Dexys Midnight Runners ROYAL FESTIVAL HALL, LONDON Monday November 10, 2003 Hearts in mouths as the lights dim; shouts of, "C'mon Kev! Testify!"relieve the tangible tension. Dexys supporters are passionately loyal: we are rooting for him. After the well-documented wilderness years, riddled with regret and ridicule in an unjust world, can he prove to be the comeback king? Can he kick it? Yes, he can. By night's end, Kevin Rowland is punching the air like a man who's scored a last-minute World Cup winner. Family and friends are emotional, as is anyone with a pulse. How glorious that Dexys should rise again, still burning, a Lazarus with the lights turned green. And how accurately Rowland and his astonishing band have gauged this, bearing in mind some previous, catastrophic, instinctive decisions. The new calm, mature Kevin knows the songs say it all, yet moments of stagecraft and theatre, even comedy, raise this above a mere reunion show. And if he's reasonable off stage, on it he's ablaze, feeling it, dropping to his knees and wailing with soul, like the white-punk Al Green who made Dexys the most legendary of legends. You should've crawled on broken glass to witness this; a benchmark. The choice of songs and pacing, the drama, is perfect. If the opening "Waltz"is tentative, we're entranced by Rowland's entrance, in shades, suit and a brown fur coat. Crooning alongside him, and shouldering much responsibility with fine voice, is Pete Williams, one-time bassist, now superb foil, jolly pixie-redcoat and eager cheerleader. Kevin has updated some lyrics; for "here is a protest", read "this was my protest". The Dexys band?some old, some new, Mick Talbot on keyboards?is a dream, from horns to violin. "The world's changed, so why shouldn't we?"asks Kevin. There are the expected goodies?a slower, sexy "Geno", "Eileen" as a rabble-rousing finale ("21 years since I sang this song/Wanna right that wrong"), a soaring "Precious"?and some cult choices, like "Old", "Liars A To E" (the line "you're the voice of experience"carrying extra pathos), and a tear-jerking "Couldn't Help It If I Tried". The new songs, "My Life In England"and "Manhood", are instant classics, and one encore, The Commodores'"Nightshift", is a baited-breath moment only Dexys could pull off. I could write books about the medley of "Until I Believe In My Soul"and "Tell Me When My Light Turns Green", wherein the spoken 'confession' scene is re-enacted. Rowland tells Williams'police officer he's been "burning". When did this incident take place? "'71 to '93." What were you thinking? "I dunno."Long pause. "I dunno."And, as the believers around the hall holler, "What's she like?", it begins. "This Is What She's Like", in all its upward-spiralling holiness, performed with skill and sweat. Kevin interrupts with, "These days I wouldn't get so worked up about people with creases in their old Levis"; the a cappella section and world's greatest "1-2-3-4!"moment are so right they scar your skin. You're exultant that Rowland made it back over the bridge, and honoured that you saw the rebirth. There's only one ending happy enough, and of course as appropriated by one godfather (Rowland) from another (the film), it's: the Italian word for thunderbolt, or something like that.

She walks on stage looking pale and enervated, like a ghostly image of heroin chic. Just what have they done to Thea Gilmore? Then two songs in she reveals she's "got the lurgy, big time". It turns out she's been taking nothing stronger than herbal tea to keep the flu at bay. Music proves an even more potent drug, however, and her energy returns as the songs from current album Avalanche work their magic on both her and us. Backed by a four-piece band, a rocking "Have You Heard?"soon has the corpuscles racing again, and reminds us Gilmore is far more than just another long-haired girl with a guitar. She can do the acoustic schtick as well as anyone, as she shows on the lovely "Holding Your Hand"from 2001's Rules For Jokers. But she's also got some cracking pop tunes, as she proves on "Juliet". Older fans nod in approval at "Mainstream", a kind of cross between "Subterranean Homesick Blues" and "Rockin' In The Free World". "Mud On My Shoes", from the limited edition CD Songs From The Gutter, is a country blues ("except in the Thames Valley we call it clinical depression"). "Avalanche" is dedicated to the bravery of The Dixie Chicks ("Who's going to be able to stand after this avalanche?"), and an impossibly poignant "Pirate Moon"to the memory of Elliott Smith. Then there's a terrific cover of Creedence's "Bad Moon Rising", which she introduces by observing, "If my generation was listening, this is what I'd be whispering to them." And that's Gilmore's only problem: many of those listening are drawn from her parents'generation. Yet it's a misconception to imagine she's some old-style hippie troubadour, and when she comes out from behind the comfort zone of her acoustic guitar?which she did for almost half the show?she shakes and shapes just like the real pop star she deserves to be. If this sold-out tour has seen Gilmore come of age, it's clearly had a similar effect on her support act, Adam Masterson. Accompanied only by his acoustic guitar and an electric bass, his voice has taken on a gloriously rich, sandpapered quality only hinted at on his debut album, One Tale Too Many. After the show, we inquire if he's another flu victim. But it seems the new depth to his voice is simply a natural result of getting a few gigs under his belt. Forget the likes of Pete Yorn and John Mayer. In Masterson, we have a homegrown talent who wipes the floor with the lot of them.

