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Sierra Nirvana

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High plains drifter is Clint Eastwood, the nascent director, at his most elemental. He's post-Leone and pre-Josey Wales here, working from a script by Ernest Shaft Tidyman, playing a "squinty-eyed son of a bitch"who saves a small town in the Old West from a sadistic group of escaped convicts. It's a harsh, frequently brutal amorality play. The credits have barely rolled before we're treated to callous multiple murders and a 'consenting rape'scene. The Leone connections are underscored as Eastwood outwits the venal townsfolk, 'Dollars style, by initially aiding them and then leaving them to the mercy of the bandits. Only this time Eastwood takes Leone's mysterious stranger model to its logical conclusion by playing, literally, an avenging angel. The movie is fantastically odd, with a midget sheriff, gothic horror flashbacks and the otherworldly landscape of California's High Sierras. It's also the most distinctive and nastiest western of Eastwood's career. A stone-cold classic by anyone's standards.

High plains drifter is Clint Eastwood, the nascent director, at his most elemental. He’s post-Leone and pre-Josey Wales here, working from a script by Ernest Shaft Tidyman, playing a “squinty-eyed son of a bitch”who saves a small town in the Old West from a sadistic group of escaped convicts. It’s a harsh, frequently brutal amorality play. The credits have barely rolled before we’re treated to callous multiple murders and a ‘consenting rape’scene. The Leone connections are underscored as Eastwood outwits the venal townsfolk, ‘Dollars style, by initially aiding them and then leaving them to the mercy of the bandits. Only this time Eastwood takes Leone’s mysterious stranger model to its logical conclusion by playing, literally, an avenging angel. The movie is fantastically odd, with a midget sheriff, gothic horror flashbacks and the otherworldly landscape of California’s High Sierras. It’s also the most distinctive and nastiest western of Eastwood’s career. A stone-cold classic by anyone’s standards.

Short Cuts

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Also released this month... Shining like a beacon in the depressing pre-Christmas landscape of mouldy old video collections and dodgy concert films is Jane's Addiction's Three Days SANCTUARYRating Star Filmed by Carter Smith and Kevin Ford on the band's 1997 Relapse tour, it's a fully-realised piece of rock cinema that dramatically transcends the limitations of your average tour documentary. You can't make any such grandiose claims about Hold On To Your Structure EMIRating Star . But as it features Ian Dury And The Blockheads playing at Hammersmith Odeon in 1985, you don't really need much else. Of similar vintage is Frank Zappa's Does Humor Belong In Music EMIRating Star , a suitably zany 1984 live recording that includes such off-the-wall classics as "He's So Gay". Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" remains the most-played video on MTV to this day, and he's still pushing at the boundaries of sound and vision. Growing Up Live WARNER MUSIC VISIONRating Star was filmed on tour earlier this year and finds him suspended upside down, trapped inside a giant sphere and indulging in various other such circus-like exploits. No such fun on Genesis' Live At Wembley Stadium VIRGINRating Star , a thoroughly gormless set from 1987, long after Gabriel had abandoned the group to the AOR tendencies of Phil Collins. Eyes Wide Open SANCTUARYRating Star is a double offering from prog-rock survivors King Crimson featuring two concert performances from 2000 and 2003. As both feature almost identical set lists, all but the most committed may feel that one disc would have sufficed. Simon & Garfunkel's Concert In Central Park COLUMBIARating Star was recorded on the occasion of their less-than-united 1981 reunion, and includes a liberal selection of Simon's solo hits, while Art is left to perform "Bridge Over Troubled Water" solo. But the best in-concert DVD of the month may well be The Allman Brothers' Live At The Beacon Theater SANCTUARYRating Star . Recorded in New York earlier this year, the Brothers are one of those bands whose records are a pale shadow of their former glories. But, like The Rolling Stones, they're still a peerless live act, despite the fact that only Greg Allman and a pair of drummers remain from the original line-up.

