All tomorrow's (tea) parties

The Guardian's Alexis Petridis may have tried defending her and the Independent's Luke Lewis may have pointed out that right-leaning rockers aren't all that unusual (Johnny Ramone and Ian Curtis being prime examples) - but I'm afraid there's still something profoundly bizarre and wrong about former Velvet Underground drummer Moe Tucker coming out as a member of the populist Tea Party movement in the US.

So Obama's healthcare reforms constitute the nation "being led towards socialism", do they, Moe? It's one thing mistrusting hippies - it's quite another to throw your hat in with that mob of self-centred, delusional xenophobes...

Classified information

Worth a read should you come across any on your travels: The Field Guide To North American Hipsters, Vol I.

Anyone who wants to call me an indie fan (in this pejorative sense) can get stuffed - I didn't like the Shins UNTIL Garden State. So there.

(Thanks to Brian for the link.)

Feel good hits of the 15th October

1. 'Glitter' - No Age
2. 'Walkin' Blue' - Sonic Youth
3. 'Across The Sea' - Weezer
4. 'Into The Wild' - Sparrow And The Workshop
5. 'Two Dancers (i)' - Wild Beasts
6. 'Burning Your House Down' - The Jim Jones Revue
7. 'Kill Surf City' - The Jesus & Mary Chain
8. 'Desire Lines' - Deerhunter
9. 'Afraid Of Everyone' - The National
10. 'Pogo' - Eternal Summers

Notes:

1. Everything In Between is currently hogging the stereo at the expense of several other recent purchases, including Deerhunter's Halcyon Digest, of which 'Desire Lines' was the one immediate stand-out.

3. Not quite sure what prompted last Thursday's Pinkerton fest, but it may just have been reading this and thinking back to when Weezer were actually good...

4. and 6. Live reviews of these two to come at some point...

Quote of the day

"Before doing a TV series next year, Stewart Lee is setting out on an 18-date tour to venues where he believes he has a 'trusting' fan base — and the Regal in Cowley Road is one of them (typically he’s now not too sure about two other places, but it’s too late!)."

From this Oxford Mail article about Lee, previewing next week's show for which I've now got tickets. I must confess to being a bit surprised - and disappointed - that he seems to have been keen to play it safe. That's not something you'd expect of him, though one thing you could perhaps accuse him of is preaching to the converted - perhaps touring new show Vegetable Stew around Jongleurs nationwide would have been a more challenging but ultimately more rewarding venture?

South by south-west

The four songs that have been on constant rotation in my head since my first (and quite possibly last) foray into the world of surfing on Saturday:

1. 'Surf Wax America' - Weezer
2. 'Kill Surf City' - The Jesus & Mary Chain
3. 'Surfin' USA' - Beach Boys
4. 'Let's Go Surfing' - The Drums

As we're in desperate need of a solution to rising sea levels, perhaps I should offer my services - after all, armed with just a surfboard, I managed to swallow half the Atlantic...

The discovery that neither Jen nor I are any great loss to the world of surfing came at Harlyn Bay in Cornwall during a four-day holiday blessed by the most gorgeous weather, particularly Sunday and Monday.

Recommended: our three B&Bs; (Pencarmol in Boscastle, the Golden Lion in Padstow and Glanmor in St Ives), our choices of venues for evening meals (the Riverside, Pucelli's and the Sloop Inn) and the majority of our activities and stop-off points (walking from Tintagel to Boscastle; the Museum of Witchcraft; Harlyn Surf School; the National Lobster Hatchery; the Minack Theatre; beach walks in Padstow, Portreath and Mounts Bay; a wander around Mousehole; sampling the wares at Healey's Cornish Cyder Farm; and crazy golf at Greens - even if you do take 12 shots when your opponent flukes a hole-in-one...).

Not recommended: going to Land's End, which appears to be a brand not a place. Better to avoid the tat, tourists and innumerable excuses to leech you of money and go to Cape Cornwall instead.

Quote of the day

"I figured most people would say, 'Wow, I didn't know Insane Clown Posse could be deep like that.' But instead it's, 'ICP said a giraffe is a miracle. Ha ha ha! What a bunch of idiots.' ... A giraffe is a fucking miracle. It has a dinosaur-like neck. It's yellow. Yeah, technically an elephant is not a miracle. Technically. They've been here for hundreds of years..."

