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Minus Jack, Napoleon III, Just Handshakes (We're British) and Theoretical Girl & The Equations Blank Generation Disco at 1 in 12 Club, Bradford

Minus Jack

Spikes are always welcome in young bands and Minus Jack are fresh faced and ready to make interesting noises. Having gone some distance in the short career they have to date they played the second stage of Kendal Calling in the summer they are a rare mix of confidence with a youthful naiveté.

Guitars thrashed in pleasing ways later Napoleon III takes to the stage in front of a four track and behind a set of three microphones offering his first missive about how what he does is not his proper job, it just pays the bills to which we assume he means a day job and not playing live.

That said Napoleon III seems perturbed about something - imagine a really grumpy version of The Voluntary Bulter Scheme on a really grumpy day - so perhaps he does find the music a grind. Certainly it is cathartic with him growling at times sinking his songs under layers of noise.

It is well performed with one man making an impressively loud sound and - in a way - crafted. I would never say that Napoleon III was not good but the experience of listening and watching is - to me - repulsive. Napoleon III accurately gets over what is in his head to the audience but I'm not sure I welcome such a vex to my mind.

Lacking spikes and vexment are Just Handshakes (We're British) who are enjoyable but somewhat forgettable. They show the influences routed in Swedish twee pop but lack a modulation in what they do. The first song sounds good, the second like the first and so on.

Theoretical Girl

More individuality can be found in Theoretical Girl who headlines the late running gig with an all too brief run through tracks from her album Divided which playfully narrate the odd tale of unrequited love with the Girl herself Amy switching between keyboard and guitar. There are many women doing singer/songwriter - indeed this site had praised at length Blue Roses and things that Florence's Lungs are worth a listen - and Theoretical Girl sit alongside those being more wry than the one and smarter than the other.

Theoretical Girl convinces with a sturdy performance that lacks any fake self-effacement and flashes with confidence. It seems to be the music of someone playing and singing exactly what she wants, a captivating thing.

Dananananaykroyd, Manchester Orchestra, The Virgins, The Airborne Toxic Event, Little Boots, Funeral For A Friend, Deftones, Fall Out Boy, The Big Pink, Placebo, Friendly Fires, Jamie T, Kings of Leon, Faith No More, Mariachi El Bronx, Fightstar, The Rakes, Eagles of Death Metal, Them Crooked Vultures, Patrick Wolf, Ian Brown, Maxïmo Park, The Prodigy, Arctic Monkeys, Broadway Calls, Noah and The Whale, Lethal Bizzle, The Living End, Metronomy, Brand New, Vampire Weekend, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Bloc Party and Radiohead. at Reading Festival

The Virgins

Manchester Orchestra

Dananananaykroyd

August Bank Holiday, and once again thousands flock to either Reading or Leeds to wear silly hats for three days of binge drinking, post-apocalyptic camping and occasionally a bit of music too. Here is your whirlwind guide to that latter part, starting with Dananananaykroyd, who are worth the stupid name. They’re gloriously chaotic fun as a live act and wake up the early attendees in the NME tent with their double drummers and tendency to play skipping games with lead wires or attack each other with microphones. Pity Manchester Orchestra can’t really match up, their slightly dull rock thudding on until the much hyped Virgins come onstage. Heard of The Virgins? You know, the oh-so cool New York band who play guitars and sing about girls and stuff? Don’t bother if you haven’t. They’re actually quite ignorable, but let the hipsters have their fun.

The Airborne Toxic Event

The Airborne Toxic Event are more interesting, even though they look a bit like they’ve been constructed from Arcade Fire’s cast off clothes and leftover instruments. They also share a similar taste for expanding pop rock into something a little more grandiose, but not quite epic yet. They do have a sizable cult following, so hopefully its A Sign Of Things To Come. Next Little Boots – seemingly the runner up in the current Pop Female epidemic – sings nice Kylie Minogue type songs that she wrote all by herself on a thing that looks like an etch-a-sketch with little bleeping lights on it (it’s called a Tenori-on, it makes music, it costs £789, I want one).

Funeral For A Friend

Deftones

Fall Out Boy

Now we move to the mainstage, only to find Funeral For A Friend playing stroppy sulky music to stroppy sulky kids – a surprise to those of us who assumed everyone must have grown out of them by now. Deftones provide a similar sort of thing, only louder and a little bit more metally, bless them, until Fall Out Boy arrive. Now, I’m 17. I know far too many people who think Fall Out Boy are the voice of our generation, with a sharp wit and some killer tunes too. I personally think they are shit, and the set they play at Reading seems to satisfy both sides. Kids in Vans shoes and skinny grey hoodies go wild at finally seeing their heroes, while I just feel old. I don’t get this. It’s whiny, dull, and nothing special, ok?