Also released this month…

Shining like a beacon in the depressing pre-Christmas landscape of mouldy old video collections and dodgy concert films is Jane’s Addiction’s Three Days SANCTUARYRating Star

Filmed by Carter Smith and Kevin Ford on the band’s 1997 Relapse tour, it’s a fully-realised piece of rock cinema that dramatically transcends the limitations of your average tour documentary. You can’t make any such grandiose claims about Hold On To Your Structure EMIRating Star . But as it features Ian Dury And The Blockheads playing at Hammersmith Odeon in 1985, you don’t really need much else. Of similar vintage is Frank Zappa’s Does Humor Belong In Music EMIRating Star , a suitably zany 1984 live recording that includes such off-the-wall classics as “He’s So Gay”. Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” remains the most-played video on MTV to this day, and he’s still pushing at the boundaries of sound and vision. Growing Up Live WARNER MUSIC VISIONRating Star was filmed on tour earlier this year and finds him suspended upside down, trapped inside a giant sphere and indulging in various other such circus-like exploits. No such fun on Genesis’ Live At Wembley Stadium VIRGINRating Star , a thoroughly gormless set from 1987, long after Gabriel had abandoned the group to the AOR tendencies of Phil Collins. Eyes Wide Open SANCTUARYRating Star is a double offering from prog-rock survivors King Crimson featuring two concert performances from 2000 and 2003. As both feature almost identical set lists, all but the most committed may feel that one disc would have sufficed. Simon & Garfunkel’s Concert In Central Park COLUMBIARating Star was recorded on the occasion of their less-than-united 1981 reunion, and includes a liberal selection of Simon’s solo hits, while Art is left to perform “Bridge Over Troubled Water” solo. But the best in-concert DVD of the month may well be The Allman Brothers’ Live At The Beacon Theater SANCTUARYRating Star . Recorded in New York earlier this year, the Brothers are one of those bands whose records are a pale shadow of their former glories. But, like The Rolling Stones, they’re still a peerless live act, despite the fact that only Greg Allman and a pair of drummers remain from the original line-up.

Parasites For Sore Eyes

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Already well-served by the five-disc Alien Legacy collection, 20th Century Fox's unstoppable sci-fi franchise now bursts onto retail shelves in this exhaustive nine-disc set. The very existence of these 44 hours' worth of material owes itself to the twisted, iconic power of Ridley Scott's indelible 1979 original?one of those instantly influential pop culture triumphs that come along once or twice every decade. A generation down the line, Scott's movie still packs a punch?it's a perfectly paced mix of nihilistic deep-space corporate politics (screenwriter Dan O'Bannon had previously scripted the bleakly sardonic Dark Star) and don't-look-behind-you suspense, leavened with a healthy dose of extreme slasher violence and bucketloads of Freudian metaphor. Never is this more apparent than in the signature chest-burster sequence, generally the point at which even the most shock-resistant first-time audience sits up and vomits. Having introduced one of the all-time great movie monsters and inadvertently given us a kick-ass uber-heroine along the way (Sigourney Weaver's Ripley almost didn't survive Scott's final cut), it was inevitable that Fox would demand a sequel. Welcome, then, to Aliens (1986), written and directed by Mr Terminator himself, James Cameron. Cameron's triumph was in understanding that no one could make HR Giger's alien-killing machine scarier than Scott did. So he didn't even bother. Instead, he threw Ripley into all-out war with hordes of the bastards, backed up by a posse of rock-hard do-or-die space commandos. Despite being awash with pumped-up '80s action movie excess, it worked like gangbusters, courtesy of ferocious direction, a deadly earnest cast and a well-thought-out attempt to expand the Alien mythology. Aliens' success paved the way for David Fincher's Alien 3 (1992), the Magnificent Ambersons of the Alien saga. Beset with financial problems and on-set fighting between studio and Fincher (this is the only movie in the Quadrilogy not to have its extended version assembled by the original director), this is a laudable attempt to spin the series off in yet another direction. Alien 3 abandons the high-tech vistas of the preceding parts as Ripley crashes on a remote, primitive penal colony, face-hugging stowaway in tow. Fincher's great trick is to recast the alien as a classic devil in the woods, straight out of some medieval epic. But Fincher's approach doesn't quite come off?the moody, low-tech atmosphere is undermined by shoddy effects work and the version finally released (cut in the director's absence) only shows flashes of the brilliance he'd bring to the similarly murky Seven three years later. But Fox weren't yet ready to consign the franchise to oblivion, and signed French fantasist Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Delicatessen, City Of The Lost Children) to put yet another spin on their acid-spitting space lizard. Like its predecessor, Alien Resurrection (1997) is undoubtedly a failure?but it's a spectacular one. Jeunet's tale, scripted in part by original Alien screenwriter O'Bannon, takes place 200 years after part three. Ripley is now a superpowered human/alien clone who's been used to breed an alien queen, with predictable results. Script-wise, this film is a logic-free mess that riffs on the previous entries in the series, but Jeunet's visuals are undeniably outstanding?he brings plenty of wild quirkiness to what could have been a bunch of straightforward round-the-block-again action sequences. Watching these nine discs in quick succession is both fascinating and draining. As a DVD package, only Peter Jackson's extended The Lord Of The Rings discs come anywhere close in terms of comprehensive fan-friendly detail?if you love Alien, this is an absolute must-buy. As an ongoing four-movie narrative it's far less satisfying. Fox are to be admired for keeping their franchise alive with interesting directorial talent (Cameron, Fincher, Jeunet) but it's hard not to view the later sequels as pale, unscary shadows of Scott's original. All the same, Cameron's hyperkinetic, occasionally dated war-in-space opus is tremendously entertaining, and the audacious brilliance of Scott's white-knuckle original has to be seen to be believed. Twenty-four years after its debut, it remains a work of dark genius.