Violent J of Insane Clown Posse on 'Miracles'. The most unlikely evangelical Christians around? I'm sure God's pleased they're busy doing his work.

(Thanks to Simon for the link.)

SWSL Glastonbury 2010 Diary

(First three instalments here, here and here.)

Saturday 26th June

9am
Ah, that increasingly familiar waking sensation of realising you're sweating with every pore of your body.

10.15am
The half-hour queue for coffee is just about worth it, but a black mark against "our" cafe for being vegetarian only and therefore unable to furnish me with the vital accompaniment, a bacon sarnie.

11am
It's precisely this time of day that I should be out and about, making the most of the musical down-time to explore the site - but it's just too darned hot. Better to sit under the gazebo in a semblance of shade and conserve energy for the long day ahead.


12noon
Luke Temple tells us he dreamt he'd overslept - not likely in this heat, I'd have thought. His band, HERE WE GO MAGIC (Park Stage), are a bit like a typical David Blaine stunt: briefly impressive but generally inspiring indifference, and definitely not magic. The slightly psychedelic indie of 'Casual' bears a passing resemblance to The Shins and former tourmates Grizzly Bear but is too polite and unremarkable to ruffle any feathers, particularly at this time of day.

1pm
No mud, but there's dust everywhere - billowing up off the tracks, clinging to clothes, lying thick on tents. It's like Glastonbury Tor has erupted, showering the surrounding countryside with volcanic ash.

1.30pm
Much less subtle than Here We Go Magic, CYMBALS EAT GUITARS (John Peel Stage) are meat-and-potatoes (or should that be burger-and-fries?) American indie rock squarely in the tradition of Built To Spill and Modest Mouse - both bands I'm yet to find much time for. Guitars and keyboards are attacked remorselessly and the vein-popping vocals are delivered with gusto, but again nothing really sticks and I drift off, wondering whether the name refers to a rock version of Paper, Scissors, Stone.

2.15pm
There's a new compere on the John Peel Stage - whither the usual little gnome? Perhaps he's gone fishing. Anyway, please come back - all is forgiven, as this guy's even worse: "I was wondering: what if the hokey-cokey really is what it's all about?"

2.45pm
Time for us Brits to show the Yanks how it's done. FIELD MUSIC (John Peel Stage) are back after a three-year hiatus, during which the brothers Brewis pursued their solo projects and keyboard player Andrew Moore left, with an ambitious double album called (says David wryly) "Field Music open brackets Measure close brackets". Much like its predecessors, 2005's self-titled debut and 2007's Tones Of Town, it touches lightly on new wave, post-punk and psychedelia but for the most part ploughs a wistful pop furrow that is artful but neither abrasive nor difficult, masterful in its poise. There are favourites aplenty including 'A House Is Not A Home' and 'If Only The Moon Were Up' (though curiously three of Tones Of Town's best moments - 'In Context', 'She Can Do What She Wants' and the title track - are all absent), while the new record is well represented, most notably by sublime set-closer 'Share The Words'. Judging by their cheery demeanour, even when faced with temperamental monitors, the break has done them good and they've returned rejuvenated. The very least the nation could do, you feel, would be to recognise them - belatedly - for the national treasures they most definitely are.


3.15pm
Ah the joy (not to mention the surprise) of a spotless toilet at this stage of the festival. All credit to the staff - it's a dirty job...

3.30pm
The first pint of the day. Commendable self-restraint, I feel - nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that up until now I've been trying to shake off a hangover from last night's excesses...

3.45pm
A rhetorical question to which you could supply an answer if you like: when exactly did WILD BEASTS (John Peel Stage) get so popular? They're the latest of Domino's UK signings to score points with the mainstream, following in the footsteps of Franz Ferdinand and Arctic Monkeys, but are more eccentric than either - both vocally, with Hayden Thorpe's Marmite falsetto histrionics, and percussively, courtesy of inventive drummer Chris Talbot. Perhaps those eccentricities are the result of their gestation in the near-splendid isolation of Cumbria? Thorpe's rolled-up jacket sleeves aren't the only hint of a band harking back to the 80s - but, refreshingly, they prefer to allude to the Smiths rather than to glum it up with Editors, White Lies et al. The set-opener and single 'All The King's Men' are enough to convince me I've been overlooking something rather good.