Placebo

Time for something more obscure and credible, so off to the Festival Republic stage to see The Big Pink, who specialise in trippy guitars and cool noises, like My Bloody Valentine with the safety on. It’d be interesting to hear them on record. But then back to main stage for yet more teenage angst from people way past adolescence, as Placebo are providing a slightly older generation with their own whiny songs about girls and boys and painkillers via a grown man in eyeliner. Their set is thick with new material, unwise to play for a festival, and so they fall a little flat.

Friendly Fires

Faith No More

Back to NME to get some colour kicked into the veins, as Friendly Fires prove to be enjoyable, with crowds bouncing around and basslines throbbing, and then Jamie T comes on. Before Faith No More were announced, Jamie T was the Friday headliner for this second largest tent, even though he was the sound of three summers ago and has never really made a lasting impression on the general public, but he turns out to be better than expected – his songs are upbeat and he clearly is more talented than his cheeky busker reputation would allow.

Kings of Leon

Sadly once he finishes, the tent drains as everybody goes to watch Kings of Leon, but as I don’t really want to listen to a band whose biggest hit will be turned into a thrush cream advert one day (you know the song I mean), I stay for Faith No More. Smart plan. Although they are chiefly a heavy rock band often verging on metal, they are smarter than the average band, with a wealth of musical styles at their disposal – as anyone who knows them by that Lionel Ritchie cover should know. So while they open with their melodica-driven version of the theme from Midnight Cowboy, they then blast through a selection of pulsing, adrenalised classics, thus bringing proper rock to the festival on a year where it has been a little light, and still throwing in the Eastenders theme (twice) or a singing lesson when they feel like it. Superb.

Incidentally, Kings of Leon were apparently terrible. It says something that when the thrush cream song gets played over the speakers later in the week, the entire crowd boo so loudly they are forced to change the track before the singing even starts. Oh dear.

Mariachi El Bronx

The Bronx

Fightstar

Saturday brings the sunshine, and Mariachi El Bronx set the mood with some vaguely flamencoey stuff, including the jackets, which does make the whole thing look a bit like a tacky side project (it is. The Bronx proper are playing another stage later). It isn’t bad though. Fightstar arrive, where the one with the eyebrows out of Busted tries to play grown up music, but fails – at least Busted could write a tune, even if they did have lyrics like Year 3000.

The Rakes

Eagles of Death Metal

The Rakes come on, and are an improvement - their catchy indie guitar music is pretty good but they sadly ignore their more complex work like Suspicious Eyes. Eagles of Death Metal prove to be utterly pointless – the singer may as well shouted ‘I’m friends with Josh Homme, y’know’ and walked off. The biggest cheers are when the crowd see Dave Grohl lurking by the sides on the screens.

Them Crooked Vultures

This proves to be the giveaway that the rumoured supergroup Them Crooked Vultures really are the mystery band playing NME later. They feature Dave Grohl, Josh Homme and John Paul Jones – all of whom have been in better bands than Eagles of Death Metal. There is a mass exodus to the tent, but first Patrick Wolf has to play, pretentious idiot. He looks like the opening act on a Spinal Tap gay cabaret tour. It’s possible that he can only fit into those outfits after tearing his own genitals off from the sheer thought of himself. No matter, he preens about the stage, climbing the lighting rigs, singing Madonna covers and other things with bleeps and strings and stuff that probably don’t sound as good as they did in his head. Never mind, because Them Crooked Vultures finally come out to a sea of camera phones and shrieks of ‘OhMyGodIt’sDaveGrohl!’(a living member of Led Zeppelin and the world’s only cool ginger are simply not impressive enough for these people). But the group do impress – these are still three very strong talents – and there will be hundreds of people pretending they came to see them later on.

Ian Brown

Ian Brown proves to be a little saddening. It’s not that the music is bad – the solo stuff is pretty good, if unfamiliar, and the rolling bassline of Fool’s Gold makes the crowd do a ‘wow, a Roses track!’ double take. Sadly, it’s this old classic that highlights how poor his voice has become in the past twenty years. It sounds like a strained man attempting karaoke instead of the smooth whisper-hum of glory days. I’m sure my own inner 15 year old isn’t the only one feeling a little let down.

The Prodigy

But cheer up, because Maxïmo Park are here to grab the attention of a crowd bored with the appearance of just-another-indie-band. Paul Smith gyrates around with his bowler hat, occasionally reading from books on stage. They’re a little more captivating than the Rakes were, anyhow, but this is a trivial comparision when compared to The Prodigy. My god, they’re even raving it up in the gourmet noodle stands. Far from pot bellied embarrassments, they still have the ferocious energy to make everyone from the age of twelve to sixty attempt to kill each other in large, wild circle pits. And if you think the set is crazy, try surviving the rush for water afterwards.

