents in his theatrical dance moves and into the mainstream in female-inspired songs like Angela and Big Julie.

An acoustic guitar is strapped over his shoulder for a strangely soporific rendition of Tonight, its quiet harmony drawing the audience in. However, Jarvis' taste for loud, obnoxious noise hasn't mellowed with age. A later track titled A Fucking Song is debuted and is simple and silly, but adds a new texture to proceedings. Most of the songs are smothered in Jarvis trademarks, from the barely sonorous, harsh whispers that pierce the end of lines, to the introverted lyricism balanced only by his outlandish stage presence.It isn't an insult to the quality of his solo material that many highlights come between songs. His parched humour, coupled with OHP explanations ranging from the merits of the Westfield Centre to the importance of wearing long socks, never fails to raise an eyebrow or smile. The sloping drawl of his speech contrasts with the sniping rhymes his dialect conjures, as 'fingers' pairs with 'hinges' and 'confess' partners 'depth'. A new song featuring the refrain 'I never said I was deep, but I'm profoundly shallow' captures his slanting intellect well, while his sexier, bandier Basil Fawlty manner of shuffling around invigorates during weaker tracks.

Two encores are finished with a DJ-backed disco number, but the interesting ending arrives slightly earlier with Cunts Are Still Running The World, it's chorus screamed back at Cocker in a peculiar show of unity. It's far more entertaining than it is offensive and picks at the atypical valour of this quirky northerner. Oh, and nobody shouted for Common People all night.

Happy Birthday To Who? – Jimi Hendrix vs Mike Skinner

Happy Birthday To Who? – Jimi Hendrix vs Mike Skinner

Only eight years separates the death of one and birth of the other, but the music these musical innovators of sorts gave/inflicted upon the world is generations apart in both its style and content. While Jimi Hendrix is renowned by people who have never heard him play a riff as the Greatest Guitarist of All Time TimeTM, Mike Skinner, under the moniker of The Streets, brought garage music to a new breed of disaffected UK youths from within.

Even though he hasn't written a decent song for a good four years, this doesn't remove the impact Skinner had. While Eminem proved white people could rap, Skinner carried an undeniably British slant in his urbanised tales of youthful shenanigans. This saw his brand of garage, focusing on club sub-culture and wry reality, cross boundaries and find eager fans in indie circles and festival crowds. Plus, when he came back with Fit But You Know It and Dry Your Eyes, everybody loved him. We've all watched his smug face sitting near that swimming pool blubbering on, even if we wouldn't admit it now.
With Hendrix, anybody old enough will claim to have been at his legendary Isle of Wight performance, or at least known about the talismanic black guitarist by the time he arrived in London from New York in the mid-Sixties. While his unparalleled histrionics and inspired instrumental experimentation brought him the prestige he commands today, many of his most significant songs aren't even his. These include early breakthrough Hey Joe and Bob Dylan staple All Along The Watchtower – recently named the best cover ever by Jarvis Cocker.

However, the likes of Purple Haze and Voodoo Chile are iconic snippets of a psychedelic freedom that seems to personify a certain part of music's ongoing personality. Hendrix is as ingrained into musical mythology as James Dean is in film, a gifted man who died young but left the world with enough of his talent to be as vital 38 years after his death as the day he threw his burning, broken guitar into a baying crowd at Monterey Pop.

Hendrix never really had time to tarnish his musical legacy as he passed away just a year after hitting his popular peak at Woodstock in 1969. Skinner, on the other hand, has been busy ruining any positivity he garnered with his early releases. He has now rejected referencing urban life in his music (apparently he recently refused to be interviewed anywhere that was too built-up), which hasn't had the Dylan-goes-electric effect he may have wanted. Instead, his new album Everything Is Borrowed has been widely panned but is at least not as offensively dull as his television show. However, he is nothing if not ambitious and the next – final, apparently – Streets album is rumoured to be influenced by Lou Reed's Berlin. Well, good luck with that Mr Skinner, but happy birthday Mr Hendrix.

Armbands are immaterial

Armbands are immaterial

When you were at school, the biggest, ugliest kid who could kick the ball the furthest would be captain, mainly because he would scare the opposition most at the coin toss. Then at local level, the best player would be skipper as a way of keeping him sweet and out of the conniving arms of the next pub's first 11. Any aspirations of leadership remain mainly mythical, because nobody has enough authority to make any impact with whatever passionate gibberish spouts out of their mouths.

When most of the players are worrying about other, more important issues - like money - who will really listen in the heat of a tight encounter on a muddy council pitch? Sure, every now and then a player epitomises a team through their talent, image and behaviour. But in the main, the key is not to appoint the wrong captain, rather than to choose the right one. It takes nothing to be a symbolic representative of a team. It is far more difficult to damage a club merely by wearing an armband. Not much different in the Premier League, really, is it?

The stakes are higher, egos larger and wages bigger, but the principles remain the same. One man, who, to all extents, is an equal of his other ten team-mates, is suddenly elevated to the apparent heights of a demi-god. He is the man to look to in a crisis, to put in a captain's performance. Nobody but him can drag dishevelled groups of players through sticky situations by having tags such as Fantastic, Marvel and Caveman (this only applies to Wayne Rooney's stints as skipper) attached to him. He is the emblem upon which the aspirations of fans rest and outcomes of games depend.

Often, the most-revered captains are referred to as their manager's voices on the pitch, the physical embodiment of the gaffer's standards. They need to be in tune with their boss, able to handle all manner of military comparisons and, above all, know how to choose heads or tails. It is a job for the men amongst men, those who put their body on the line, die for the cause and fulfil all manner of clichés. They are the driving force, the bedrock, the heart and soul of squads.

But, honestly, what do captains actually do? In cricket, they make meaningful decisions and even impact upon team selection, moulding their teams to their own wills. In football, they hold hands with the mascot. Would John Terry really throw his face front of less strikers' poised size tens if he didn't have a piece of elastic above his elbow? Would Steven Gerrard get Liverpool out of fewer holes? Would Roy Keane have ranted at a smaller quantity of team-mates? Of course not; a player's character can be exaggerated by the captaincy but not redefined – some are leaders and some aren't, regardless of their title.

Problems only exist when a disruptive influence is given power with which to reap negativity – enter William Gallas. His comments and attitude have been scrutinised more because of the captaincy, so his public hissy fits have fashioned a crisis, where once they created an opportunity for another defender to replace him for a game or two. He is a character who plays for himself – usually very well – but therefore doesn't fit the criteria for captain. Now Cesc Fabregas has the job, he will excel, despite his tender age. He ticks all the boxes of being a superb player, who is not likely to do anything controversial and is certain to be in the team. It doesn't take a superhero to be skipper, it just takes common sense.

Guns N' Roses – Chinese Democracy

Guns N' Roses – Chinese Democracy

With most of the world expecting an overblown ego trip and the rest past caring, countless years and line-up changes later, Guns N' Roses' new album finally arrives. Anything other than a complete disaster has to be heralded as a triumph for Axl Rose – and he just about manages it.

The fact that it has been completed at all is quite remarkable considering the amount of legal wrangling and false starts that have hampered the record. But there is little point if it is not worth listening too. Of course, it isn't Appetite For Destruction. There are unsubtle nods to the band's early behemoth, but the rapid recklessness of their 1987 debut is not relevant decades on. Also, without the original Guns – especially the fluent excesses of Slash's solos - it feels the new players are imitating rather than innovating.