4.30pm
Still, can't stop - a swift tramp across the site to the Park Stage and, now blinded by suncream melting into my contact lenses, I pick my way between prostrate bodies, trusting more to fate than judgement that I'm not about to leave a footprint on someone's face. In the circumstances BEACH HOUSE are perfect, their sensuously woozy dreampop - My Bloody Valentine taken down a path less travelled - exacerbating my current out-of-body experience. They're not totally with it, either - when Alex Scally apologies for a fuck-up as a "technical error", heavy-lidded partner Victoria Legrande corrects him with a grin: "Too much MDMA". At some point during 'Silver Soul' (the chorus of "This is happening again...", probably) I realise I'm totally theirs and want to apologise for spending the last few months saying to fans of Teen Dream "Yeah, but the Lightning Dust album is way better..."

5.30pm
Now able to see after a quick trip back to the tent to swap contacts for glasses, it's back to the Park Stage for STORNOWAY. As local Oxford heroes, it feels a bit like watching Los Campesinos!, except that I don't like them so much and haven't been with them from the start of the journey. And what a journey - four or five sets here last year (I think they lost count), an appearance on Later... as an unsigned act, a deal with 4AD and a debut album, Beachcomber's Windowsill. Frontman Brian Briggs, introducing the gently anthemic 'Fuel Up', recounts his rather more hellish journey to the festival - a 33-hour slog from Oxford which included the van breaking down and having to sleep on an industrial estate. Today they seem more lightweight than usual, and less satisfying for it, though 'We Are The Battery Human' does at least resonate with Glastonbury's "fuck the day job" ethos.

6pm
Enough of this perfect synchronicity between place, weather and band - I'm in the mood for storm clouds, gloom and a lugubrious gent intoning sinister confessions like "I was afraid I'd eat your brains / 'Cos I'm evil" ('Conversation 16'). In short, I'm in the mood for THE NATIONAL - and looking at the size of the Other Stage crowd, I'm not alone. "This is what we dreamed of ten years ago, only darker and with more girls at the front", smiles Matt Berninger, apologising for disregarding Michael Stipe's advice never to disrespect your audience by wearing shades because "my corneas are burning". Aversion to sunlight, taste for human flesh - hmm. 'Mr November' is angry, 'Fake Empire' is glowering and majestic and the graduation from the John Peel Stage is passed with flying colours.

6.15pm
Aha, the (in)famous Growler! Might have to come back for one later.


6.30pm
Whether Steven Ansell is swigging from a bottle of wine or a bottle of whisky (I can't tell at this distance), he's certainly rocket-powered - and while Laura-Mary Carter is wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, there's no stoned bluesy noodling going on here. No sir - BLOOD RED SHOES (Queens Head Stage) are reliably themselves, which roughly translated means Babes In Toyland sinking their claws into Nevermind. Of the moshpit-manufacturing blitzkrieg of singles from debut album Box Of Secrets and this year's follow-up Fire Like This, 'You Bring Me Down' and 'Don't Ask' stand out in particular. In 2008 the set was dedicated to his late dad by a frog-in-the-throated Steve; this time around it's to Danny, a security guard distinguished from his brethren by virtue of being "helpful and friendly"...

7.30pm
"I bet these guys are going to be, like, totally bad-ass with a swear word in their name", says the grinning idiot in front of me in the Queen's Head, sarcastically rolling his eyeballs. You just wait, I think - but for once the initial reaction (to the first two tracks on new album Latin, '1MD' and 'Red Light') is less "HOLY FUCK!" and more "Mmm, yeah, that's pretty good". Perhaps the problem is that the Glasto regulars are essentially warming up for tomorrow's set in their usual arena, the John Peel Stage, which they try to deceive football fans into watching: "There's nothing happening at 3pm tomorrow afternoon, nothing at all..." 'Lovely Allen' - anthemified by its usage on TV programmes and trailers - and the breakneck hurtle of 'Safari' ensure things are fully heated by the end, but for the first time I come away from one of the Torontonians' shows with a smidgen of disappointment.


