On Monday night, I went to the launch of the 2007 Reading Festival – or the Carling Weekend: Reading And Leeds Festivals, as the dual event is now called – which, as you’ll probably know is headlined this year by The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Smashing Pumpkins and Razorlight, with Arcade Fire, Kings Of Leon and Nine Inch Nails featuring prominently among the supporting line-up. I’ve lost count of the number of August Bank Holidays I’ve spent at Reading, most of them memorable, some of them not. But on Monday – it may have been the free drink – I was moved to ponder somewhat on the origins of the event as the National Jazz And Blues Festival, which I went to in 1968, the year it was held at Kempton Park Racecourse in Sunbury-on-Thames. The festival then was a rather more sedate affair than it would become and was split on Saturday and Sunday into afternoon and evening sessions, with the Saturday afternoon devoted to the best of British jazz and the Sunday afternoon to folk. There was one evening session on the Friday, headlined by The Herd, who were bottled, I seem to remember, by a bunch of rockers who’d come to see Jerry Lee Lewis tearing the house down in spectacular fashion. This year, tickets are a probably reasonable £145 for the weekend. In 1968, the afternoon sessions were 10 shillings each – 50 pence, in today’s coinage – and 15 shillings for the evening shows. Weekend tickets (for the Saturday and Sunday) were 35 shillings, and a season ticket for all three days cost £2 and five shillings. The line-up, over the weekend? Saturday evening featured Deep Purple, Joe Cocker, Tyrannosaurus Rex, The Nice, Jeff Beck with Rod Stewart (mercilessly heckled, as I recall, by some rowdy discontents), Ten Years After and The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown. Arthur’s big hit was, of course, “Fire”, during which the self-styled “god of hell-fire” would take to dancing around the stage wearing a helmet of fire, which was at the time some spectacle. Sunday night’s bill included Jethro Tull, who pretty much stole the show, Chicken Shack, John Mayall, Spencer Davis and Traffic. I have especially fond memories of the Sunday afternoon ‘folk’ session, hosted by Al Stewart, highlights of which were the young Fairport Convention and The Incredible String Band, who I remember playing a glorious version of “Log Cabin Home In The Sky” – yeah, I know – as the sun set behind them. There was a particularly loud cheer when they introduced Leaf, their dog – a crowd favourite I see several times more on stage with them, notably at Birmingham Town Hall, when he curled up at Robin Williamson’s feet and went to sleep during the admittedly longwinded but wholly beguiling “A Very Cellular Song”.

Another guest blogger today, as I put my feet up, listen to an excellent Terry Riley reissue and hand over Wild Mercury Sound to April Long. Like Luke, who did my work for me yesterday, April spent last week at South By Southwest in Austin, Texas. And like Luke, she completely let Uncut down by missing Psychedelic Horseshit. Oh well, here's her fine report: "Within minutes of arrival in Austin I'm already hearing stories. Someone saw Wayne Coyne, dressed in a dirty white suit, holding court in front of a gaggle of teenagers and a film camera on a street corner, someone else sat next to David Byrne on a crowded flight from NYC (he was in coach, right next to the toilet). Beth Ditto was spotted in the Omni hotel’s glass elevator with an inebriated friend slung casually over her shoulder, Johnny Borrell and Kirsten Dunst are (at Stubb’s — no, wait, they’re at Emo’s. Didn’t someone just say they saw them at Red Eye Fly?) everywhere. And the shows, like the faces, are nearly impossible to track — Andrew WK does a secret karaoke-style performance on a bridge somewhere in the middle of the night, Iggy Pop kicks out the jams at a surprise gig in a parking lot, and there are about 50 unofficial parties going on at any given time. It’s mayhem. So, you pick your own highlights. Here are mine: I catch Albert Hammond Jr twice — once on purpose at the Blender Bar on Thursday night, once, a day later, by accident, when I walk into a party just as he’s going onstage — and he’s fantastic, much more feral and kinetic and danceable than his album would suggest. He and his band play with frenzied deliberation and shape-throwing flair, clearly having become as serious a pursuit for him as The Strokes. On both nights, he’s