It is difficult to capture the same breakneck speed though when 12 of the 14 songs insist on straining themselves far past the four minute mark. Epic tracks are created not through length and pomp but with purposeful progression. Rather than build from playful or solemn beginnings into staggering finales such as on the likes of Paradise City and November Rain, Better and I.R.S begin rugged and workmanlike and maintain their pace.

There is variety though, especially in the instrumentation that seeps from the seams of There Was A Time and If The World. Axl's much-documented desire for grandeur amongst the grit of Guns N Roses is partially satisfied, with the songs satiated with pianos, strings and computer effects. These do add a extra dimension compared to the throwaway tosh of Riad N' the Bedouins, but extinguish any possibilities of spontaneity - it sounds planned within an inch of its life.

Scraped is almost a Muse song, its warped fret wizardry melding with paranoid intensity, and is strangely exhilarating. The military sobriety of Madagascar, morphing into sampling of Martin Luther King Jr, is another departure, an attempt at a meaningful moment that comes across over-thought and undercooked. However, despite there being few stand-out moments, Chinese Democracy is saved by the very reason it isn't better - it's creator.

Axl's lyrics are as insipid as ever but somehow match the idle anger that festers in his finest flashes. He labours over slow songs, seemingly still aching over Stephanie Seymour and everybody else he has crossed in the mess of his middle years. He screeches his distinctive wail in the harder numbers and rubs his mark over every inch of the record. It's loud and abrasive, then slumps into brooding fits of melodrama. It's ambitious but doesn't seem to be going anywhere. It flirts with brilliance but flits it away in gluttony and overexertion. Above all, it certainly causes a stir, but since when did Guns N' Roses need an album to do that?

Ryan Adams & The Cardinals - Live

Ryan Adams & The Cardinals
Brixton Academy, London
Thursday, 20th November

When did Ryan Adams get so content? This generation's brooding master of introverted, romantic disaster is up on stage, whooping and laughing. His mates are on board, his songs have all morphed into eight minute MOR marathons and the happier he looks, the worse the music gets. It feels evil to say it, but this would sound a whole lot better if he was a little more fucked up.

Over a decade on from the stunning joylessness of Whiskeytown and the shattering beauty of his early solo albums, he's hard to recognise. Regardless, he is still extraordinarily talented. He manipulates his guitar with the effortless air of a boy still enthralled by the sounds he is conjuring and the belief that he can outplay anyone. His voice soars and tumbles, quivering on high notes and cursing jagged intensity at the death of every line. The sense of occasion he radiates through his mere presence is clear to see.

What he looks like isn't so apparent, as the whole band is draped in semi-darkness. Not dimmed lights to intensify the atmosphere, but intentional twilight, Adams' face impossible to find in the gloom. He stands stage right, allowing his gifted guitarist Neal Casal to command the centre, desperate to show the Cardinals are a band, not a backing group. They can certainly play, with Neal excelling on his two showcase songs, especially Grand Island. Their reactions to Adams's improvisations can often thrill, galloping off into extended jams, such as on a grandstand Off Broadway.

However, he is rejecting the very thing that could set them apart, the heartbreaking, golden moments of hellish love in the broken songs of his past. Sure, a whole set of When The Stars Go Blue-alikes would start to veer from memorable to miserable, but when he does revisit classics, he throws them away. "Let's get ready to rock to another super depressing song! Somebody get me a shovel," he exclaims, clearly bored with his own back catalogue and its history of hurt. Really, it's fair enough. Why should he want to sing old sad songs when he's writing new cheerful ones so prolifically?

He wants to be one of the boys, playing new tunes and rocking out over clunky riffs and half-arsed lyricism. Fix It, Born Into A Light, Goodnight Rose – differences in words hide structures so similar they could be siblings. Nevertheless, there are some spine-tingling moments – in over two hours, there should be, mind. When Adams takes to the piano he plays with twinkling grace, The Rescue Blues accelerating past mediocrity, capturing the magic between playfulness and passion. "Everybody wants to see you suffer/they know that you need the pain so much," he croons. Indeed.

Come Pick Me Up, complete with piercing harmonica, is compelling, but these standards can't be maintained. His delicate cover of Wonderwall is forced into a rollicking stadium staple halfway through, surely defeating its point. It's still worth it for the moments of masterful musicianship, offhand wit ("This song is about how well I dressed tonight,") and superior songwriting. He is elusive not in the frequency of his output but in the irrationality of his work. You can never pinpoint what he wants to be, let alone what he is. Everyone will go on trying to figure it out though, and enjoy the best bits in the meantime.

Disg-race of Champions

Disg-race of Champions

When you get so used to losing that you begin to revel in it, winning is a peculiar sensation. Defeat has become so ingrained in the British sporting culture that we positively cajole its wicked, sensuous taste into our homes and gulp its customary, reliable stench into our lives. Victory is what those other sorts do, them with their siestas and their cappuccinos and their autobahns. We like order, we admire guts and we're bloody well partial to pluckiness. What we don't want is a bunch of sensible, seemingly grounded individuals suddenly becoming world-beaters. Enter the Race of Champions.

Now, we may think we think it is a good thing, a triumph for this great nation even, that Lewis Hamilton is formula one world champion. We might even believe we believe it is a fantastic achievement that our cyclists make the rest of the planet look like fish who have been training on bikes with no seats. But what we know we know nothing about is dealing with these successes. Take the 2005 Ashes victory. All tarted up and paraded around the streets, Freddie Flintoff and co reacted as the rest of England would have in their situation – got plastered then proceeded to slip back into mediocrity quicker than you could say Darren Pattinson.

This we can manage – a spurt of glory and a smattering of happiness before the trudge of mid-order collapses serenely caresses us back into our miserly sensibilities. The problem with Hamilton and the cyclists is that they show no sign of letting up. It is highly plausible that they could dominate their sports for the foreseeable future. There must be something we can do, it's an outrage. This must be the reason for the Race of Champions. However much it may look like it, it is not merely a desperate attempt to cash in on the soaring popularity of motor and pedal sports, by cramming every fan in the country into the capital and sticking anyone who has ever driven anything better than a Mondeo on the track in front of them. No, it is an inside job. The organisers are trying to make an event so shockingly ghastly that it puts us off our own thunderous-thighed heroes.

The posters look like Jeremy Clarkson threw up on the wall. THEY'RE GOING TO TARMAC WEMBLEY! Its capital letters scream manly British crassness and petrol-head testosterone. Yes, the Race of Champions is going to be Top Gear with added idiocy. What reasonable cause has Lewis Hamilton for racing in a car against Chris Hoy on a bicycle? Both of them are so depressingly clean, poles apart from those boozing cricketers and prima-donna footballers that we adore pretending to hate. They are such prime examples of hard work paying dividends that we are not sure what to do with them, except parade them as a circus sideshow with supplementary Michael Schumacher thrown in for good measure. The very idea is so irrational that it may have been devised as a final attempt from Jenson Button to appear superior to Hamilton, purely by not being involved in the drivel.