8pm
Another rapid cross-site trek, during which I reflect on the fact that the conditions (the weather, thousands of dawdling punters ambling along enjoying an aimless wander) are hardly conducive to my catch-as-many-acts-as-I-can tactics. Nearing the John Peel Stage, I bump into Paul and Chloe by chance (Paul having noted my Fuck Buttons T-shirt in passing) and decide to join them in eschewing Foals (whom I saw barely a month earlier) in favour of someone else.

8.15pm
That someone else turns out to be PULLED APART BY HORSES (Radio 1 Introducing Stage). Clearly it's Equestrian Hour. The foursome - inexplicably allowed to leave Leeds to wreak havoc across the nation - comfortably lay claim to the title of the loudest and most aggressive band of the weekend. They kick off with a winning ditty called 'E=MC Hammer', and it's not long before mushroom-haired guitarist James Brown makes his familiar ascent of the speaker stack. A lesson in savage post-hardcore later and Tom Hudson - "I'm a Glastonbury virgin, so thanks for breaking the seal" - thanks stage compere and band champion Huw Stephens and launches into 'I Punched A Lion In The Throat' with eyes which say he probably has. Someone who looks suspiciously like Dangermouse surfs the crowd, and as the feedback rings out, Hudson and Brown join in.


8.30pm
Well, what a surprise. Kelis is being a diva, running late and leaving us waiting in the company of a DJ busy reliving the 90s. I slink off during the theme tune to The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air, before the (likely) shout-out of "Does anyone remember Global Hypercolour T-shirts?".

9.15pm
I fear for THE XX (John Peel Stage). The crowd is huge, eyes and TV cameras all focused at the stage. They're like a fragile bird let out of a box - slight, delicate, anxious, the weight of expectation and adoration threatening to crush them. And yet there's a subtle power and strength within the dark spacious heart of songs like 'Shelter' and 'Infinity'. The minimalism that made their self-titled debut so striking may be compromised by the out-of-time handclaps of drunks seemingly intent on cutting the atmosphere with a chainsaw, but it's a quietly masterful performance...

9.45pm
... until, that is, Florence Fucking Welch turns up, barging onstage with her massive ego fresh from packing out the Other Stage earlier this afternoon, and my eardrums weep blood from the screams of those around me. Candi Staton has just finished playing on the Park Stage - why would anyone want to hear 'You Got The Love' here? Florence's progress to global domination duly accelerated and my enjoyment of the set soured, she embraces The XX's yin and yang, bassist Oliver Sim and guitarist Romy Madley Croft, and while Oliver's smiling, Romy is straight-faced and awkward. The beginnings of trouble?


10.45pm
From thoughts of "What have I done to deserve this?" to 'What Have I Done To Deserve This?' You won't find PET SHOP BOYS (Other Stage) bound up in some arena-touring 80s nostalgia package - they always had a bit too much nous, were too savvy to be sucked in with the champagne-swilling Duran Duran set, instead preferring to be a little cool, ironic, distant and detached, chronicling the decade from towards the periphery. Their singles collection PopArt is perfectly titled - yes, they've got the interpretive dancers (a couple acting out the lyrics to 'Jealousy', women with boxes on their heads) and a clearly well-thought-out set, but they also have the pop in spades. I arrive in what I suppose must be the mid-set lull - if you can call it that, with 'Always On My Mind', 'Left To My Own Devices' and 'Suburbia' all making an appearance. That I have to step around pushchair after pushchair to get out of the crowd does rather put them in their place, though.

11.30pm
Last year Spinal Tap graced the Pyramid Stage, and this year it's being headlined by a band with a reputation for excess who recently got themselves into a farcical rock feud of Tap-esque proportions when their giant UFO prop interrupted live transmission of Slayer's set at Rock AM Ring. Who else but MUSE? I sneak in late towards the back as Matt Bellamy - whose showmanship and musicianship are clearly both alive and well - teases the crowd with snippets of 'House Of The Rising Sun' and AC/DC's 'Back In Black' before pushing towards the finish with 'Time Is Running Out', 'Black Holes And Revelations' and 'Citizen Erased' (the latter a bit of a personal treat). When the Edge's binman-hatted bonce appears for an encore of 'Where The Streets Have No Name', suddenly the pocket of mild disinterest around me becomes fervent excitement - but by carrying on Muse walk the tightrope of anti-climax, 'Plug In Baby' steadying their balance but preposterous Maiden-does-'Bohemian-Rhapsody' rock opera 'Knights Of Cydonia' causing them to lose their footing fatally.