dressed entirely in white, save for a short black vest, electric-shock hair flying, and resembles no one so much as Billy Squire (who, of course, scored a hit with a song called “The Stroke”) circa 1981. I also see The Comas twice, and entirely intentionally. A Brooklyn-by-way-of-North-Carolina quintet, they’ve never had an album released in the UK, although their upcoming first album for Vagrant, "Spells", will finally remedy that. Their last record, 2005’s "Conductor" (on NC-based indie Yep Roc), is a fuzzed-out masterpiece, and the new songs sound fantastic, too(particularly “Come My Sunshine,” which will probably be the first single), with a lot more Pixies-esque interplay between twitchily charismatic frontman Andy Herod and bass player Nicole Gehweiler. LA-based (and marvelously named) Ferraby Lionheart plays the (terribly named) Buffalo Billiards on Friday night — I’ve been wanting to see him ever since I first heard his delicate, lovely, spellbinding self-titled EP a few months ago. He doesn’t disappoint, although he’s shy and eschews even the most furtive glance at his audience in favour of hiding beneath a hat, he sings like a broken-hearted angel. A little bit Rufus Wainwright, a little bit Elliott Smith. Amy Winehouse blows the roof off at La Zona Rosa on Saturday night — it’s her largest show of the several she plays, and like everything she does it’s probably also simultaneously both the classiest (the besuited back-up singers, the brass section) and the trashiest (her awkward dirty-dancing moves) show of SXSW. With her mountainous black hair, tattoos, and disconcertingly low-riding jeans, she looks like Ronnie Spector in a women’s prison, and as she belts out her songs and knocks back cocktails, the crowd whoop and holler and goad her on — which is surprising and rather wonderful as there are clearly a lot more Texan locals in the room than there are members of the press, and they love her. Bloc Party play under a starry sky at outdoor venue Stubb’s, also on Saturday, and they’re so much more compelling than they were last year when they played the old album on the same stage, that I change my plans to cut out early to go catch the Horrors, and stay. The following night, The Good The Bad And The Queen are there, only the stars (at least celestial) aren’t. It’s cold, but again, the crowd appears to spellbound to leave. It’s a strange spectacle — Damon Albarn in his top hat looking like a slightly mad vaudevillian, and Paul Simonon breaking out the old Clash moves, slinging his bass around like a machine gun."

As promised, I have a guest blogger at Wild Mercury Sound today. Luke Torn is Uncut's man in Austin, Texas, and here is his report on last week's South By Southwest shenanigans - the 21st SXSW he's attended. Luke didn't get to see Psychedelic Horseshit, sadly, but at least he saw Holy Shit... "Overheard during a mad frenzy down Austin's ridiculously jam-packed 6th Street: 'SXSW... It's like Glastonbury on concrete...' Wednesday's SXSW festivities began with Pete Townshend, eloquent as ever, describing the ethereal quality of live music, and living for the moment, those unexpected moments, when something spectacular occurs. Unfortunately, those moments were few and far between on SXSW's opening night, providing more errant soundchecks and sluggish performances than apropos for the occasion. Eighty-years-young Charlie Louvin did not disappoint, though, rambling through standards like "Waiting For A Train", "Cash On The Barrelhead" and tunes from his comeback album with a tough, Bakersfield-style band. The Grand Ole Opry veteran and ex-Louvin Brother sounded chipper enough to play a two-hour set, hitting a high point early on with the mournful "Must You Throw Dirt In My Face". From there it was on to Club DeVille's Birdman Records showcase. Ex-Brian Jonestown Massacre man Brian Glaze's new combo and Gris Gris leader Greg Ashley's outfit the Medicine Fuck Dream Road Show played solid but shrill blues-tinged psychedelic sets that never quite caught fire. That was hardly the case at a place called Contaminated, though, as Milwaukee's kiddos Holy Shit burned through a Ramonesy blur of a set marked by howling feedback, plenty of rhythmic oomph, and a racetrack version of "Hound Dog". Chicago's 1900s, with their ambitious keyboard, harmony, and violin line-up, seemed like the next logical choice. But, plagued by (real or imagined) sound problems and an irritating, momentum killing tendency to