Arctic Monkeys

But now is the time for Arctic Monkeys. It seems like just yesterday they were those lovable northern scallywags, posterboys of the ‘MySpace Revolution’, who sounded like the coolest band in history to have ever played a youth club. But now they’re all grown up, with long hair and albums recorded in deserts, and the transformation really comes through. Allthough Humbug was only released the day most people arrived on site, the songs are well received, with a darker and more complex tone than the earlier hits, though those are of course the ones that get everyone singing along. The exchange of favourites such as Mardy Bum or A Certain Romance for obscure Nick Cave covers and large amounts of new material causes murmurs of agreement when somebody shouts ‘PLAY SOMETHING DECENT, YOU C***S!’, but never mind them. Arctic Monkeys have proven that it is possible to remain both fresh and well loved for years after that initial terrifying rush of hype. Well done.

Broadway Calls

Noah and The Whale

Sunday is grey weather and a bleary-eyed collective hangover. I wander from stage to stage for the first bit, and the ones I stayed for thirty seconds of I’m not going to mention here. Broadway Calls are a bunch of Green Day rip offs – even their posture reminds me of their old videos. Noah and The Whale really surprise me – I couldn’t stand Five Years Time, and thought that the rest of their material would be the same. In fact, their music sounds like pale blue waves crashing on silvery grey pebbles, and as they don’t play any ukulele songs they alienate everyone in the crowd but win me over.

Lethal Bizzle

The Living End

Metronomy

Brand New

Lethal Bizzle’s moron rap keeps the crowds happy, but I instead make a few visits to the alternative tent for some comedy (Andy Robinson is one of those middle aged grumps who actually cross the generation barriers, Daniel Townes has his own obscene brilliance, and Jeremy Hardy should go away back to Radio 4). The Living End I didn’t see a lot of either, not that I seemed to miss much, but Metronomy’s furious maths rock beats make them the most attention grabbing band of the day so far – though Brand New’s use of feedback and guitar noises also prick up the ears.

Vampire Weekend

Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Now we reach the Big Bands, the final few acts that everyone has heard of. Vampire Weekend are still cool, bobbing about with their second generation afro beat rhythms, and most of their new material promises much of the same (though there’s none quite like A Punk or Oxford Comma). Yeah Yeah Yeahs are mostly centred around Karen O’s bizarre costume (It’s a parrot! It’s a boiled sweet zebra! It’s a giant beach towel!), but the music itself is worth it. Although their new album drifted more into electro-pop, all aspects of their career are squished together wonderfully in one stomping performance.

Bloc Party

Bloc Party have played roughly this same spot on the Reading/Leeds bill for several years – some wristband-toting veterans are getting a bit sick of them (as are most of the people who ever heard anything off Intimacy, let’s be honest), and while Mercury sounds even worse than it did on record, no one really minds – there are lasers and circle pits and those good old fashioned angular guitars and everybody is happy. Turns out that this is the 10^th anniversary of key band members meeting each other at this very festival, and even though I can barely see the stage, they have got their act together live again with this homecoming, which is reassuring considering what that new single sounds like.

The final – and probably best – band of the weekend is Radiohead. They are unpredictable and surprising – they even start off with Creep – mixing all their styles and eras together. So the set may seem to concentrate on the later, electronic stuff, until you count up and realise they’ve played half of OK Computer (and just when you think they’re never going to play a certain song, they do). Their songs are filled with wonder and power, ever impressive and dazzling. And their stage set looks like they’re playing in the giant CCTV room of a lighting warehouse. There are moments for staring at the stage in awe, followed by songs where the audience all jump and dive at each other, disproving the idea everyone spends Radiohead shows with their arms folded, waiting to be impressed. But then, they are impressive.

Wonderful, exhilarating, beautiful, whatever, finished. The speakers tell everybody we’ll meet again next year, then turf us out into the Millets wilderness of the campsites on Tent Burning Night. This year could easily have fallen flat – a lot of recycled bands from recent years and a huge proportion of recently released material are not a good combination for any festival – but instead some superb headliners, strong supporting acts and nice surprises from the more obscure acts meant that 2009 has not been a weak year at all. Of course there’s been plenty of rubbish too – but half the fun is in mocking them, isn’t it?

Black Diamond Bay supporting a joint headline of Clinic and Shearwater at Brudenell Social Club, Leeds

Shearwater

Clinic

This does not really work - this double headlining of curio Doctor dressed bassists Clinic and Austin, Texas atmosphereist Shearwater - but it is a noble experiment and one that serves the Brudenell Social Club well on this the final week before the influx of new students.

The aim hangs with that expectation - in a week's time countless eighteen year olds will bring a glorious newness to Headlingly in Leeds which serves as their City locked village but tonight those of us who are more permanent residents enjoy something more mellow.

Black Diamond Bay

First though - before the offshoot of the Okkervil River family tree that are Shearwater take to the stage - come Black Diamond Bay who style themselves as Electro-Folksters. They are fun in many ways most of which they probably do not intend to be. A chorus that runs "We'll stop carrying knives/if you stop bombing the fuck out of countries you don't like" is always going to run into criticisms for being a little too fourteen year old discovers politics but the singer - who dances purposefully - and his two backing singers who cut a Human League thrust - seem to really mean it and being earnest will always win points with me.