12.30am
Overheard: "And that's what you get by learning from grotty porn!"

2am
Nursing a JD and Coke outside a packed Stonebridge Bar, but still able to enjoy - and dance to - the peaks of Fourtet's DJ set, 'Atlas' by Battles and 'Once In A Lifetime' by Talking Heads. There aren't many troughs.


3am
Please be upstanding for SILVER COLUMNS - or not, as the case may be. The duo may feature Kieran Hebden's old mucker in Fridge, Adem (he's the one who looks like Moby, jumping around and wreathing himself in fairy lights) alongside Fence Collective member the Pictish Trail, but their pop-techno - Hot Chip fronted by Jimmy Somerville, basically - meets with little in the way of approval.

3.45am
Still in the Stonebridge Bar, the DJs playing bashment and dancehall, I marvel at how all of the other distinctly white party animals seem to know instinctively how to dance. I'm a long way outside my comfort zone but find myself caught up in the deep bass and fast pace - and thoroughly enjoying it. In a comically arhythmic fashion, of course.

4am
I won't last until the 5am close, though - and neither, I suspect, will the middle-aged fire marshall, staggering around in a high-vis vest worse for wear than most of the revellers he's supposed to be safeguarding.

Bands or performers I would have liked to have seen in an ideal world but missed due to clashes / rearranged running orders / the elements / my own sheer laziness or stupidity: Foals, Seasick Steve, Let's Buy Happiness, Editors, Midlake, The Dead Weather, Os Mutantes, Band Of Skulls, The Pre New, John Hegley, Jeremy Hardy, Kevin Eldon, Arthur Smith, Ed Byrne

We ARE Worthy (Farm)!

Frustranticipation (n): the feeling you get when frantically trying to book Glastonbury tickets.

So, yes, embarrassingly it's come to pass - I'm in possession of a virtual ticket for the 2011 festival before the SWSL diary of this year's shebang is anywhere near complete. I'm hanging my head in shame - though obviously the fact that I'll be going back to Pilton again next June is some consolation.

The booking process seemed a little more fraught this morning than in recent years, but we finally secured our tickets around 11.30am, with them selling out in record time just after 1pm.

Not everyone who wanted a ticket could be successful, of course - so spare a thought for (for instance) the poor gals at Red magazine, who took time out of their busy schedule cooing over Kate Moss and breathlessly informing the world they sat "next to Giselle at tea time" to try and get tickets for "Team Red". Something smells fishy, though: "They say they're sold out but on sale again in March... marketing ploy?" Er, no, that'd be when any tickets not paid for in full are released... Clearly Worthy Farm is going to be a poorer place without them.

Great apes

On the subject of Britpop (see below), has anyone else noticed that Damon Albarn and Gorillaz have been recruited to endorse the Times' website? I wonder if Albarn's got confused and thought he was working with Murdoc rather than for Murdoch?

Incidentally, the fact that the Times has now reintroduced the opening offer suggests that its paywall gamble isn't paying off...

Quotes of the day

"Britpop secret: Jarvis Cocker’s first break into the music industry was when he appeared as one of the Wombles on TOTP in the late 1970s."

"Britpop secret: Ian Brown has a parrot which he has taught not to say anything. He doesn't like jib from animals."

"Although I pay minimum wage for Richard's services, I am forced to pay the going rate for Codling. Works out about £1.80 per kilo."

"Brett Anderson" dishes up the backstage gossip for his Twitter followers.

(Thanks to Swiss Toni for the link.)

Is it just me...

... or is there an irony in Jonathan Franzen's follow-up to The Corrections being published riddled with typographical errors? How Franzen must feel after spending nine years working on Freedom you can only guess.

Incidentally, this is precisely the sort of thing to give those in my line of work nightmares for weeks...