Already well-served by the five-disc Alien Legacy collection, 20th Century Fox’s unstoppable sci-fi franchise now bursts onto retail shelves in this exhaustive nine-disc set.

The very existence of these 44 hours’ worth of material owes itself to the twisted, iconic power of Ridley Scott’s indelible 1979 original?one of those instantly influential pop culture triumphs that come along once or twice every decade. A generation down the line, Scott’s movie still packs a punch?it’s a perfectly paced mix of nihilistic deep-space corporate politics (screenwriter Dan O’Bannon had previously scripted the bleakly sardonic Dark Star) and don’t-look-behind-you suspense, leavened with a healthy dose of extreme slasher violence and bucketloads of Freudian metaphor. Never is this more apparent than in the signature chest-burster sequence, generally the point at which even the most shock-resistant first-time audience sits up and vomits.

Having introduced one of the all-time great movie monsters and inadvertently given us a kick-ass uber-heroine along the way (Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley almost didn’t survive Scott’s final cut), it was inevitable that Fox would demand a sequel. Welcome, then, to Aliens (1986), written and directed by Mr Terminator himself, James Cameron.

Cameron’s triumph was in understanding that no one could make HR Giger’s alien-killing machine scarier than Scott did. So he didn’t even bother. Instead, he threw Ripley into all-out war with hordes of the bastards, backed up by a posse of rock-hard do-or-die space commandos. Despite being awash with pumped-up ’80s action movie excess, it worked like gangbusters, courtesy of ferocious direction, a deadly earnest cast and a well-thought-out attempt to expand the Alien mythology.

Aliens’ success paved the way for David Fincher’s Alien 3 (1992), the Magnificent Ambersons of the Alien saga. Beset with financial problems and on-set fighting between studio and Fincher (this is the only movie in the Quadrilogy not to have its extended version assembled by the original director), this is a laudable attempt to spin the series off in yet another direction. Alien 3 abandons the high-tech vistas of the preceding parts as Ripley crashes on a remote, primitive penal colony, face-hugging stowaway in tow. Fincher’s great trick is to recast the alien as a classic devil in the woods, straight out of some medieval epic. But Fincher’s approach doesn’t quite come off?the moody, low-tech atmosphere is undermined by shoddy effects work and the version finally released (cut in the director’s absence) only shows flashes of the brilliance he’d bring to the similarly murky Seven three years later.