What's that? Oh, Button will be there too, thank goodness. Now there's a sportsman we can believe in. The man has won one race in his whole career and is in an event called the Race of Champions. Now we're talking, here's something to buy into. Isn't it eccentric, don't we do things differently here. We would claim the whole thing made us feel embarrassed to be British, but then we would have to admit that we secretly love our heroes to lose and our losers to be heroic. Also, there's that other nagging sensation we thrive on – jumping on the bandwagon. We can't get on the bike at the gym without thinking we're Bradley Wiggins and suddenly everybody has started referring to the tight corner past the roundabout as a chicane. Quick, book a ticket while you can, the Race of Champions is sure to sell out faster than an F1 executive.

Happy Birthday To Who? – Jeff Buckley vs. Sarah Harding

Happy Birthday To Who? – Jeff Buckley vs. Sarah Harding

As unlikely a pairing as the calendar is likely to conjure up, November 17th marks the birth of one of indie's original tortured talents and one of pop's original torturous talent show winners. Solo artist Jeff Buckley's emotional artistry is far removed from Sarah Harding's disposable snippets of sassy singing as one fifth of Girls Aloud.

However, the girlband is currently enjoying a peak of cultural recognition to match their chart-conquering consistency. With more consecutive hits than a filmic French assassin, a member winning housewives' hearts every Saturday night and the likes of Chris Martin leading the flurry of praise for the group, it's suddenly more modish to admire the Popstars: The Rivals winners than the newest boys with guitars.

But isn't Sarah just the mouthy blonde one? Well, yes, but there's more going for her than it appears. She learnt to play polo successfully. Her brash barbs have left the likes of Paris Hilton squirming. She didn't marry Ashley Cole. Most importantly, tracks like Love Machine and Call The Shots are eye-twitchingly catchy. Yes, she's came a long way since I first saw her gyrating on a chair and shouting "who wants some then?" to a slimy nightclub crowd, pausing from their heckles only to guzzle down Cherry VKs. OK, she probably hasn't – but now she does that at the O2 Arena rather than a grotty dive in Peterborough optimistically called Faith.

Harding isn't likely to write anything to rival Grace any time soon, though. Or anything, for that matter. Jeff Buckley's poignant album is now 14 years old, but songs such as Mojo Pin are still painful comforts to troubled souls and drifting adolescents of all ages. His cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah is deemed by many as the defining version of the song. Somehow, he possessed the rare knack of fashioning a sense of purpose into his desolate jumbles of anguish and loss, which makes them strangely uplifting in spite – or because - of all of their desertion. Lover You Should Have Come Over and its ilk provide a blueprint for a whole generation of singer-songwriters.

It comes down to mood, really. While undoubtedly superior, the late Mr Buckley wouldn't go down too well at a party, though Ms Harding and her chums do start to grate on the brain after more than five minutes. Really, it is likely that die-hard fans of either artist will never have heard of the other one. But for sheer gall, to do so fantastically well with such a minute amount of ability, Harding takes the plaudits. Happy birthday Sarah Harding.

Happy Birthday To Who? – John Hammond vs. Nikolai Fraiture

Happy Birthday To Who? – John Hammond vs. Nikolai Fraiture

Being associated with cool people can rub off. Stick somebody nobody would even remember to forget with others deemed talented/attractive and suddenly their previous ineptitude/ugliness is ignored. Look at Ringo Starr. Take Andrew Ridgely. Or even Joe Biden.

This is the trap that Nikolai Fraiture and John Hammond, both born on November 13th, lure you into. They nstantly conjure images of more celebrated peers and deflect away from the fact that they aren't necessarily poster material themselves. Now, Fraiture has a lot of advantages. He's in The Strokes. He just recorded his first solo album with assistance from the delectable Regina Spektor and the devilishly underrated Nick Zinner. He plays bass in The Strokes. He looks like he wouldn't even realise it was his birthday, let alone care, plus it sounds like his parents named him from the Rolling Stone big book of baby names. He also happens to be a member of The Strokes.

John Hammond has some equally name-drop worthy links. He is a bluesman revered by others of his ilk as a player on a par with the greats. Dylan's classic '66 tour wouldn't have happened without him, having introduced The Band to young song and dance man. Few can lay claim to having Jimi Hendrix in their backing group, let alone Eric Clapton too, but Hammond managed it for a short stint. He even narrated and produced a documentary on Robert Johnson. While Fraiture and his mates have managed three albums in a decade, Hammond has churned out a commendable 30.

Yet, for two successful musicians, they find themselves sliding down the bill. Fraiture's band, Nickel Eye, are writing songs that sound like bad Sting covers and Hammond now looks like a bad Sting cover. The former is being backed by a British band called South (No? Me neither), while the latter is performing on a cruise, like a rhythm and blues Jane Mcdonald.

It has to go to Fraiture, if only for the sake of the birthday cake not going to waste. Hammond played his 4000th gig this summer, so it would be a miracle if he had enough energy to blow his candles out. He would end up giving it to the pensioners on his cruise. Fraiture, on the other hand, can call upon New York's glitterati for a party and, well, maybe if the old gang meet up, share a few slices, who knows, a fourth Strokes album could appear before you can say happy birthday Nikolai Fraiture.

Fleet Foxes - Live

Fleet Foxes
Shepherd's Bush Empire
Monday, 10th November 2008

Shepherd's Bush is sold out and feels like it; polite, sticky bodies stand motionless in anticipation as the band makes their inconspicuous, timely entrance. They begin without introduction, introverted and calm as their coo delicious harmonies and slip into Sun It Rises. Its withdrawn clarity rings out and welcomes all to Fleet Foxes' evening.

They look exactly as they sound, singer Robin Pecknold's beard and straggly hair appears less a preference than a necessity. The otherworldly melodies of Quiet House and He Doesn't Know Why contain grandeur and solemnity, placing the crowd on tenterhooks already, waiting for a spark to shock the tranquil splendour into a more strident bliss. Instead, the band starts talking. We aren't used to this with American bands, or any for that matter. Pecknold and drummer J. Tillman, who earlier played his own solo set, don't share clichés, instead revealing some of the wit and sensitivity that is so distinct in their songs.

"We should dig a well on this stage and provide drinking water for the whole of the UK," mocks Tillman, midway through a twisting rant on international relations. It's natural, understated and whimsically different; in three minutes they say more onstage than Kings of Leon have in three years. Without the songs though, it's just five folky fellows babbling on, so they launch back into "the anthem of Foxlandia", White Water Hymnal. More upbeat, it pleads for a Beach Boys comparison as the choral whispers simmer past, though this is only apt if the Wilson brothers had frequently foraged in wilderness rather than cruised the seafront.

Mykonos steals the night, capturing the elements of their attraction in a simpering compilation of harmonising and agonising vocal lucidity. Pecknold revels in his thoughts, head bobbing, unconcerned by reaction and unmoved by applause. It's almost stiflingly gracious in the crowd and the sense of devotion all around suggests the band don't need to excel to get their adulation, but do anyway.

