Plenty of traffic on the blog these past few days in response to my White Stripes and Arctic Monkeys stories. Someone called The_Glory wades into the argument about overhyped British bands with a bunch of decent points, notably, "Why judge bands on their nationality anyway?" It's a fair question, but I don't think that's what we were talking about on this thread, exactly. For my part, it's a simple fact that the music I like is generally American rather than British, and it seems interesting to try and work out why that is. I do agree with The_Glory that we should be wary of focusing on 'hype' as a subject. But at the same time, there's a post from RockyJ that claims, interestingly, "the ambition of American radio stations to popularise British indie bands is overwhelming". Is this true, folks? I'm not too keen on getting hung up on the machinations of the music business on Wild Mercury Sound. Nevertheless, the idea that you can't switch the radio on in America without hearing, I don't know, Little Man Tate is pretty fascinating. Anyway, I did spend the weekend (well, some of it) playing the Arctic Monkeys album, and I'm now more convinced than ever that it's a quite brilliant record - far better than that gilded debut, for a start. And, sorry, but it still makes me wonder why more of their British contemporaries aren't this ambitious, why other lyricists sound artless and parochial where Alex Turner can be so subtle and affecting about ostenisbly the same subject matter? Talent, I suppose. Moving on. Justifiable excitement over here and here about the White Stripes album. Unlike many of you, I find it impossible to choose which is the best of their albums. I know this is an absolution of anal-retentive critical responsibility, but I like them all for different reasons. I'd caution anyone who expects the new one to be a straight retread of the first album, though; for all its raw power, "Icky Thump" is a much more layered, denser listen in general. There's a note on the press release that describes it as being the first Stripes album recorded in a proper modern studio, and trust me, you can tell the difference. Ed asks what "A Martyr For My Love For You" is like on the album. The pathetic truth, Ed, is I can't rememember much about that track from my solitary listen. If it's any help, the notes I scrawled at the time read, "layered, richer - acoustic looping - humming, rearing - Led Zep (2?)- organ - but again and again he blasts structure, adds weird stops, frequencies." Is that any use? I'm not sure. Finally in today's shapeless ramble, a quick mention for the second album by Jana Hunter. Just when you think the market for Devendra Banhart's mates is saturated, another good one comes along. Hunter is from Texas, and her first album (on Banhart and Andy Cabic's Gnomonsong label, like this one) was nice enough, but not really enough to separate her from those other second-string acid-folk types like Diane Cluck. "There's No Home" is lovely, though: a fuller band sound, often reminiscent of Cabic's band Vetiver - that woody, sleepy, home-cooked thing. Jana's Myspace is here. Give "Babies" a play and let me know what you think.

Coming in to work this morning and checking this weekend's US box office for Tarantino's Grindhouse made for a pretty grim start to the day. It's down 63% on last week's takings, slipping from no 4 in the US box office charts to no 10. It appears the UK distributor, Momentum, has now delayed the film from it's original June 1 release date, while the Weinstein Co figures out its response to what, in anyone's terms, is a box office disaster. It seems most likely Weinstein will split Grindhouse into two seperate movies, padding each one out with deleted scenes, and premier Quentin's film Death Proof in May at the Cannes film Festival -- where QT's traditionally guaranteed a safe ride. Robert's film, Planet Terror, looks likely to come out later in the year. It's kinda interesting that, in all this, Robert is getting sidelined -- it's all about Quentin! -- considering Rodriquez' BO is cumulatively better than QT's, thanks in no small part to the phenomenal success of the Spy Kids franchise. I'm going to blog about this again later in the week, as news continues to break over the fate of Grindhouse. Meantime, please let me know what you think about all this. Crudely speaking, is it over for QT? Should he have made a film like this, an homage/parody of an established if somewhat obscure movie genre, or should he be investing his energies in creating bespoke projects? What kind of project would you like to see him tackle next?