Photos of morris dancers adorn this home of the English Folk Dance & Song Society, and the atmosphere is pin-drop reverent as the Prince's legions gather. Floorboards creak, glasses clink, and someone actually tiptoes. No wonder Will Oldham's first act is to wince, then hurl us into his world of gore, spunk, death and cunnilingus. The mountain man who tore up British stages last time round has been replaced tonight by a straight-backed loner in the smart-casual dress of the conscientious worker. He swallows his country moustache in fish-gulping grimaces, jigging and stamping like a hillbilly fool, adding to the aura of eccentric inarticulacy he cloaks himself in to put off those trying to penetrate his private kingdom. I remember what a skilled child actor Will Oldham was, and what a brilliantly deceptive creation his Bonnie Prince is. Which doesn't mean he's a fake, any more than Robert Zimmerman. The collision of defeated desire and lusty fucking, of equally embraced death and life in a starkly exposed, Godly land, the body-ripping schizophrenic struggle living causes him in "Black"?this is a world as real as anyone's, however artfully expressed. Oldham is so relaxed tonight that all the humour in his work pours out, breaking the academic atmosphere with gusts of dirty laughter, as with his happiest song, "Death To Everyone", when in a Sid James growl he announces death "makes hosing much more fun". Having already commanded the "ladies gather round and do me from above", the fatalism underlying this shamelessness is expressed elsewhere: "I can't offer a thing. It's better than dying, so take it."As people drift quietly around this old hall, Oldham's laughter and seriousness merge into profundity, till on "I See A Darkness"his voice cuts softly through the air to tell us, "You know I've got this love, for everyone I know, and drive to live, that I just won't let go." By the encores Oldham is shrugging wonderingly, saying stone-faced to another explosion of cheers and pleas, "Y' all make me wanna come."Asked to "play some rock'n'roll", he reveals, "I only do that on the inside."He's cast his spell gradually, creating a land of laughter, love and maggoty decay.

The Flaming Lips CARLING HAMMERSMITH APOLLO, LONDON Monday, November 3, 2003 Old fan or new, it's a live show that blows your mind. Gaily-coloured balloons the size of space-hoppers assault and caress you from every direction. The on-stage bunnies, pandas, blow-up suns and giraffes play air guitar and get sweaty (when one removes her head to reveal a human within, you want to lynch her for spoiling the illusion). Lights, films, retina-slaying strobes go mental, while the avuncular Wayne Coyne does his routines and rambles affably. Somewhere in all this, songs of hope, kindness and death coalesce and dazzle. What an unlikely triumph are The Flaming Lips. Years grubbing away as trippy indie noiseniks; further time spent skulking as friends/neighbours Mercury Rev stole their thunder; and then?as if there were things like karma and justice in the world?they break through as a popular band, no longer just press darlings who throw together startling gigs. Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots is a ubiquitous album. The age range at this gig is as vast as those balloons. It's a carnival, a rave, a "happening". It may even be spiritually uplifting. It's certainly spectacular fun. Here's how it goes:song, speech, song, speech. The songs are by now practised set-pieces (and if there's a reservation, it's that this has remained the same show for 18 months now). Wayne's preachy, pseudo-philosophical speeches are what make it great for many. For others, the disruption of momentum (song carries you away, then you have to sit on your hands and listen to him pontificate before you're away again) is a price to pay. Coyne's subjects tonight include telling us that this is the biggest gig (5000 people) they've ever played, "bar festivals, where everyone's just there for drugs and sex. But you're here to enjoy the music!"Actually we're here to enjoy the balloons and bunnies too, but whatever. He gives us a potted band history. He conducts the traditional Happy Birthday singing, and "White Christmas". And once he gauges the mood horribly wrong, trying to win a wave of sympathy for US soldiers in Iraq. Though he's forgiven promptly, he's booed for a moment. He's attempting to say it's the leaders' fault, not the lackeys', but it's a chronic, borderline farcical misjudgment. The blood capsules and ventriloquist nun go down much better. And the songs swing low and sweep high, as ever. "Yoshimi"yanks at the soul, "Do You Realize??"is a Spector scattergun. That nice Cat Stevens song they've ripped off, "Fight Test", has more legs than the Boyzone version ("Father To Son"). Second number in is a cracking cover of The White Stripes'"Seven Nation Army". It works: whether as subtle postmodern deconstruction of trend-surfing topicality or as kick-ass blues, who knows? One film shows a guy opening his head, chopping out his own brain and snorting it. In its peak moments (there are many), a Flaming Lips show smoothes the crow's-feet from your cranium. Then lights a big candle and fills you with breath. Up, up and away.

