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.

I don’t want to give anyone the impression that all I do all day is sit around, browsing through YouTube files and watching fantastic footage of my favourite bands – that’s Steve Sutherland’s job, after all. I do need, however, to bring your attention to a video of Richmond Fontaine live in Amsterdam, which is absolutely brilliant. The set is taken mainly from the recent ’13 Cities’ album, with four songs from Post To Wire, the record that brought them to Uncut’s belated attention – including a storming “Montgomery Park” and fiercely glowering “Western Skies”. There are a few unreleased gems here, too. I missed the band’s last London shows, and after watching this performance I am even more pissed off than I was at the time that I couldn’t go. They seem here to be in the form of their lives. Anyway, here’s the link to the 16-song set: http://www.fabchannel.com/richmond_fontaine I was just talking, by the way, to Chris Metzler, who looks after the band in Europe and puts out their records here. He tells me that the follow-up to Willy Vlautin’s debut novel, The Motel Life, will be out early next year. It’s called Northline. There’s also a possibility of a DVD package in October. Willy will also be playing a solo show in London, at the Luminaire on May 22. Chris has also turned me on to a fantastic new record – World Without End, by Bob Frank and John Murry, a dazzling collection of blasted country folk and grimly haunting murder ballads, shot through with harrowing images of death, damnation and eternal suffering. Legendary producer Jim Dickinson describes the record as “timeless as death” and Frank as “the greatest songwriter you never heard”. On the evidence of this, Jim’s right on both counts. I’ll try to find out some more about Frank and get back to you.

There's something a little disingenuous about opening your album with a song called "Do I Disappoint You?". This is how the fifth album by Rufus Wainwright begins: with wave after wave of opulent, complex orchestral flourishes, building and building; with a multitracked Martha Wainwright screaming "CHAOS!" and "DESTRUCTION!"; and with Wainwright himself, coy in the midst of so much melodrama. It's a theatrical set-piece pretending to be an anti-climax. It's both lovely and knowingly ridiculous. And it's also rather good. Wainwright, as you may have noticed, has been making fine records for nearly a decade now, and "Release The Stars" might just be his best yet. I must confess to being a little anxious about this one. The appointment of Neil Tennant as Executive Producer filled me with vague foreboding. And Wainwright's recent re-enactment of Judy Garland's Carnegie Hall concert suggested a brassier, crasser career turn. Happily, though, nothing here remotely resembles the Pet Shop Boys - in fact, it's the best-sounding album Wainwright has made, with some really inventive orchestral arrangements, a couple of satisfying experiments with guitar rock (notably "Between My Legs"), some exceptionally subtle moments, and less of the hygienised studio gloss that was mildly annoying on "Want One" and "Want Two". As for the Garland thing, only the closing title track has the big Broadway swagger to it, and even then, Wainwright's voice - nasal, schooled in indie stealth as much as Tin Pan Alley bravado, innately mournful - proves to be a brilliant counterpoint to the orchestral flash. I'm probably going to write a lot more about this record in the next few weeks, for Uncut magazine as much as this blog, so I don't want to go on about it too much here. But there are songs on "Release The Stars" that, I think, are a match for Wainwright's very best: the languid protest song, "Going To A Town", and the tremulous, affecting "Not Ready For Love" are reminiscent of the low-key highlights of his underrated 2001 collection, "Poses". Best of all, today at least, is "Slide Show", which features a classically wiry Richard Thompson guitar solo, duelling with giant orchestral stabs and Wainwright, again, being commendably understated amidst all the grandeur. And I haven't even mentioned the fantasy about Brandon Flowers and crisps. . .