Considering they have just one album, it's a lengthy set at 75 minutes and Pecknold has time to unearth a poignant cover of Judie Sill's Crayon Angels. Returning for an encore alone on the stage, his poised control of the engrossed audience is absolute, ears pricking to catch each strum and every wholesome wail of his nourishing voice. As the band joins him for a closing Blue Mountain Ridge, the only complaint is a failure to end tracks with any verve, instead insisting on trailing out in hazy murmurs. Still, this aids the process of immersion in the set, allowing everyone to remain gripped without feeling consciously thrilled. It's going to be interesting to see where they go next. Though if you ask them while they're playing, they will probably tell you.

Happy Birthday To Who? – Joni Mitchell vs. Sharleen Spiteeri

Happy Birthday To Who? – Joni Mitchell vs. Sharleen Spiteeri

There are only so many candles to go around, so it's nigh-on impossible to celebrate the birthday of more than one musical luminary on any given day. So, through a detailed, methodological process of unadulterated bias, I will seek to find out who is worthy of the music world's adulation on a particular date each week.

November 7th marks the day on which both seminal folk artist Joni Mitchell and Texas singer Sharleen Spiteeri were born. Both are spirited females who at different times in their career have moved from stardom to obscurity with frequent regularity. They are also joined by the fact they have both released an album this year that was largely ignored by the rational world and principally abhorred by those who heard it.

However, the resonance of past glories lives on. Mitchell played a key part in music's development, influencing countless peers in the 60s and 70s and sleeping with most of them. Her power as a performer peaked with the faultless album Blue in 1971, a landmark for singer-songwriters that included songs such as A Case Of You and River. Bob Dylan and Neil Young have played with her, Led Zeppellin and Sonic Youth have written songs about her and Prince and Kanye West have covered her. She has 20 records under her belt and has also regularly charmed with sniping comments such as calling modern music "a cesspool".

It is arguable that the various hits Spiteeri sung with Texas can be included in this melodic gutter, but undoubtedly tracks such as Summer Sun and In Demand were popular. In fact, it's odds on you're mum has hummed Say What You Want while doing the hoovering at some point. During the barren years of post-Britpop, everyone had to listen to something and Spiteeri did at fill the feisty Scottish girl role without being as face-achingly irritating as KT Tunstall.

Nevertheless, the closest she will ever get to legendary status is when she dressed up like Elvis for a video, although Ricky Gervais did immortalise her band in The Office. Apparently, fictional Wernham Hogg boss David Brent toured with the group in their early days, and even then they knew he was better than them.

If Mitchell's emotive, heartbroken soprano was representative of a female society breaking away from oppression but unsure where to go, Spiteeri's neat, anthemic pop was a symbol of a nauseating Nineties night out with Bacardi Breezers and bezzie mates in tow. Let's face it, Mitchell is an iconic trailblazer, while Spiteeri is more difficult to defend than a Rory Delap throw-in. There will be closer contests in the future, but in the meantime, happy birthday to Joni Mitchell.

The Last Shadow Puppets - Live

The Last Shadow Puppets
Hammersmith Apollo, London
Sunday 26th October 2008

In the week when rock stars play at making grown up music at the Electric Proms, Alex Turner bids a bombastic farewell to his own triumphant pet project. However, The Last Shadow Puppets work regardless of Turner's standing, not because of it and it shows tonight. He's the draw, the face that most faces are facing, but is happy to be a part of this victorious venture rather than its sole focus.

The stage is filled with a 16-piece orchestra, a keyboardist, bassist, drummer and Turner's songwriting partner, Miles Kane. Any ideas this isn't a joint enterprise are soon extinguished by a thundering open rendition of In My Room. Kane is to the fore, a tour de force of snarling vitriol, as rough as Turner is smooth. By the time it gets to his own showcase, Separate And Ever Deadly, Kane's cutting delivery bites as sharp as the searing strings that underpin it.

Before this, there is the small matter of the year's most unfeasible sing-along. Album title track The Age Of The Understatement is aired second and its blazing backing and riff heralds a change in backdrop and a statement of towering intent. Its convoluted rhythms and pernickety rhyming aren't built to be a conventional rabble-rouser but manage it anyway. The duo trade lines while the orchestra caresses beneath, creating a masterful tapestry that is never quite lost regardless of the raucous reaction it triggers.

In slower moments, the strum of Turner's acoustic guitar and flow of his mellow drawl can be spellbinding, particularly on My Mistakes Were Made For You. While Kane's guitar reminds of his psychedelic day job in the Rascals, Turner croons with masterful nonchalance, his suited features nailing the line between smugness and incredulity at the surreal situation he has manoeuvred himself into. Arctic Monkeys fans stand silent as Leonard Cohen tracks air, nodding knowingly. When two blokes behind who couldn't string a sentence together without numerous profanities join in the chorus to Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra's Paris Summer, which supporting band Ipso Facto's singer Rosie returns to provide a sultry vocal for, it's clear to see the impact the band is having.

The influences that went into making the album are apparent as more covers fill the set. The Beatles' I Want You (She's So Heavy) is delivered with flair, Bowie's In The Heat of The Morning with swagger and style. But it's the gall of Cohen's Memories that steals the show. They're in full Rat Pack mode as jokes regarding some biscuits thrown onstage ensue and this continues as Kane swings the mic around and parades a bra tossed his way from the audience.

The sheer comfort in which they present themselves and their seemingly fanciful musical ideas is refreshing. Turner's success provides a platform from which to elaborate and experiment, but the gig is a resounding success because the songs are as well crafted as they are indulgent. Attention turns to Turner's next move with the Monkeys now, but the ringing applause that greets closer Standing Next To Me's climax suggests a revisit for the Last Shadow Puppets could prove just as popular in the future.

Comebacks and Cantaloupes - The Spinto Band

Comebacks and Cantaloupes - The Spinto Band

After a successful debut, many bands spend the time between albums picking up addictions, model girlfriends and each others faults in the studio. The Spinto Band went back to their Delaware hometown and found employment on a market.

"When I'm not in the band I work on a vegetable stand," says Joey, one of the band's guitarists. "It's (the band's other guitarist) Jon's girlfriend's uncle's. It's real nice, it's good to work outside. I know how to check a tomato and I pick a good cantaloupe." It's pretty clear that the trappings of rock and roll excess haven't exactly consumed the Spinto Band.

Over two years ago, the infectious youthfulness of Nice and Nicely Done announced them as the carefree surprise stars of the summer, attracting admirers with their loose mix of inverted lyrics and bouncy pop. However, label problems led to a lengthy delay before new album Moonwink was able to be released. Recorded a year ago, it is now finally coming out. While singer Nick struggles with his mobile phone's reception in the well-known coffee chain we find ourselves in, Joey and Thomas, the group's co-frontman/bassist, seem a little nervous about the reception the record might receive. "I was kind of worried, because lots of people told us we waited too long to release our second record," Thomas admits. "Which we did," interjects Joey. Thomas explains: "Music trends tend to be fickle, there's always a new hot sound. Bands get hyped up and knocked down; of course we're worried about that. I do feel a little uneasy about the reception to this album."

Nevertheless, their UK tour has been well-received. Joey puts a philosophical slant on their situation. "Some people, some critics are not going to like us now, but there's not much we can do about it. Without hype, people who might enjoy our music will never get to hear it, so we accept it's part of it." Still, venues have been filled with folk recalling the old numbers and appearing receptive to the new ones. Their colourful personalities and songs about tractors seem to have endeared them to the British. "People have been coming out and remembering who we are," nods Thomas. "English venues have that certain smell, kind of damp, which is nice. I feel less awkward playing to English audiences. We're in tune with the British landscape now. We keep seeing people we knew a few years ago, it's like 'hey, I forget you existed, but now that you're here, that's great'."