But Fox weren’t yet ready to consign the franchise to oblivion, and signed French fantasist Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Delicatessen, City Of The Lost Children) to put yet another spin on their acid-spitting space lizard. Like its predecessor, Alien Resurrection (1997) is undoubtedly a failure?but it’s a spectacular one. Jeunet’s tale, scripted in part by original Alien screenwriter O’Bannon, takes place 200 years after part three. Ripley is now a superpowered human/alien clone who’s been used to breed an alien queen, with predictable results. Script-wise, this film is a logic-free mess that riffs on the previous entries in the series, but Jeunet’s visuals are undeniably outstanding?he brings plenty of wild quirkiness to what could have been a bunch of straightforward round-the-block-again action sequences.

Watching these nine discs in quick succession is both fascinating and draining. As a DVD package, only Peter Jackson’s extended The Lord Of The Rings discs come anywhere close in terms of comprehensive fan-friendly detail?if you love Alien, this is an absolute must-buy. As an ongoing four-movie narrative it’s far less satisfying. Fox are to be admired for keeping their franchise alive with interesting directorial talent (Cameron, Fincher, Jeunet) but it’s hard not to view the later sequels as pale, unscary shadows of Scott’s original. All the same, Cameron’s hyperkinetic, occasionally dated war-in-space opus is tremendously entertaining, and the audacious brilliance of Scott’s white-knuckle original has to be seen to be believed. Twenty-four years after its debut, it remains a work of dark genius.

Office Space

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In 1999, Beavis & Butthead creator Mike Judge made his first foray into live action with this good-natured satire on the mind-numbing life of the white-collar worker. Ron Livingstone is the drone desperate to escape his corporate existence, whose attempts to get sacked leave a team of troubleshooters convinced he's management material. Jennifer Aniston co-stars. Over-looked, but often screamingly funny.

In 1999, Beavis & Butthead creator Mike Judge made his first foray into live action with this good-natured satire on the mind-numbing life of the white-collar worker. Ron Livingstone is the drone desperate to escape his corporate existence, whose attempts to get sacked leave a team of troubleshooters convinced he’s management material. Jennifer Aniston co-stars. Over-looked, but often screamingly funny.

Springtime In A Small Town

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This marks Tian Zhuangzhuang's return to directing after a nine-year ban by China's authorities. Zhichen visits old school friend Liyan in a bombed-out town in post-war China. Though welcomed by the household, Zhichen's relationships with the family break down when he rekindles a romance with his childhood sweetheart?now Liyan's wife. Exceptional cinematography and sensitive performances are let down by a clumsy screenplay and drawn-out pacing. Shame.

This marks Tian Zhuangzhuang’s return to directing after a nine-year ban by China’s authorities. Zhichen visits old school friend Liyan in a bombed-out town in post-war China. Though welcomed by the household, Zhichen’s relationships with the family break down when he rekindles a romance with his childhood sweetheart?now Liyan’s wife. Exceptional cinematography and sensitive performances are let down by a clumsy screenplay and drawn-out pacing. Shame.

Être Et Avoir

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Ten months, twelve pupils, one teacher, one documentarian and 300 hours of footage are mixed and tweaked to produce 100 minutes of gripping observational drama set in a rural French classroom. Here, the avuncular Georges Lopez instructs his students and dispenses wisdom in equal measure, while his soft baritone rolls from day to day, season to season, like the voice of God.

Ten months, twelve pupils, one teacher, one documentarian and 300 hours of footage are mixed and tweaked to produce 100 minutes of gripping observational drama set in a rural French classroom. Here, the avuncular Georges Lopez instructs his students and dispenses wisdom in equal measure, while his soft baritone rolls from day to day, season to season, like the voice of God.

Marx Brothers Box Set

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Made between 1930 and 1933, these four films (Horse Feathers, Animal Crackers, Duck Soup, Monkey Business) represent the Marx Brothers in their first flush, prior to moving to Hollywood. Although occasionally marred by musical routines and the over-familiarity of the zaniness, these outings are immortal?the missing link between the lost, tumbling traditions of vaudeville and the surrealist hipster comedy of the present day. Introducing quickfire Jewish wit and an anarchic insolence for authority into the mainstream, these seemingly slapdash movies are cinematic milestones.