Besides at one point Black Diamond Bay make a noise thus: Bewoooewp! We really will always be together in electric dreams.

Clinic take to the stage dressed as Doctors and it almost seems like a bad joke when they tell us that the lead singer is ill but it seems that it was not and normally they have lyrics between the funked up sound which was pleasing enough.

More pleasing though are Shearwater who are a much more post-rock beast than the aforementioned Okkervil River with whom they share members playing out what sound to be a thousand different takes on soundtracks to Hitchcock's The Birds with last album Rook concerning itself with themes such as an avian conquest of the world of man.

It stirs the blood and focuses the mind with sharp picture framed lyrics picking out moments and freezing them. Auteur Jonathan Meiberg's rich, near pain near dread voice warns through the tails with the band and Clinic switch between two sets which breaks the atmosphere Shearwater create but leaves enough of an impression of a band with a vision and the ability to project it.

Okkervil River at Academy 2, Manchester

Three things you can count on:

In Manchester it will rain. This is the first thing and sounds like a tired cliche but is true and this afternoon the rain has been heavy, filling the drains and bringing about a sewer smell to pervade the city and fill the lowest floor of what Will Sheff will call a "four level music processing facility."

You can count on Red High Tops too - this is the second thing - and I broke out a new pair for the wander up Oxford Road to the gig and although it is over twenty years since I first wandered to a gig in Converse. Chuck Taylor, Eddy Current, McCarthy's Larry. They are - or were - Americana.

Crawling out of Americana come Okkervil River. Okkervil River are a third thing you can count on. Will Sheff and his band are an unremittingly excellent collective in all they do. Five albums of intelligent, articulate and fascinating music and a string of live shows that take those songs further than one could have thought.

My definition of a good live performance is that a performer is able to take a song heard hundreds of times and breathe a new life into it, change intonations on lines to tweak context, alter the focus of narratives by dropping or raising vocal sections, embowering surprising and effective emotional layers onto what is already familiar. A good gig sees this happen three or four times. Okkervil River deliver such near magic dozens in occasions measured in dozens.

The band play a very similar set to the last time they played in this venue and while Sheff has not a beard and bassist Patrick Pestorius has shaved his off they look much the same as they did ten months ago. The acoustic guitar that Sheff strikes often and hard, throwing over his back on a well worn strap, is the same well scratched piece which played here last year.

Not reinvention then but rather invention. Invention coming in a performance that never goes beyond the remit of being a rock 'n roll show but rather celebrates the form.

Will Sheff uses a rich understanding of the rock n' roll performance to pull off all the tricks he can to beguile and audience that shows gig experience through it's part greying hair.

He drops to speech leading the audience back to "pause and add your own intentions/right here". He slows a song down to near still lingering over "just one rose/one day/and that was years ago." which cuts a swathe of silence through those collected here tonight in a genuine and affecting way.

Affecting too is the unsettling undertone underlying the Okkervil River catalogue and Sheff's battle torn lover is replaced by a seething menace who "thirsts for real blood/for real cuts..." stalking the centre of attention making you complicit in his crimes.

The beat of "a bad movie/where there is no crying" is pattered out in hand claps while "we sail out/on orders from him..." is intoned by Pestorius stepping out from bassist shadow to share Sheff's stage.

It is Sheff's stage though and he takes it for encore picking his beat up guitar and returns as the devastated lover "to cheat/on Maine Island" slowly, delicately, setting his voice against the embers of the evening.

Ultimately though Sheff lifts the mask a final time concluding the encore out at Westfall with easy murder and examination. Playfully he begs to be examined, to see if you can see the truth in his performance, see the legion in his swollen eyes. "Evil don't look like anything" he finalises daring you to carry on an investigation of what this occurrence, to analyse.

New insights gleaned, the night relies on that.

Grammatics vs Blue Roses at Nation of Shopkeepers, Leeds

The word "verses" is ill picked. Owen Brinley and Laura Groves - one of Grammatics, the other who is Blue Roses - combine intriguingly on the evening dubbed as Grammatics vs Blue Roses but ultimately is creates a potion mixture of both.

Blue Roses are a wonder, of course, with Groves having graduated from the pubs of Bradford and area into a fully fledged artist. She shows her abilities by melding the distinct style of her richly produced debut with the four piece she shares the stage with allowing a the depth of Emilia Ergin's Cello and the harmonies that Brinley provides to create new versions of I Wish I, Coast and especially Does Anyone Love Me? which is the best of the three songs from the eponymous album.

Owen Brinley's voice swoops alongside Laura's on her songs but on his own - Grammatic's are interleaved - is restricted to a more melancholic simplicity. Time Capsules and The Great Truth and Inkjet Lakes both benefit from Groves adding a texture but when covering The Killing Moon Brinley's voice comes to life in warmth. One wonders why he does not explore that more in his own band's songs which are lachrymose and lucid.