For the welcome back to be prolonged though, they need some dazzling new songs, of the calibre of old favourites Oh Mandy and Late. In lead single Summer Grof they have a ditzy whirlwind of a comeback track, a front to guide people into the new album. "The songs are much better now than when we recorded them," insists Joey. "We've become more aware that we're a six person band. On the first record there wasn't as much going on, arrangement-wise. Now there's always something that catches the ear. It wasn't a conscious decision, but we're glad it's happened that way." In the past, it has often seemed some of the band are redundant amongst the simple melodies they create, especially the three guitarists. But on the likes of Later On there is the sense of full involvement from all, without sacrificing the band's simplistic core in search of complexity. Fun is the band's main attraction for fans as well as their central inspiration for making music.

This was clear last time they plied the UK festival circuit, showering the crowd with Party Rings biscuits at Leeds Festival. "Party Rings? The little pink things?" Thomas questions. "Ah yes. They were gifts and as we were at a festival, I worried that people were hungry. Usually we have Hob Nobs – but if you throw them, they kinda hurt. Remember that." Advice on hurling biscuits noted, Gigwise decides to venture into the often-sour world of bands and record labels. Having been dropped, the Spinto Band are prime candidates to vent their anger about the world of corporate corruptness. According to Thomas, this is way off the mark. "Look, our label was in trouble financially. The music business is in a strange state right now, people are freaking out." Joey adds: "We don't take it personal. Our team was really great, we don't hate them. We're not bitter. Now Fierce Panda want to put out this record, so, hey, that's all fine with us."

The sheer friendliness of the band is the overwhelming impression they give, which comes across onstage too. It's easy to buy into the frivolous music they produce, from the kazoos that feature on Brown Boxes to the twisted humour the group shares. On illegal downloading, Thomas states he would "rather not piss people off, it can be a good thing". On other bands, Joey has nothing but praise. It is possible their new record could get swallowed by a crowded market, especially with its sunshine sound coming in winter, or it may become another creeper hit. Regardless, the group won't be overawed either way. After all, there are tomatoes to be checked, and cantaloupes don't pick themselves.

Albert Hammond Jr - Live

Albert Hammond Jr
Scala, London
Sunday, 5th October

"Who the fuck is Julian?" shouts one particularly idiotic member of the audience as Albert Hammond Jr stands nonchalantly centre-stage. As one of two guitarists in this generation's finest musical renovators, Albert is a stylish cog in The Strokes' seamless machine of indie cool, happily decorating the band's crowded tapestry with chugging rhythms for Casablancas' drawl to clamber over. Solo, he's the star, but takes to the job with the same inconspicuous charisma. Different songs, altered hair and a dissimilar attitude make it absolutely clear from the offset that this is Albert's show, without ever straining to prove that's the point.

He looks anything but understated, a flaming red shirt peeking out of a snow white suit, looking every inch the rock star with supermodel girlfriend. Yet his inflection betrays a relaxation unbecoming of someone really seeking a frontman ego-trip. He never chases lines or flares into solos, just hitting notes and fitting into songs, such as on opener Everyone Gets A Star. Its three twiddling guitars and vacant lyricism sets the tone, before The Boss Americana introduces Albert's five-piece band as a force equally worthy of attention. Uninspiring on record, it's morphed into a vociferous, lengthy burn through Television, featuring a sliding riff that is forced to jostle for attention with the thunderous rhythm section. It's as charged, as good and admittedly as Strokes-like as it gets.

A great grating vocal line on last single Gfc's choruses keeps the tempo high, before the humpty dumpty melody of Call An Ambulance brings a wonderfully playful element to the set. In Transit is ruined slightly by a fat ageing man throwing a punch at a pair of obnoxious buffoons whose only purpose in life appears to be to shout "Albert!" interminably. But he's unflustered by it, gazing distantly before ripping into the stinging Victory at Montery, complete with a snaking bassline pulsating but nonchalant enough to diffuse the nonsense.

His guitar work is impeccable and the thrill of his Townsend-aping circular strumming and distinctive high hold is enough to satisfy most, yet he fills the stage with other impressive players, happy to allow extravagance from his band-mates while he concentrate on acting gloriously unfocused. However, there isn't that feeling that this could all implode, regardless of the ban-flouting cigarette he casually smokes. It's tight and utterly controlled, Albert looking far too content to be reckless. The set switches between the more continuous tone of new album Como Te Llama and debut Yours To Keep's bursts of balladry and rock, with the weightiness of the latter just winning out. Back To The 101 brings uncomplicated catchiness and first encore track Blue Skies keenly captures his mellow sensibilities.

The range of songwriting, from touching to throwaway, gives the show scope to build into a rounded shape, but the crescendo of a blistering finish never really arrives. The group remaining unmoved by requests for fan favourite Hard To Live In The City, instead opting for another new song. This is Albert's only UK date so far to promote his album and it's understandable. It also fits, not allowing for a show-stopping finale or other indulgences. With a solid collection of songs, top level musicianship and, well, a Stroke, there's no need to overplay anything. The set simply glides down before the band slips off and the crowd drifts out, thoroughly satisfied, but still in no doubt as to who Julian is.

Bloc Party - Live

Bloc Party
Kentish Town Forum
Tuesday 30th September 2008-10-03

There are few less enjoyable ways to start a gig than being told by a host to scream as loud as you can, because Keane's fans were loud the previous night and it would be very uncool to be quieter. There are also a minute number of propositions more annoying than being told by giant advertising screens to tune into a radio station to relive the show you have yet to live. Yet this is how Bloc Party enter the stage. From then on, the only infuriating thing is how fast the time passes.

Before there's really chance to settle down, it's over. Two encores, one extremely long and another tremendously memorable, sail past. It's all in the timing. The band have, unlike on their last two albums, captured the live knack of structuring a set so that it never settles on a theme or a mood other than progression. This is done through specifics, such as playing new track/old track/older track, but is more noticeable in the subtleties of numbers. Song For Clay has been twisted into a behemoth of an anthem, Kele revelling in having it's bookish intro boomed back at him, before an ear-singeing riff finds itself in unaccustomed surroundings, having been crafted with stadiums in mind. But before its resonance can settle, it revolves into Banquet, a frenzy of clashing simplicity that makes up for lack of freshness through sheer tactless immediacy.

It’s the slower songs that insist on awareness though, no longer sounding buried in between Prayers and Positive Tensions, allowed to build and roam as intended. The gig sold out in five minutes, it's full of super-fans and if the group feel like playing an extended sitar solo it would probably go down a storm. This allows bassist Gordon, back in the fold after missing the summer's festivals, to settle on a xylophone for a while and Russell to toss about with his guitar pedals like a kid in Toys R Us without removing any element of enjoyment or purpose from the set. Signs' delivery is affecting, not cringe-worthy in the flesh, and This Modern Love another strident stroll of emotive relief, setting the tone for So Here We Are. Still a breathless moment, the ode to nothing thrills and cajoles, its measured release far more exhilarating than the more direct delectation of Mercury and Hunting For Witches.