Jurassic park

We may not know for certain how the dinosaurs died out, but it seems they're pretty sure how this one met its end: arson. I'm wishing bad things on the toerags responsible for two reasons: firstly, it deflates and damages attempts to make Southsea (where several friends live) a more attractive and culturally vibrant place, and secondly, it deprives the very fine Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff (as well as the artists) of an exhibit they'd loaned out.

(Thanks to Abbie for the link.)

Brand management

Ever wondered if you'd see the day when a visibly gobsmacked Jeremy Paxman would struggle to get a word in edgeways? It seems he more than met his match in the form of Russell Brand...

(Thanks to Zoe for the link.)

More than just acceptable in the 80s

As the credits rolled on the final episode of This Is England '86, I knew that feeling - of emotional exhaustion and dumbfoundedness - was familiar. From the time I was watching the credits roll at the end of Dead Man's Shoes. Suffice to say that, whether on the silver screen or the small one, Shane Meadows has a knack for making your jaw hit the floor.

While the film This Is England told the story of a bunch of characters essentially caught up in societal forces much bigger than them, the TV series focused instead on personal narratives of triumph and (far more commonly) tribulation, though the period setting nevertheless formed an effective backdrop. If the first episode was vaguely unsatisfying in its emphasis on the knockabout comedy present in the film (though only occasionally), then Meadows and his fellow writers made sure subsequent instalments took an increasingly dark turn, culminating in a number of scenes of horrifying power that continue to live in the mind long after viewing.

Its gripping and skilful writing, beautiful cinematography and devastating intensity were refreshing at a time when it seems assumed that only American series which unfold over six times as many episodes can be described as utterly essential television.

I'm now sensing that Once Upon A Time In The Midlands wasn't the best introduction to Meadows' work - a thorough investigation is long overdue, starting (probably) with Twentyfourseven...

Christmas with Kim and Thurston

Sonic Youth, you say? In Manchester? On New Year's Eve Eve? With the reformed Pop Group in support? Why yes, don't mind if I do. (Even if the line-up for the Hammersmith Apollo the following evening - also featuring Shellac, Factory Floor and a DJ set from Mogwai's Stuart Braithwaite - is rather special...)

Naturally, with ticket bought I couldn't resist the urge to cherry-pick some classic footage from YouTube (most notably Kathleen Hanna bouncing along to 'Bull In The Heather', 'Sugar Kane' on Later... and the original video for 'Death Valley '69') and give last year's album The Eternal another blast. And what a damn fine record it really is - genuinely one of their best.

Cease and desist - from doing what?

"Blogger has been notified, according to the terms of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), that certain content in your blog is alleged to infringe upon the copyrights of others. As a result, we have reset the post(s) to 'draft' status. (If we did not do so, we would be subject to a claim of copyright infringement, regardless of its merits. The URL(s) of the allegedly infringing post(s) may be found at the end of this message.) This means your post - and any images, links or other content - is not gone. You may edit the post to remove the offending content and republish, at which point the post in question will be visible to your readers again."

The opening paragraph of a cheery message that lay in wait for me in my inbox earlier this week. The allegedly offending post? This one. The only reason it could possibly be suspect in Big Brother's eyes was a link to the video for M83's 'We Own The Sky' - but as that video is still freely available to watch on YouTube, I can't understand the problem.

The link's been removed so the post would reappear on the site, but if anyone can enlighten me as to how I've supposedly breached the rules then I'd be glad to know...

Feel good hits of the 28th September

1. 'Memorial' - Explosions In The Sky
2. 'Sht Mtn' - Holy Fuck
3. 'Big Exit' - PJ Harvey
4. 'Silver Rider' - Robert Plant
5. 'Pepper' - Butthole Surfers
6. 'Weird Feelings' - Male Bonding
7. 'Empty Room' - Arcade Fire
8. 'Criminals' - Atlas Sound
9. 'Don't Let Go' - Weezer
10. 'Cradle' - The Joy Formidable

Notes:

1. Is it just me, or are BBC4 documentaries (the Horizon special on religion and science, in this instance) promotional tools for post-rock?

3. Thanks to Stuart for inspiring me to watch the Later... footage.

5. As quoted in the sleeve notes for the new Titus Andronicus album The Monitor, which I can't yet decide whether I like or not.