The seven song set is an idea of both and illustrates the differences - Blue Roses are the emotion, Grammatics more analytical - while celebrating the similarities which are in the craft that goes into music, delicately crafted, and beguiling.

The Lazy Darlings, The Crookes and Swimwear Juniors at Cockpit 3, Leeds

It’s a Friday night and we are stood upstairs in room titled “Cockpit 3” – an intimate venue with the stage squeezed into the corner of a room reminiscent of bomb shelter.  A curved, metal lined ceiling can cause potential havoc for particularly tall band members which was not an issue for the delightfully diminutive Laura Groves who performed here pre-Blue Roses and no doubt many other up-and-coming acts over the years.

The Lazy Darlings

Leeds based trio The Lazy Darlings take to the stage and quickly establish they know what they’re doing with their sound. It’s a fusion of the twangly with the jangly.

The simplicity of guitar, bass and drums is occasionally spiced up with some harmonica that enhances the county or blues influence over some of their tracks that are mostly routed into the original ‘90s indie sound.  A particular stand out track is Lover, Come In – with vocal stylings and lyrics that Graham Coxon would happily swipe for himself.

The creative centre of Lazy Darlings is Dave James, a veteran of the Leeds music scene and the continuity of the band’s line up. He crafts considered, and often uplifting songs that treat the ears by not having a monotonous rhythm. He is joined by relatively new recruit, a Texan called Rod Castro on bass who uses his exotic drawl to attempt to lure people upstairs to further populate the audience.

Rod is also responsible for manning the video loop backdrops that are projected during the songs that give The Lazy Darlings an audiovisual style that is more memorable than most similar acts of their size. The projections add to the music without overpowering or distracting from it.

The Lazy Darlings are too lazy to mention they have an EP out - Life Is Easy - and on which the eponymous track and some others are sprinkled with some female backing vocals reminiscent of Throwing Muse Tanya Donnelly - further rooting their sound into the 90s indie. The Lazy Darlings produce an aurally easy going noise that I’d describe as laid back, not lazy, for there is effort being made here.

Suddenly we are zipped through the time tunnel to the 1950s. Buddy Holly, Bobby Darin, Elvis Presley and Bill Haley are alive and well and have all just graduated from Sheffield University. Not really, but close your eyes and you can certainly hear their influences alive and kicking inside the youngsters who take to the stage in front of twelve people.

The Crookes

Open your eyes and you will see in the sharp 15 minutes stage turnaround time, we are now suddenly inside the kind of British bedsit Morrissey would dream of.  There is worse-for-wear portrait of a youthful Queen Elizabeth, a Lowry print propped up on the amps and a couple of table lamps warm the underlit stage. A small battered suitcase customised with tape spells the name of the act on stage – The Crookes.

Named after the student area of Sheffield where they resided and met, The Crookes are a very fresh faced group of four. They were recently lauded with high praise from Steve Lamacq on BBC radio 6Music as “definitely one of my top three unsigned acts in the UK today”.  Lamacq knows his musical onions.

This is their first visit to play Leeds.  Their attention to detail includes dressing in the style of clean cut boys of the era – buttoned up plaid shirts, trousers a little short to show off their moccasins, etc. However, the bassist has a quiff that droops into his eyes – clearly the sign of a potential ‘50s bad boy – and sure enough it is he that starts proceedings with some finger clicking as he launches into his croon.

Half an hour later we have been treated to some ukulele and banjo in addition to the nostalgic sound of guitar drenched in moody reverb, not forgetting some energetic “legs in braces” dancing.  The set is over and songs such Yes, Yes, We’re Magicians, A Collier’s Wife and Backstreet Lovers will linger as we digest the erudite and imaginative lyrics. Perhaps if Bobby, Bill and Buddy had just graduated in English Literature, they may have had lyrics like this. Elvis? He studied Geography...

Swimwear Juniors

The night ends with the interestingly monikered Swimwear Juniors. Immediately you can hear there is something “good” about them. That sort of initial gut feeling that this set promises to be of a quality that sets them a bit apart from the hubbub of regionally sourced music. However it’s too early in the set to put your finger on the exact words to yet describe how they are better than average. The vocals of Oliver don’t always “fit” with the music but are spit out Los Camposinos style like breathless notes from diaries hurried to the beat.

The third song in and people are turning to each other nodding and simultaneously mouthing “this is good”. However, soon after that the crowd becomes a bit distracted by the giving out of luminous wrist bands (woo!) and shortly after, free vodka samples.

However, you can’t ignore music which is as well crafted as this. There is something thoughtfully folkish, a leaning towards, say, Noah and The Whale but Swimwear Juniors are navigating more into their own waters than following in the wake of others. They too have an EP out (eponymously titled I believe) but fail to mention this at the time. I go and ask them if they have a cd (The Lazy Darlings came prepared with sample cds to give out) but sadly they have not. This is a shame because there is relatively little of them about on the internet to listen to – their mySpace has only three tracks on, one of which is a Radio 1 jingle. I am even unable to determine where they are from – I assume somewhere Yorkshire – and therefore kick myself I didn’t ask when enquiring of a cd.