Still playful despite the edginess their sound creates and demands, Matt is animated and shirtless on drums, while Kele even allows his audience to choose the final song – Skeletons – by throwing the mic into the crowd. The house lights are already up when they play the cult favourite, but it works nonetheless. Beforehand, Helicopter closes the first encore, almost an afterthought now. They still do indie guitar hits better than most of the charts, but appear past noticing. Splitting the attention between reflex reaction songs to bounce about to and acute moments to cling to, minutes ebb and flow with conclusions brilliantly unresolved. Maybe if, as the big screens still beseech, the gig is listened back to on the radio, a completely different reaction from the same set could be garnered. It's easy to take whatever you want from this, which is affirmation that Bloc Party can take this wherever they want.

Nail The Cross Festival - Live

Nail The Cross
Various Venues, New Cross
Saturday 27th September 2008


Pub crawls are a peculiar tradition that involve large groups of people walking, swaggering, swaying, staggering and finally falling from bar to bar, with the manner of transport correlating to the level of drunkenness. Nail The Cross is pretty much this, with added bands. What starts of as a rather well turned out crowd listening to rock music of the utmost calibre slowly turns into average night out fare, then becomes interestingly weird, before ending up a rather glorious mess. This, though not really a festival, makes for a decent night out. Maybe more pub crawls should be like it.


Upon arrival at New Cross' hallowed high street, The Hobgoblin is the first port of call and is alive with youthful activity, gig-goers spilling into the canopied garden to pick up passes and strangers, glasses toppling off tables already. A swift turn around the corner and the renowned Goldsmiths Student Union is filling with eager-eyed youngsters – it is the end of Fresher's Week here – awaiting the Archie Bronson Outfit's much-travelled rock fare. Despite being quite a modest crowd for one of the festival's biggest acts, the band brings the evening to an early peak it never quite repeats. This isn't a criticism, the Archie Bronson Outfit just happen to put in a stunning shift, looking utterly out of place in lumberjack shirts, exuding bearded gruffness. Songs crash past, their southern rock aided by the exploits of their particularly dishevelled looking one-man sax section, who plays two instruments at once to summon an eerily epic tone. Cherry Lips is loud and wonderfully coarse, but it’s the almost-cheap progression of Dart For My Sweetheart that is truly memorable. Left to brew until the chorus, counting verses build with internal rhyme, while a nagging riff underpins it all. It sounds simply huge in the shapeless confines of a student bar, keeping people away from the dirt cheap drinks for a full five minutes.

Clinic are up next, with their patented juxtaposition of serious musical exploration and cheesy dress-up draw childishness. Arriving onstage in trademark surgical masks, with matching Hawaii shirts more worthy of mockery than mystique, there's a lot not to like on first look. Luckily, they're an accomplished act who effortlessly switch between sub-genres, with clever chord changes leaving them as adept at delivering keys-driven mid-tempo as high-voltage marauding. Monkey Off My Back is a stomping centre to the set, and despite sometimes veering dangerously close to band-playing-in-the-background-in-an-OC-scene territory, they're worthy headliners. The nature of these one-nighters means that everyone is off elsewhere before they even leave the stage, with many skipping across to the Walpole Arms for Jay Jay Pistolet's acoustic set. The loveable muddle these affairs can be is illustrated as he's just finishing upon arrival, the schedule planner being about as accurate as its spelling of Conor Oberst (Osbert). However, the affable atmosphere prevails as the Amersham Arms is a hop across the road and Micachu & The Shapes are on.

Looking like they could only ever exist in London, Micachu loiters behind the mic, attitude and cheeky contempt fortifying her position of control. Their brand of quirky laptop-laden indie is well-received, the crowd taking note of the venue's motto to be "quiet during the quiet bits and loud during the loud bits". It's too one-dimensional after a while, despite some maverick drumming and Micachu's inevitable summoning of a hoover. As the DJs, more of a state than most, begin spinning Mark Morrison, the band aren't done. Playing one more song, Micachu sticks the vacuum to her face, distorts the mic and gets the desired reaction of intrigue and enthusiasm, despite the cleaning instrument having very little musical effect.

Speaking of which, CocknBull Kid are on next. Exciting in appearance and stage presence, their music drifts past without doing very much. On record, spiky arrangements and biting lyrics stand out, but live both are lost and unless glancing towards the stage it may as well be DJs back on. It is pretty quickly, with the place seemingly busier now the bands are finished and certainly livelier. Casper C continues in the Amersham, but such is the nature of these festival crawls, a shamble back to Goldsmiths for the Count, him of many monikers, is called for as he spins until the even earlier hours. There's a fair few people preferring this to any guitar-based offerings the evening has offered, though it's questionable if many more can hear by now. There's a variety to the night and venues that allows attendees to dip into everything, but it never completely satisfies on any front. The novelty of these events has certainly worn off and outstanding line-ups are required to make them more than trips to the pub with entertainment laid on. Still, it's another admirable attempt and is well-executed enough to survive the winter. For the majority though, it's back to the non-band bar crawls until next year.

The Spinto Band - Live

The Spinto Band
The Borderline
Thursday, 25th September 2008


The Spinto Band are back in England, which can only mean one thing - the kazoos are here too. Over two years since they arrived in the UK, carried by a frenzy of hearsay and hype, the Delaware six-piece could have returned to London with a new attitude and mature approach. To the delight of everyone present, they haven't, they still sound exactly the same. That's not to say it's an identical show, with unheard tracks from their upcoming album packing the set. But newcomers to the band, plenty of whom are present here tonight, would be hard-pressed to tell the difference between new and old.

To their credit, the new songs don't include kazoos. Brown Boxes does, however, and is aired early on. Its cupid/stupid lyrics and bouncy, bubbly nature is painfully infectious, bringing bobbing heads onstage and off. Worries the giddy joy of this old favourite will be isolated prove unheralded though, as new number Later On brings similar toe-tapping tomfoolery. There's cleanliness to their sound, the six instruments managing to fit together without sounding too jumbled or complicated. It's all terribly simple, with joint frontmen Nick and Thomas naturally switching singing duties.

Crack The Whip is slightly more refined, bass-driven and sung with blithe understatement by Nick, the humour and slickness of the delivery drawing the crowd in. Old favourites slip into the cracks between cuts from new record Moonwink, papering over any hesitancy from the audience. Current single Summer Grof is already a beloved fixture in the show, its circular rhythm and cute refrains of two-faced honesty as punchy as they are playful. Lapping it up, the band repeatedly thanks their audience, to the point where it would be annoying if their music wasn't so inanely endearing.

Nothing is challenging though, it's a gig for all ages and faces. It's difficult to care what has been played and what hasn't, let alone keep track, as each oldie and newbie contains the same all-encompassing goofiness. Being so undemanding takes talent though, a knack for nagging melodies persistently allowing the audience to connect with whatever the band cajoles them with next; there's always certainty the safety net that some Beach Boys harmonies will arrive before the final chorus. Technical proficiency is buried beneath the bouncing, the keys never plodding and each member's contribution knitting neatly into the sound. Three guitars sometimes seem a tad unwarranted, especially on the keyboard-led Pumpkins and Paisley. Nevertheless, the clear camaraderie in the band justifies the stage being so crowded.