Albums: like buses

Tonight I have been mostly scratching the album-buying itch. Newies from No Age, Deerhunter, Women, Black Mountain and Les Savy Fav, plus an oldie from Wavves - come to Daddy! Probably ought to give The National's High Violet the belated chance to impress before Mr Postman brings Christmas early...

Meanwhile, in I-didn't-see-that-coming news, Robert Plant has covered a couple of Low songs on his new album Band Of Joy. Here's his take on 'Silver Rider' - and it ain't bad.

Quote of the day

"I don't understand why anyone other than far-left political candidates would want to use the music from the many immature, Lampwickian, drug-addicted, disconnected-from-reality pop music stars anyway. One would think that the politicians would want to distance themselves from such people rather than play their music at campaign events, but I guess not."

The comments section of an article on politicians misappropriating songs on the BBC website is temporarily hijacked by Tom from Chicago, who I suspect would find the Daily Mail too left of centre.

Crawl 'n' clean

Be warned if you're a friend of mine: the next one of you to have a kid is going to receive one of these.

The hills have ayes

BLACK MOUNTAIN / WOLF PEOPLE, 4TH SEPTEMBER 2010, OXFORD ZODIAC

How can one roomful of people be so collectively bald and yet simultaneously so collectively hairy? It’s like being hemmed in by Pink Eyes of Fucked Up, Tim Harrington of Les Savy Fav and the Hairy Bikers.

We’ve all been drawn here by one of the Jagjaguwar label’s leading lights, but first up are one of their latest hopes – and given their roster currently boasts everyone from Dinosaur Jr and Bon Iver to The Besnard Lakes, Oneida and Women, we’re inclined to trust their judgement on such matters.

Wolf People sound just as the name suggests they should: as if they’ve been raised in the woods by wolves on a diet of deep-fried stoner boogie, classic rock and psych-folk. And let’s face it – wouldn’t you want to sound like that too, if you’d actually been raised in Bedford? Opening for their more illustrious labelmates might be something of a double-edged sword, but there should always be room for a band who, with the likes of ‘Silbury Sands’, come across like Pentangle being buggered out of their boredom by Dead Meadow.

It seems Black Mountain are also out to underline their untamed animalism, judging by the title of new album Wilderness Heart. Its predecessor was christened with the curious moniker In The Future – curious in that the Canadians don't immediately strike you as the types prone to forward-thinking, except maybe to entertain, in between hits on the bong, whimsical imaginings of what the world might be like when ruled by giant ants.

Misadventures on the internet have taught me that dudeism is now an officially recognised religion, albeit the slowest-growing in the world, and here among us tonight appears to be its high priest, Jeff Lebowski. It hardly takes a leap of imagination to picture Black Mountain ringleader Stephen McBean sniffing milk in a supermarket aisle or dropping a lit joint between his thighs and subsequently crashing his car into a tree.

But, unlike fellow Sabbath fiends Sleepy Sun, McBean and his companions aren’t really spaced-out peaceniks (‘Stay Free’ the exception that proves the rule, perhaps), regularly preferring galloping riffs that Iron Maiden would be proud to call their own. The opening to ‘Tyrants’ and the entirety of newie ‘Let Spirits Ride’ make us feel like we’re being trampled by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

They remain something of an enigma, though. You wouldn’t catch Maiden all drinking wine and being tended to by a "goblet-filler". Amber Webber – in many ways their secret weapon, possessed of a quite extraordinary voice that is both strong and tremulous – continues to be frustratingly underused, too often a spare part left to bash her tambourine or stare out into space while the Mountain men do their thing. The fact that her mic is rarely loud enough doesn’t help, and has me wanting to urge even more enthusiastically investment in 2009’s Infinite Light by Lightning Dust, her side-project with Joshua Wells. For his part, Wells’ keyboard lines, though often effective in context, occasionally have a tendency to clothe the songs in a dubious star-spangled cape that punk principles would deem snigger-worthy.

Still, you won’t find a much unlikelier Coldplay support band anywhere (yes, they really did, back in 2005) – and if that’s not reason to recommend them, then I don’t know what is.

Holy smoke

And there I was assuming only right-wing American evangelical Christians were stupid enough to consider burning copies of the Koran on the anniversary of 9/11. Nice one, lads, for doing your bit for racial and religious harmony. Couldn't you just have chucked condoms at the Pope instead?