In short, for a hard earned £5 entry, tonight has yielded three acts that are really worth seeing again for their own individual merits. Steve Lamacq has indeed pointed us to a new band breaking the current musical mold in the form of The Crookes and in return we’d like to offer him Swimwear Juniors. And so our journey through the Twangly Jangly Time Tunnel finally deposits us back into the damp Leeds evening.

Black Feathered Feet, Analog Bombs and Young Loves. Mermaid's Flannel at Fiddler's Three, Bradford

"Its rocking on The Fiddlers on a Friday night" the singer shouts.

Black Feathered Feet are pub rock pure n' simple and very simple they are too wailing between verses and noodling on guitars. It is rough and ready rock but that is no bad thing on a Friday night in a suburban pub a stones throw from the suburban house this writer grew up in Clayton - a typical suburb of Bradford.

The criterion for gigs in walking distance aside Black Feathered Feet do growling Chris Cornell style rock decently and are worth your attention if that is your bag. If it isn't your bag then take a look just to see how much the drummer looks like the one from Lost who was also a Hobbit.

Not at all like a Hobbit is Ben of Analog Bombs. Standing at least seven foot tall - perhaps - he is as striking as he is charming fronting the band with a warm, rambling presence. "Good evening we're the Analog Bombs", he says "We've had a drink."

Analog Bombs mix musical styles but are mostly indie ska - if such a genre exists, perhaps they just look indie and play ska - and are a a blast. Ben's lyrics are based in being a local of Bradford - in parts at least - and at times can be touching and have a ring of truth. His delivery is rare and enjoyable. He rapidly fires Yorkshireisms spinning the odd tale of being unlucky in love around the Wool City.

Charming, enjoyable, and probably the best band you will see on a Friday night in Clayton. Hancock - the song about long flattened club Tumblers - is worth the admission alone. It is indie disco as tragic love affair and nudges the Analog Bombs past The Pigeon Detectives Test as in "Why is one more popular than the other?"

Young Loves

Young Loves come on with an "hilarious" joke about knife crime and an opening number that sounds a bit too The Libertines for its own good.

As a band they are well regarded and five minutes into their set the five yards in front of the pub corner dubbed a stage is peopled with young things dancing but something about the band seems as like it has been seen before.

Perhaps it is the contrast to the innovate Analog Bombs or perhaps it is the fact that Young Loves come behind the likes of White Light Parade and The Swing Movement in Bradford's canon of bands making this kind of sound. Indeed they lack the drive of the former and the spark of the latter.

The kids love them though and they finish the night well.

The night - Mermaid's Flannel Presents - deserves applause too for the attempt to put on good music for the drinking crowd. More power to them.

Golden Silvers, Crystal Castles, Foals and Blur at Hyde Park, London

Crystal Castles

Picture the scene. Thousands upon thousands of people have voluntarily shut themselves into a giant enclosure in Hyde Park, on the hottest day of the biggest heatwave South East England has seen for years. There are empty tents in preparation for the Wireless festival, the grass is long dead, there are signs telling you to drink plenty of water (which is priced at £2 a bottle), and Crystal Castles are billed to be playing live at some point. Why would normal people subject themselves to this?

Blur

Golden Silvers

The main reason is to revel in Blur’s grand resurrection following ecstatic reviews of their low-key warm up shows and their triumph at Glastonbury only a few days before. The other reason that people are actually quite enjoying themselves here – sunning themselves on the dried ground, surrounded by cigarette butts and empty pear cider bottles, listening pleasantly to Nouvelle Vague booming through the speakers and when Golden Silvers come on to churn out some competent but thoroughly ignorable indie music, no one seems to break from their sunbathing to pay much attention, apart from to work out whether the smoke machine effect is actually a smoke machine or a lost cigarette turning into a would-be forest fire. To be fair to Golden Silvers, they have discovered that magical knack of writing fairly catchy songs that only contain the words of the title repeated over and over, so expect to hear a little more of them in the future (but not too much).

This balmy summertime haze is shattered when the arrival of Crystal Castles is marked by an almighty screech, with some loud bleeping noises that the Dr Who sound effects team abandoned some thirty years ago. The screeching is coming from a poor girl who resembles one of those lost-young-things out of their skull on Substance Death in the drug education videos schools force 12 year olds to watch – staring with a blank face as she stumbles over the stage, collapsing and rolling round the floor until a nice bouncer drags her up again, kicking the bass drum out of time with the Digital Noise, and occasionally standing still then flailing wildly or no reason.

This, we assume, is mean to be stage presence, but as she attempts three times to crowd surf while not a single member of the audience as much as reaches out to her as she wails over the barrier at them, this goes to show how poorly she’s being received. But overall, it’s her voice that turns the already-irritating-but-inoffensively-so noise of the backing music into one of the worst performances I have ever witnessed in my life. She shrieks – an unidentifiable, earsplitting, awful shriek – and this shriek is repeated over and over again in the same note. For half an hour. Every couple of songs they start to feel merciful towards the audience and distort her microphone so heavily with vocoder that she can barely be heard, but then sadly they take it off again, leaving her to do the Junkie Banshee act once more.

