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.