In their defence, being from Gateshead they were probably burning a big pile of books indiscriminately...

Quote of the day

"I'm very, very moody first thing in the morning. I'm not a morning person."

Chris Moyles defends yesterday's hour-long on-air rant about not being paid. Lest we forget, this man is a breakfast DJ...

The hills were alive with the sound of music

So, my sixth festival of 2010 has now sadly been and gone - and the most intimate of the lot was another corker too.

A beautiful setting on the edge of the Snowdonia National Park surrounded by rolling hills and free-range chickens, a host of splendid performances (Joe Campbell, Dafydd Meredith, Owen Phillips, Ian Wyn Rowlands, The Scruton Show, Monkeydolphin, Eugene Capper, Stevie Martino, Matt Winkworth and ABER) and an after-party presided over by DJ Dangeruss that ran well into the early hours - and all in aid of a great cause. The typically wet Welsh weather and journey - up perilous roads and at one point taking a wrong turn which meant dodging an enormous sow to turn around in a farmyard - all added to the fun.

Thanks to Hannah, Nemo, Scrutes, Mick, Elin and everyone else for making it a great weekend - and congratulations to Han for also finding the time to win a major photography competition too.

Roll on Evstival IV in 2011...

You couldn't make it up - or could you?

Back in January last year, I kicked off a light-hearted series on imaginary bands on The Art Of Noise with the tale of the dramatic rise and equally dramatic fall of Nautical But Nice, five trawlermen plucked from their day jobs by a major label to become a heart-throb boyband beloved by housewives and tweenagers.

Laughably far-fetched, you might have thought. Er, no - forgive me for tooting my own trumpet, but it's turned out to be rather prescient.

A career in A&R; awaits...

Quote of the day

"You don't often see the inner workings of a comedian's act, and in most cases that's no loss. This time, however, it feels like a privilege to peep behind the curtains."

The Guardian's Phil Daoust on Stewart Lee's new book How I Escaped My Certain Fate, which contains annotated transcripts of his three post-hiatus stand-up shows.

In truth, though, what's remarkable about Lee and the shows in question - Stand-Up Comedian, 90s Comedian and 41st Best Stand-Up Ever! - is that giving the audience "a peep behind the curtains" is very often the focus of the show. It takes a rare talent to make that not only not humourlessly self-indulgent but actually funnier than most "normal" comedians' sets.

Should buy the book, really - as well as a ticket for his Vegetable Stew tour.

One is partying like it's one's birthday

Don't understand what the fizzle 50 Cent's on about? Help is at hand, in the form of a service which translates his Twitter feed into the Queen's English.

(Thanks to Zoe for the link.)

Brighton rocks

Another weekend, another UK city I've fallen in love with and can so easily imagine myself living in. This time it was Brighton, for a few reasons:

1. Great pubs.

2. Great food.

3. The beach.

4. Plenty of opportunities for stalking members of the Bad Seeds - we were staying in a flat two minutes' walk from Nick Cave's place, and then noticed Jim Sclavunos out for a Saturday evening meal in the Lion & Lobster.

5. A free birthday party on a bandstand where they start playing Holy Fuck's 'Safari' at 3.30am.

Seriously, what's not to like?

Racism, it was really nothing?

Well hurrah - we've got a new contributor over on The Art Of Noise: Lanterne Rouge, one of the founders of The Two Unfortunates, an excellent Championship blog that has now broadened its horizons to cover Leagues One and Two too. His first foray into the world of music blogging is a response to Morrissey's latest racially insensitive comments - rather more articulate than mine.

Also over there you can follow links to Skif's one-liner reviews of the recent Offset Festival - a welcome antidote to my Glastonbury ramblings, which are so prolix that with any luck I'll have bought a ticket for next year's event before I've finished writing up this year's bash...

Quote of the day

"A Nazi tyranny that wished to eradicate God from society".

According to that dangerous, misogynistic, homophobic apologist for paedophilia currently on holiday in Britain at our expense, us atheists are Nazis. Well, as they say, takes one to know one.

Still, give him credit where it's due: he's taking the effort to clamp down on child-abusing priests seriously.

(Thanks to Gareth for the Onion link.)