gab, we fled to Buffalo Billiards to catch Nic Armstrong's combo IV Thieves. The sound was even more abysmal there, but the Thieves were nonetheless in top form, buzzing around the stage, whipping through a smart set of keening, hooks-a-plenty Britpop. Thursday's festivities started at a near empty Soho Lounge, where LA's Chairs of Perception (formerly known as the Urinals) burned through a set of flawless guitar rock, drawing on their deep roots in the LA punk scene, but blazing through strong new material as well. Their classic early single "Ack! Ack! Ack!" and a souped-up, sped-up Elevators nugget, "You're Gonna Miss Me," closed out an exhilarating set. We continued the old-punk class reunion at Buffalo Billiards for Bob Mould. Sans band, sans recent electronic trappings, Mould played the role of the troubadour, performing old hits and Husker and Sugar faves solo, banging them out with force on a battered acoustic guitar. Reprising many songs the audience was there to hear ("Shine A Little Light," "Makes No Sense At All"), Mould was positively uplifting for many souls among the crowd (shocking!), though it's clear his best material works better in full-band, rock'n'roll setting. Next up was the Norton Records showcase at Red 7, where we just barely made it in through a large line to see the Alarm Clocks. A Cleveland garage-band legend come back to life after some 40 years, the band was staggeringly good, playing the part of Nuggets-like '60s party band deluxe, performing "Yeah," their highly collectible 45. Next up was Sam The Sham, who unfortunately lived up to his name with an eye-rolling mix of clichéd dance party hits and tired Texas blues, punctuated by lame between-song talk. But in pure SXSW karmic, style, just out the door at the club's patio stage, Glasgow girl band the Hedrons were just hitting their stride, a fiery, nearly out of control Runaways-meets-the-Stooges performance that found singer Tippi leaving her stagebound bandmates for a crazed lap around the club, climbing tables, dancing with abandon to the band's thunderous waves of guitar on songs like "Be My Friend" and "I Need You". . . Back inside the main club, North Carolina rockers Reigning Sound played a beatific, ragged-but-soulful set of raw southern-tinged garage rock, including an amazing, almost unrecognizable romp through the Beach Boys' "I'm Waiting For The Day" before backing Mary Weiss on the comeback trail, resurrecting the Brill Building glory years on a set of Shangri-La's hits and cuts from her new "Dangerous Game" disc. Friday was set aside for tending to the Pop Culture Press day party, but Saturday started with a bang. Young Austin outfit (and I mean young, early teens) Jenny And The Wolfpack sounded fab at the Antone's Record day party, churning out nuggets like "For Your Love" and "Johnny B. Good" with the confidence of pros, before giving way to a solid power pop explosion by Paul Collins' Beat. With a great band of Spanish accompanists, Collins ripped his way through mixed new material from his "Flying High" album with classics like "Rock'n'Roll Girl" and "Workin' Too Hard" before welcoming Peter Case onstage for a near Nerves reunion set highlighted by a hammering "Hangin' On The Telephone". The evening began in earnest at the Lava Lounge, where Pittsburgh's Black Tie Revue were the weekend's best surprise. A quartet with tough melodic songs and plenty of kenyboard/guitar interplay, the group played rousing power pop culled from their upcoming Gearhead Records debut, "Code Fun". Philly's Capital Yrs were next, but despite their off-kilter pop masterpieces on record, never quite hit the sweet spot, so we eventually landed at a place called Latitude for Outrageous Cherry's set, and they did not disappoint. Matthew Smith's combo played intricate pop, Beatlesque if the Fabs had headed into darker textures following "Revolver", though their brooding, near unhinged cover of Junior Kimbrough's "Lord Have Mercy On Me" (on the Black Snake Moan soundtrack) shows this band is no one-trick pony. The evening, and SXSW #21 in a row for me, ended back at Red 7, where English upstarts Mumm-ra sounded their anthemic best, having just exited their tour support slot with the Killers. Tightly constructed songs, with lots of keyboard texture to blend with their wall of guitars, lead singer Noo took command, at one point literally hanging from the rafters, accentuating the band's lethal guitar buzz with playful aplomb. Zzzzzz . . . ."