I only made out one word she was singing from the entire set, and I think it was ‘pasta’. Eventually, the set ends, and she has to be dragged offstage by her own drummer, while someone puts a Nouvelle Vague song over the speakers, just in case she starts screeching again. If support acts are often picked to make the next band look better, Foals promise to outdo a Beatles reunion with Mozart on the keyboards.

Foals

But of course they don’t. The main thing going for Foals is that they are essentially TopShop models who got given guitars and admittedly a decent sense of beat. They are rather good looking up on those screens, and thud along rather nicely, even if it mostly sounds the same (this proved when they introduce a new song their working on, and it sounds exactly like to intro to Cassius. As does most of the set, come to think of it).

Perhaps I would be a little kinder to Foals had a selection of their irritating fans not been stood right next to my friend and I. These were men in designer flipflops and those radiator grid glasses who were playing air bass, and their loud mouthed girlfriends saying OhmygodarentFOALSlikesoAMAZINGyeahtotallyIhopetheyplayCassius etc. Perhaps I would be a little kinder to these fans too if they hadn’t disappeared after Foals’ set. Yes, there were people who bought Blur tickets, only to leave after Crystal Castles and Foals. Isn’t that awful?

But for the rest of us, there’s a long wait of what must have been at least a full album’s worth of Nouvelle Vague, and watching a guy on the lighting rig trying to attach a mirrorball to the top of the stage, until at last The Debt Collector theme starts playing and the band come onstage to huge applause. The opening riff of She’s So High starts to ooze out across the park, and all is right in the world, and when Girls And Boys kicks in suddenly ten rows of people – a fair percentage of whom probably haven’t pogo’d in years – are bouncing up and down, singing ‘GIRLS something BOYS something GIRLS something BOYS...’, and generally having a great deal of fun.

The setlist is basically the same as the Glastonbury one, mixing the big hits with the less expected but still much appreciated album tracks, and the wild frantic songs matched with ones that make everyone stand back and stare at the stage in wonder. Tender turns the entire audience into a massive gospel choir, but after Damon announces that Parklife was inspired by people-watching in this very park, the reaction is so crazy that I lose all sight of my friend, am almost crushed to the ground, and it takes until ‘It’s got nuffink to do with yer Vorsprung Durch Technique, y’know’ before I realise Phil Daniels is even on stage. The mirrorball descends for a gorgeous yet slightly jazzy To The End, before immediately disappearing again (the guy who spent so long fixing it up must have been happy) as This Is A Low spectacularly finishes off the main set, leaving the crowd to mix the chorus of Tender with the chants of ‘We love Blur! We luh Blah! Weluhblah! Weluhblah!’, until they come back onstage to kick out an encore. The audience clearly haven’t run out of energy yet because I’m almost crushed again during Song 2, which is sandwiched between Popscene and Advert for even more wild pushing, shoving, bouncing, dancing, singing and screaming.

After they disappear again, and a new chant of ‘We want Blur! We war Blah! Wewarblah! Wewarblah!’, they come on once more for a final appearance, finishing beautifully with The Universal. After detaching himself from the hands of the front row, Damon thanks us all for coming, wishes us a good summer, and it’s all finished.

‘We want more! We wah more! Wewahmor! Wewahmor!’, but they’ve gone. Nouvelle Vague are back on the speakers, and it’s time to kick through the millions of empty bottles and head home. Interestingly, the mix of broken lost objects on the floor hint at how varied Blur’s fanbase really are – commuters’ Oystercards and trendy young things’ sunglasses lie together, snapped beyond repair. Once everyone is reunited with the people they lost during the set, and has squeezed through the limited amount of exits only to find Hyde Park Corner tube is still shut, they stroll through the warm London evening, buzzing about how brilliant the gig was. Because it was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. In the space of about a week, Blur have once again proved themselves to be one of the most well-loved and highly regarded British bands of the past twenty years. Oasis should really be paying more attention.

Island Line and Emiliana Torrini at Brudenell Social Club, Leeds

Island Line

Island Line tonight are duo Hazel and Ian – a delightfully folksy looking pair of long hair (him) and bare feet (her). Using Ian’s clearly skilful mastery of the acoustic guitar as the foundation, Hazel gently layers on some of her own tentative strumming or more assured organ keystrokes. The finishing touch is a generous drizzling of her pleasant but indistinctive vocals with occasional sprinkles from Ian.

The vocals relate frequently found themes such as relationships with Punchbag and Sweetheart to reminiscence of times past on Days Like These and Just Like The Old Days and whilst perhaps not at risk of being innovative, are at least engaging and indeed almost familiar. There are vague elements that remind of watching Eamon Hamilton (of Brakes fame) play his solo acoustic sets where his bluesyness surfaces more.