Bob Dylan PALALOTTOMATICA (PALA EUR), ROME Saturday November 1, 2003 When the lights go down and the taped fanfare dies away, the MC reads out the following citation: "The Poet Laureate of rock'n'roll, declared washed up in the '80s, back stronger than ever at the decade's end..." And so it goes on, a prizefighter's testimony. And when it's finished, boppin'Bob emerges from the shadows, an impossibly feisty 63-year-old freak of nature. He takes up his position behind the electric piano pitched at the far left of the stage and slams into "To Be Alone With You", the band falling in behind as best they can. The chaotic blend of sleazy Texan boogie and raw innuendo suits Dylan fine as he gives the line "you're the only one I'm thinking of"all the suggestiveness he can muster. "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue"is stretched out on the rack of Larry Campbell's slide guitar, the tender vocal turning it into an astonishing hymn to newness. And then "Cry A While"goes under the knife, a mercilessly filleted, agonised blues. To think that a few years ago this man was being touted as a Nobel Peace Prize front-runner. Peace? What does Dylan know about peace? Artistically savage rancour, unsettling discord, confusion and searing rebukes remain his favoured weapons. Dylan swapped his guitar for electric piano several months back on The Never Ending Tour; a move some say was prompted by back pain or arthritis. Whatever the reason, he uses the keyboard not for rink dink embellishments but as a percussive sounding board, a butcher's slab where he hacks into the meat of his songs and the heart of his myth. Tonight, Dylan is a mix of Jester Imp and Jack The Ripper, slippery as an eel and deadly as a shark. He still has the knack of jumping back astonished, puzzled and excited by the sheer majesty and insight of his younger self. Tonight's version of the venerable "The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll", for instance, seethes with indignation as he brings big gothic strokes to the story of outrageous racism. "It's Alright Ma", meanwhile, is nasty and gruesome?like he's sick to the core of the song's all too bitter truths. A curtain falls over the preposterous backdrop logo as he begins "Mr Tambourine Man", and the 8,000 crowd cheers every line?but the song is rendered as gaudy ham drama, Dylan playing to the gallery like a shameless old tart. "Man In The Long Black Coat", by comparison, is laced with unexpected tremors, subterfuge and deceit; dark clouds of Telecaster and peals of drum thunder. Magnificent. Dylan enjoys himself immensely, jiggling about and tapping his feet on the pedals as he leads the band into "Tweedle Dee And Tweedle Dum". This is the post-apocalyptic Chess band of his dreams made real, racing off into the hinterland, pulling up short on the hairpin bends, almost crashing and falling over the edge. "Love Minus Zero"gets run down, battered and left by the roadside?but "Highway 61", so often a lame throwaway, courses with toxic power and sheer violence. The band spill blood and boiling oil as Bob recreates the timeless/timely theatre of war and sacrifice. The torture rack is back out for "Every Grain Of Sand"?lyrics mangled horribly, Bob the hunter taking a pot shot at a prized quarry and delivering a requiem over its corpse. Outrageous. He gnaws away at "Honest With Me", rushes through "Don't Think Twice", swaggers around "Summer Days"and returns for a suitably perverse encore of "Cat's In The Well". Then it's "Like A Rolling Stone", Dylan as Wired Midget Emperor, hammering out chords and glorying in demented wonder. And finally there's a bizarre staccato breakdown version of "All Along The Watchtower", the sequences of collapse and recovery a microcosm for the entire set or even, gulp, his career. At the end, Dylan stands alone on the stage, shuffling his feet, covering his tracks. None of the crowd wants to leave. Whatever else they see, they know they'll never see a show like this again. Whatever else he does, Bob will make sure they don't.