Oh Mandy validates turning up. Its glowing vocals and effortless exquisiteness are irresistible, standing up above and beyond the rest of the set's fun but dispensable fodder. Returning for an encore, it's another past hit, Late, that brings the jolliness to a conclusion. Containing the rare quality of songs with verses more catchy than their choruses, it heralds an unconventional sing-along. Most new tracks seem destined to slot sweetly into the Spinto catalogue but lack the pithy immediacy of Nice and Nicely Done, yet there's little hint of future glories. It's all a bit too enjoyable to care about things like that though, pass that kazoo…

We're Already Dead – The Dodos

We're Already Dead – The Dodos

"Why are we called The Dodos? We're already dead. The only place you can go from there is to come back to life, start over." A band seeking to reinvent itself even as the embers of its beginning still burn, The Dodos have no wish to look back. Despite this, their music meanders into the past at every turn, and then hurls itself forward in the crash of a trash can, the personality of a tempo change. They don't sound like right now either, not really fitting into a handy nook, regardless of their folk sensibilities and stylishly dishevelled looks. In their early twenties, they're a throwback to something nobody can remember remembering, so they end up sounding impossibly new.

At V Festival last month, they sounded plain awful. With just 27 people watching, in the midst of that glorified advertisement, they played without any hint of the subtleties they are capable of. "It was so sponsored, so spread out and huge that we were just stuck with nobody watching us," bemoans Meric Long, the band's nonchalant mouthpiece. "We did see Amy Winehouse, but it was hard to have any fun at that monstrosity." Back in the UK for their own tour, at considerably smaller venues than the buzz about them in their native US is allowing them to perform, they appear at home. Logan Kroeber, a tight, persistently driving presence on drums, is far more chipper offstage, exuding the cavalier exuberance of a man used to hitting things with sticks for a living. "This tour is better than V Fest," he laughs. "So much better. We go home tomorrow, so we're celebrating tonight."

The concept of home is far from straightforward for a band getting used to the cross-country necessity of incessant touring. "Home is wherever I can relax," Logan offers. For Meric, it's more convoluted. "It's a crazy cycle every night, it's groundhog day. I forget what happened the night before every morning. Going into each show, there's that sense of anxiety, nervousness, excitement. After the show, it feels like I've taken a huge dump and I feel so much better. Sorry…" He trails off but there's more; pauses are a fixture of his rhetoric, slipping from eloquence to crassness as his tracks move from delicacy to coarseness. "I don't feel like when we visit places we have really visited them. You only see cities at night, and then only the venues, the bars. Home is in the head. It has to be."

So could this displacement from any physical sense of belonging be behind the band's second, breakthrough album, Visiter? Spelt incorrectly on purpose after a child's drawing the band was given, songs on the record such as Park Song and Walking touch upon the dislocation from regularity visitors can feel, even in ordinary settings. "To be honest, I like to leave songs to individual interpretations," Meric explains. "The song is this big cloud, that I don't really understand, or have a good grasp on, I just sense it. I infuse it with things from my personal life, but it would be half-assed to say they're completely personal."

Larger-scale influences than the undemanding unrequited love of Undeclared are often present though, with the possible political upheaval happening back in his physical residence, the US, dominating Meric's thoughts as much as it is the newspapers. The subject of elections is a marked one, bringing a guarded enthusiasm from the band. Even Joe, the group's multi-instrumentalist who is as at home hitting a dustbin as tapping a xylophone, looks animated at the subject despite offering little but politeness and swigs of his beer during the conversation. "It's at that point where there's something new every day, it's a pretty exciting time right now, something is going on that hasn't happened in a long time," states Meric.

The theory that political upheaval could underpin changes to the artistic community divides the band though. Logan isn't convinced. "I can't see it," he frowns. "Of course, it depends what happens, but I really can't imagine any creative spark being influenced by who gets elected or anything." Meric, meanwhile, claims his songwriting is on "the same shit" it always has been, but readily acknowledges the impact November's election result could have on the band. "It will be big, both ways. People are going to be so stoked, or think everything is so lame, depending on the result. That's got to have an effect, there's got to be a change."

Transformation is also happening within a band whose songs seem to be growing increasingly into balanced, meticulously planned affairs, developing to a level beyond the organic playfulness of early material. With new single Fools getting airplay on Radio One, could the leap to the big time come too soon? "We wanna get huge!" exclaims a pokerfaced Logan. "We're going to try to blow their brains out." Meric is keen to join in with such droll facetiousness. "You see that Rolling Stones film? That's peanuts to what we'll be." Logan again: "Ever been to the moon? That big." But how, Gigwise wonders? "Trampoline," they deadpan in unison, in-jokes abound.

But the smirks mask an ambition that rears up in their technical acumen onstage, their bursts of passion off it. They want success, they're human after all.
"It's baby steps," says Joe. "We're just creating an impression that we couldn't get big. We could go there right now, but we want some kind of story to tell when we get there." A few more catchy singles to compliment their skin-itching slow-burners and they may just get their wish. There's a lot of life in the Dodos, for a band that's dead already.

The Dodos - Live

ULU, London
Tuesday 16th September 2008

The Dodos were last seen playing to a gathering of 27 people seeking refuge from the shiny crassness of V Festival in Chelmsford, looking apologetically bored and sounding understandingly uninspired.

Tonight, they find themselves in the convivial confines of ULU, so welcoming that there's a student swimming pool next to the dressing room and as much tea and raisins as growing boys could need. By the time they enter the low lit stage, the atmosphere is more mystical than hysterical, full of fans eager to see if Meric Long and co. can deliver, but genial enough to clap anyway if they don't.

Thankfully, this is an on night. From the opening strums of Meric's guitar, the mesmeric quality of the music is all-encompassing. Songs drift past in fuzzy hazes, the juddering percussion adding an element of drive to the singular, painstakingly accurate guitar subtleties. Soon a third member joins the fray, crashing about as he hits a dustbin, a xylophone and whatever else is handy.

There is an air of chaotic, organic creativity to many songs that sounds so ludicrously free-flowing that it can't possibly be unprepared. As it turns out, it isn't. Looping vocals are added with a tap of Meric's feet, while a tambourine backing track appears from nowhere at one point. However, the technical aptitude to play so unreservedly and yet plan so acutely is startling, making for truly thrilling tracks like Jodi. Beginning inauspiciously, it builds into a hypnotic curve, seeping tension, resolutely gripping but never quite allowing the audience to grasp it.

Contrasting styles and a reignited joy in playing – this is the last night of their UK tour and the promise of a return to the US is clearly a motivator for their performance – make for an engaging sight on stage. While Meric sits crookedly, playing the coy anti-frontman side-stage, the others either rock under the table or bang their sticks. Joe is a structure of solidity on drums, motivating rhythms onwards with skilful, penetrative kit work. It's a peculiar sensation they conjure, the audience helplessly twitching in nods of approval as the plundering catchiness of Fools begins. It is almost an anthem despite itself, provoking a chorused response.

The considered gracefulness of Ashley stands out, stripped of the stomping drive of other numbers but maintaining an irresistible aural coercion. An encore of Undeclared, a lullaby-like reflection of quaintness, plus the blues faux-mess of closer Paint the Rust, nails the challenges and attractions of this developing band. Brimful of talent, their ideas can sometimes run amok and leave the crowd behind, still waiting for a beat straight enough to tap to. But there is ability ever present, converting cynics to sympathisers in split seconds and convincing that the Dodos aren't just another silly name.