Emiliana Torrini

In common with Eamon, Hazel emotes her lyrics deeply – there are closed eyes, hand wringing, etc and combined with Ian’s adept guitar handling make the twosome a more charming watch than might initially be expected. The melodic and quite serene music laps over our ears as the humidity builds within the Brudenell and has just the appropriate relaxed appeal to entertain the amassing audience before Emiliana Torrini takes to the stage.

Emiliana Torrini – Iceland’s deputy foremost songstress – should first be commended on putting together a backing band of some of the most notable musicianship I have recently seen. Mentions in particular are deserved for the drummer who is unusually on the “wrong side” of 40, Cameron who appears to be able to play anything stringed from mandolin to zither and Ian from the support act Island Line who reappears to play the guitar foil to Cameron. A dedicated fellow also attends to keyboards, organ and glockenspiel and additional support comes from a bass guitarist on selected tunes. Together they form a wonderfully orchestrated and rich noise that enables Emiliana to successfully display the many differing influences of her music.

So to Emiliana herself. Her voice is clear and faithful to her recordings and the Icelandic lilt adds charm, warmth and intrigue to her enunciations. She wears a colourful short kaftan type dress that flutters about her as she moves which lends her an air of a butterfly as she flits about through her material. Whilst a butterfly might suggest beauty but fragility, Emiliana is far from brittle. Riding on the back of a curry washed down with beer and a cheeky request for the audience to buy her a whisky (request fulfilled several times), she is not the delicate little flower she may look. She also exhibits great stamina and along with her experienced band, she cruises through the lengthy 85 minute set despite the increasingly oppressive airlessness of the venue.

Dancing amongst her three internationally released albums (for she has two earlier works only available in Iceland), she soon alights for a generous foray into her second, Fisherman’s Woman, where her performance of tracks such as Lifesaver and Today Has Been OK feels as though she is greeting old friends. Perhaps despite being older material, it still carries the most emotional resonance for her. I believe many of the tracks (especially Fisherman’s Women for example) were inspired by the sudden death of her boyfriend at that time. Not material to fade from memory easily.

This is a rescheduled date on the tour to support her latest album (Me And Armini) on which the mood is certainly more uplifting with recent singles Jungle Drum and Big Jumps full of exuberance tonight for both life and love. Anecdotes, explanations, impersonations and other personal embellishments are littered throughout the evening and flaunt Emiliana’s delight in storytelling. She reveals more of herself, about being a rock chick in her youth (Bon Jovi and ACDC are mentioned), about her wide eyed naivety of first moving to London and about inspiration found in glasses of wine and remote cottages.

Music ranges from slight reggae of Me and Armini, to the Bowie’s Quicksand-esque Unemployed In Summertime via vague “Chill out” vibe of Birds. Occasionally the mood darkens with the pointed Ha Ha but the evening is about positivity so Dead Things, etc. is absent and Nothing Brings Me Down could be the abstract of tonight’s performance.

And so the evening slips by on sips of whisky.

Goldheart Assembly at The Live Lounge, Blackburn

Each member of five piece Goldheart Assembly look as if they have dropped out of being the coolest dressed man of a specific time period other than a quiet Saturday night in Blackburn. They sound out of time too too mixing a bit of pure pop with some Seventies Americana but this is Lancashire on a weekend night, Oasis are playing in a massive field twenty minutes down the road and the audience at the excellent newly opened Live Lounge is sparse.

Goldheart Assembly are "London's Fleet Foxes" of course because anyone who strums an acoustic is the Fleet Foxes of somewhere but the band wear the comparison well and march through the opening numbers impressively building a big sound, loud and whittled from stone.

They weave narratives through their songs in the finest traditions of storytelling bands and the collection of touchstones like Fleet Foxes and Big Star are valid. R.E.M. circa Reckoning might be another.

The locals are impressed proclaiming them the best band to have played a Blackburn pub for some time – makes a break from counting holes one supposes - and Goldheart Assembly kick up a notch with the more up tempo Row Sixteen. They show an impressive range of work – perhaps a result of being in essence two rival bands who merged. Perhaps that is why Blackburn and A Day In The Life seem fitting.

The old Americana is punctured by a high Cockney accent and more echo is added to vocal which is already the rich sound is so drenched in reverb. They sound best when harmonising and which is not the case on Oh Really! Which is not their best but is catchy recalling The Animals. It is 79p - we are told - and buying it will enable them to fill the tour bus for tomorrow's trip to Middlesbrough. From Whitehaven to Blackburn to Middlesbrough the band are paying dues in the provinces, sharpening a style which will stand them in good stead.

They finish with a slice of sixties pop that you know to dance to but struggle to recall a name for but not after taking a request from "anyone who has come down just to see us" and the request is for single So Long, St Christopher which is a gem rough around the edges but pure and heartfelt and enthralling at the core.

It encapsulates the band.