I won’t be seeing Dylan on his UK tour until Sunday at Wembley Arena, so I asked Damien Love to be a guest blogger and review the show for us. Damien is a veteran Uncut contributor, the author of a great biography of Robert Mitchum and a longstanding Dylan fan. Here’s his report from the Glasgow SECC, every word of which makes me wish I’d been there. Bob Dylan & His Band Glasgow, SECC April 11 2007 Back in 1991, as what we now call Gulf War I raged far away, Bob Dylan stood onstage at Glasgow’s SECC and unexpectedly pulled what must rank as one of the most shambolic concerts of his (or anyone’s) career out of the fire with a howling, electric “Masters of War.” Sixteen years on, playing with the sustained, growing focus and energy that has marked his concerts since the turn of the millennium, every other song seems a highlight. The concerts couldn’t be more different - but he stops the room in its tracks again by returning to another song he wrote about war in 1963. Before that, though, the first big news about Dylan’s first UK show since 2005 is that he’s playing guitar again, for the first time since 2002. Stepping out in a black suit with white piping on the trousers and a flat, wide-brimmed hat, he looks like he was dressed in a happy collaboration between Zorro and Miami Steve, and as his five-man band careen into a rollicking “Cat’s in the Well,” he’s throwing shapes with his Stratocaster to fit the look. We get four songs with the guitar, including a blues-reverie of “Just Like Tomb Thumb’s Blues” and a newly reworked “It’s Alright, Ma,” words falling like precise little dagger-jabs, hounded by Donnie Herron’s dark, *Desire*-esque violin wails. Dylan switches back to keyboards for “The Levee’s Gonna Break,” the first of six *Modern Times* numbers, and a revelation. Never one of the big songs on the recent album, it comes alive in a new way. Dylan absolutely whips the thing till it buzzes and stings. His voice is stronger and more elastic than it has been in years – far stronger than the album take of this song. As further demonstrated by a coruscating “Rollin’ and Tumblin’ ”, he seems energised by the new material. He’s playful enough to build a small pantomime inside “Spirit on the Water,” bending the line *“You think I’m over the hill,” * into a question, pausing for the inevitable audience scream: *“Nooooooooooooooooooo!”* But there’s no joking on “Ain’t Talking,” a scintillating, urgent reading that finds a dark, arcane and spine-chilling groove within the song, the floor of the SECC turned into a kind of haunted disco. If Dylan was throwing shapes before, he’s positively vamping now, jerking, jiggling, twisting, grinding and humping around his keyboard as if he was plugged into it the way Jane Fonda was to the orgasmatronic organ in *Barbarella*. Actually, that might explain some of his more eccentric playing. Dylan has ditched the warm piano sound of his 2004 shows for a weird, high-pitched organ reminiscent of ‘60s garage bands and fairground carousels. When it works, as on an intensely beautifully reworked “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” it lends a floating, dream-like cast; at other times he’s plainly noodling around playing an entirely different song from anyone else onstage. That, though, is part of what keeps Dylan’s shows so vital. While the Stones, bless ‘em, whip through sets like a machine, with Dylan the rough, bleeding edges and moments of confusion and uncertainty are still allowed. Unbelievably, the biggest stumble comes on the song he must have played more than any other, “Like a Rolling Stone,” which takes an age to coalesce into any recognisable shape. It’s followed an apt visual metaphor during the encore, as Dylan’s ominous eye-logo banner fails to unfurl properly, and hangs above the stage as a weird, scrunchy rag – possibly the closest he will ever get to a Spinal Tap moment. We end with the sucker punch of “Thunder on the Mountain” and the traditional knock-out, “All Along the Watchtower.” But what will linger in the audience’s minds is that moment in the dead centre of the night, when Dylan pulled out one of his oldest, perhaps least-known songs. A spooked martial shuffle, a plucked banjo ringing out like the sound of very desolation, it’s “John Brown,” a blunt, plain sing-song about a boy who went off to war straight and tall in his uniform, and how his mother was proud – until he came home and she met him off the train to find “his face was all shot up and his hand was all blown off and he wore a metal brace around his waist.” Fresh from seeing the latest flag-draped coffins on the evening news, the 10,000 souls of the audience seem mesmerised, hanging on every simple word, feeling years and wars blur together and hold hands, realising it’s the same canny joker up there today who was singing about this back then. The effect is truly uncanny. Eerie, even. It’s nothing to do with “protest songs” or “the voice of a generation,” but something older and stranger – the stuff he’s been dealing in all night, and all his life. It’s impossible now to think of anyone else who can conjure it up. DAMIEN LOVE SET LIST 1. Cat's In The Well 2. It Ain't Me, Babe 3. Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues 4. It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) 5. The Levee's Gonna Break 6. When The Deal Goes Down 7. Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine) 8. John Brown 9. Rollin' And Tumblin' 10. A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall 11.Spirit On The Water 12.Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again 13. Ain't Talkin' 14. Summer Days 15. Like A Rolling Stone 16. Thunder On The Mountain 17. All Along The Watchtower