London Airwaves Festival - Review

Airwaves London Festival 2008
Friday 19th September
Various Venues, East London


"Is anybody else coming to Iceland then?" the Young Knives enquire. "No? Just us then. We'll send you a fucking postcard." Yes, most of the bands at Airwaves London are here because a trip to the far more alluring surroundings of Reykjavík is part of the package. Most of the crowd are here because it's Friday night in east London and this is what you do on Friday night in east London. It seems there have been more one day festivals popping up this summer than there have been hot days, with most sinking under the radar. Thanks to the association of this one with its big Icelandic brother, plus a slightly less indie-only feel than many others, it's crept into the consciousness of a fair few gathered in Shoreditch tonight.

Having tracked down a pub to pick up some passes, a wander around to take in the atmosphere of the event seems in order. Generally, it feels like Brick Lane often does at night; vibrant, dirty and filled with people rushing around with little purpose other than to look lover-ly and get to the next bar. There are burlesque dancers lining the streets and hordes of kids drinking nonchalantly on the street, but not much sign of a festival going on until inside the various pubs acting as venues.

Thankfully the wristband-based queuing nightmares of the likes of Camden Crawl are avoided here and it's refreshingly straightforward, bar a power-crazed bouncer, to get into Vibe. It soon becomes clear that the main reason for the lack of a backlog is that nobody is bothering to go out until the small hours. These New Puritans are on stage, churning out their surprisingly fashionable electro-by-numbers. Blessed with a charismatic singer in Jack Barnett, complete with a chain mail outfit, they entertain those here early – 10.30pm – with a brisk set of laptop driven rock. It's catchy, but all a bit harmless. When talk in the crowd turns to admiration for the singer's trainers (remember the ones you had at primary school that flash red when you walk? You got a free pair of shinpads with them signed by Alan Hansen sometimes) it is clear apathy is setting in.

The Young Knives are on next though; probably the festival's biggest draw in terms of profile. As irreverent and sweaty as ever, they take to the stage and promptly declare it, flippantly, the House of Lords' favourite haunt. Soon the darting, driving rhythm of Terra Firma is thrilling the considerably swelled audience, with the gap between stage and crowd disappearing. However, it still feels a bit half-hearted. This isn't the Young Knives' arena and they know it. When they make a remark about it being "a bad night to wear a woollen suit" because of the heat, they peer back at a crowd that would undoubtedly wear a dozen layers if they thought it looked good, regardless of temperature considerations. Nevertheless, they air a new track that doesn't quite sound finished and is all the better for it and entertain in their idiosyncratic way.

A wander across to 93 Feet East beckons, where the numbers really are noticeable. A barbecue outside is attracting attention, but in the back room Cazals have already begun. Their two-pronged guitar attack is abrasive and the likes of Somebody Somewhere are jaunty affairs, sung with the passion to be expected for a home turf gig like this. However, it gets tired quickly, as does the crowd, already thinking of the manic treat that lies ahead.

Sooner than expected, Digitalism take to the DJ booth. Having been fixtures of the electro scene for some time, it's a finely-honed act, ebbing and flowing with heavy beats in the right places, getting the texture between stylish licks and cheesy guffaws just about right. Not that it really matters when there's foam piping sailing across the crowd, people dancing on every table and sweat dripping off their faces. Everyone in here would dance to anything right now, Digitalism's reputation preceding them, making whether they're any good or not rather immaterial. Regardless, it's a fine set, provoking a prolonged stage invasion that never really disperses for the rest of the evening.

Upon leaving around three, the music is still raging, there's all manner of lewd acts going on in the toilet and people are still waiting to get inside. There's even a car park rave continuing as people paw around the street searching for naughtiness and night buses. For a one day festival in London, with all the problems that entails, Airwaves doesn't do too badly. It still just feels like wandering from a typical gig into another decent show. But that's good enough for the rest of the year, so as long as your expectations aren't too high, it's alright here too. But yes, Young Knives, we'd prefer to be in Iceland as well.

London Airwaves - Preview

What Is It?

An attempt to bring the undoubted appeal of Iceland Airwaves to the decidedly less picturesque surroundings of east London. The appeal of a musical jaunt in lovely Reykjavik is clear, as is the distinctive allure of a day falling out of Shoreditch's seediest bars. London Airwaves seeks to combine the two in one day of music, culture and late-night revelry.

When And Where?
Pubs, bars and even an old warehouse in east London will play host to bands, with 93 Feet East, Cargo, Bar Music Hall, Vibe Bar, The Macbeth, Hoxton Bar & Kitchen, Old Blue Last and the Hearn Street car park all joining the fun.

Five To Watch

The Young Knives
Often better value comically than musically, they nonetheless always entertain and are seasoned pros at wooing festival crowds with riffs as cutting as the House of Lords' quips.

Florence and the Machine
Simplistic folky fun from Florence, whose quirky songs can turn into irresistible pocket gems when witnessed live.

The Teenagers
Posing aplenty from the youthful Parisians, whose style over substance sound and energetic show is sure to get the crowds going in east London's favourite haunts.
Metronomy
The kooky – as in eccentric, not like Luke Pritchard, thank goodness – indie charmers look set to thrill Airwaves audiences with their distinctive take on experimental pop, having been a mainstay of the festival season.
Crookers
For those still standing, a late-night set from Crookers could bring the curtain down on the festival in startling style, with a set of house-influenced, hip hop dance ready to confuse and amuse anybody not already lost on the night bus.

One To Miss

Wild Beasts
Critical darlings for being different, they also manage to be an utterly dull live prospect, with a myriad of musical ideas combining all at once to make aa monotonous, annoyingly sung, mess.

Playing A Rare Festival Date

Sam Isaac
Ok, so he's played lots of festivals, but not usually the boutique kind. His pop delectation could be a disastrous booking, or may add an extra dimension. Worth finding out, either way.

Inside Tip

The Whip
Despite being billed exactly the same as every other new rave latecomers in the past few years, The Whip are actually a pretty fine crossover band with fewer gimmicks and more tunes than your average glowstick-wielders.

Be At London Airwaves If You Like
The sound of Iceland Airwaves but haven't got the time/money/disposition to trek across the continent, especially when there's a decent line-up just down the road.

Avoid If You Hate
Kids who are far too cool to even consider having fun, trying out new bands and venues that were last decorated before any of the acts playing were conceived.

Festival Tactics
Choose your pubs early and wisely. The biggest acts are sure to pack out these wonderfully intimate venues to capacity, leaving many moodily mooching to see bands they don't want to, regardless of wristbands.

Fashionsta Or Folky?
Oh, it will be so fashionable that entry may be judged upon haircuts alone. Not really, but the punters certainly won't be dressed for an average night down the pub.

Alcohol Of Choice
The Old Blue Last has been known to do an evil cocktail, but generally weak beer in old pubs is the order of the day.

Take Your Mum Score
1/10 – If your mum knew what east London was really like she may not let you go again, so best leave her at home. Besides, if you haven't heard of half of the bands, there's no way she has.