Hi there, and welcome to the first of UNCUT.co.uk’s weekly film blogs. Every Friday I’ll be looking at the latest films opening at the cinema, getting released on DVD, and I also hope to provide advanced word on some of the screenings I’ve caught of forthcoming movies. I guess the film of most relevance in our world this week is Factory Girl, with Sienna Miller as Edie Sedgwick and Guy Pearce as Andy Warhol. It’s had a bit of a rough ride with some critics, but I thought the two leads were great, as it goes – Miller, particularly, did a grand job capturing Edie’s brittleness and frailty. The big problem for me is the character of Billy Quinn – a harmonica-wearing, curly-haired protest singer clearly modelled on Bob Dylan, who’d stymied the filmmakers by refusing to have anything to do with the film. It jars dreadfully, having a fictional character clearly based on a real person appearing in a biopic. There’s also a grim scene when the Factory regulars decamp to see the Velvet Underground play a gig – clearly, Lou won’t let them use any of the band’s actual songs, so they’re seen performing something that vaguely sounds like it might almost be “Venus In Furs”. Part of me almost can’t see the point in making a biopic if you have to create analogues to take the place of real people. Velvet Goldmine director Todd Haynes – who’s next film is the Dylan biopic starring 6 different actors as Bob – recently highlighted in UNCUT how rock critics are “hung up on notions of authenticity”, so who knows? If you’ve got any thoughts about rock biopics – let us know. Are they generally and good? I know our office has been split over recent films like Ray and Walk The Line, but I’d love to know what you think. One of the reasons why we’re doing these blogs is to get closer to you, the readers – so all and any dialogue we can have is valuable. I caught an early screening of Magicians earlier this week. This is the big screen debut of Peep Show stars David Mitchell and Robert Webb, and I have to say it was pretty much a disaster. Mitchell and Webb play feuding magicians who compete against each other in a magic competition. It just isn’t funny, the characters are weak, and the whole vibe feels more suited to a post-pub audience on a Friday night. It’s a shame, because we’re all big Peep Show fans up here. I hope to be more positive next week, when I’ll bring you news of Seven and Fight Club director David Fincher’s latest film – the serial killer film, Zodiac. Until then, take care,

Just a quick post today, since I'm waiting for a couple of reports on South By Southwest to be filed by Uncut writers. In the meantime, I've been listening to some new stuff from the Vancouver family of bands centred around Black Mountain. Black Mountain's debut album came out in 2005, a super-addictive, psychedelic blend of Sabbath, Neil, the Velvets and plenty of other staples found in every good rockist record collection. Since then, we've enjoyed a steady stream of good stuff from bandmembers in various guises: thorny country-rock from Blood Meridian; oscillating prog ambience from Sinoia Caves; jittery backwoods space-pop-ramalam, whatever that means, from Pink Mountaintops. Like Black Mountain, the Pink Mountaintops are helmed by Stephen McBean, and they have a new single called "Single Life" which you can hear at their Myspace site: cheap, overdriven guitars, a wheezing organ, a beat that's faster than is probably healthy, a general drugs-in-the garage vibe indebted to the third Velvets album. It's cool. Lightning Dust, meanwhile, are the latest offshoot, fronted by Black Mountain harmony singer Amber Webber. Their debut album is due in the summer, but there are three tunes playing right now on their Myspace, which are very promising. There's a bit of an "On The Beach" meets Mazzy Star feel to these stark tunes, though Webber reminds me of Lucinda Williams and a slightly gothic Patti Smith in places, too. "Castles And Caves" is marvellous, I think. Belated news from South By Southwest tomorrow, all being well. See you then.