Made between 1930 and 1933, these four films (Horse Feathers, Animal Crackers, Duck Soup, Monkey Business) represent the Marx Brothers in their first flush, prior to moving to Hollywood. Although occasionally marred by musical routines and the over-familiarity of the zaniness, these outings are immortal?the missing link between the lost, tumbling traditions of vaudeville and the surrealist hipster comedy of the present day. Introducing quickfire Jewish wit and an anarchic insolence for authority into the mainstream, these seemingly slapdash movies are cinematic milestones.

Les Espions

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At a provincial asylum, a down-at-heel doctor agrees to shelter an anonymous patient for the US government; soon his village is swarming with international spies, all trying to discover the new inmate's identity. This minor but hugely odd 1957 effort from Henri-Georges Clouzot has none of the suspense, nor the thrills, of his incredible Wages Of Fear or Les Diaboliques, but the atmosphere is strangely compelling.

At a provincial asylum, a down-at-heel doctor agrees to shelter an anonymous patient for the US government; soon his village is swarming with international spies, all trying to discover the new inmate’s identity. This minor but hugely odd 1957 effort from Henri-Georges Clouzot has none of the suspense, nor the thrills, of his incredible Wages Of Fear or Les Diaboliques, but the atmosphere is strangely compelling.

Exorcist II: The Heretic

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William Friedkin's original was dazzling, intelligent and scary; John Boorman's train wreck of a sequel is none of the above. Richard Burton is at his hammiest as the priest investigating the death of Father Merrin at the end of the first movie, Louise Fletcher plays Regan's psychiatrist, and the screenplay is one of the worst ever committed to paper. Avoid.

William Friedkin’s original was dazzling, intelligent and scary; John Boorman’s train wreck of a sequel is none of the above. Richard Burton is at his hammiest as the priest investigating the death of Father Merrin at the end of the first movie, Louise Fletcher plays Regan’s psychiatrist, and the screenplay is one of the worst ever committed to paper. Avoid.

Timecode

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Mike Figgis' brilliant experiment spawned many imitations, some by him, none as good. Against a quartered screen, four cameras show?in real time?a multi-strand narrative, played out among Tinseltown wannabes and has-beens. There's sex, murder, moral vacuums and a huge cast including Stellan Skarsg...

Mike Figgis’ brilliant experiment spawned many imitations, some by him, none as good. Against a quartered screen, four cameras show?in real time?a multi-strand narrative, played out among Tinseltown wannabes and has-beens. There’s sex, murder, moral vacuums and a huge cast including Stellan Skarsg

Double Whammy

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Tom DiCillo's offbeat comedy is a blend of cop thriller and romance which may confuse the uninitiated, but diehards will lap up his calmly twisted humour. Denis Leary's an NY cop with backache, recently widowed, who's lousy on the job till chiropractor Liz Hurley shows him love and partner Steve Buscemi questions his sexuality. Factor in many cinephile in-jokes and it's an intelligent, cynical joy.

Tom DiCillo’s offbeat comedy is a blend of cop thriller and romance which may confuse the uninitiated, but diehards will lap up his calmly twisted humour. Denis Leary’s an NY cop with backache, recently widowed, who’s lousy on the job till chiropractor Liz Hurley shows him love and partner Steve Buscemi questions his sexuality. Factor in many cinephile in-jokes and it’s an intelligent, cynical joy.

Ikiru – Sanjuro

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A welcome release for three Akira Kurosawa classics from the BFI. In Ikiru, Takashi Shimura delivers a fine, understated performance as a dying bureaucrat. Sanjuro stars longtime Kurosawa collaborator Toshiro Mifune, playing mostly for laughs as the eponymous hero, a slovenly but experienced samurai who teams up with nine younger, idealistic warriors to defeat corruption in their town. The climactic duel shows the great Japanese director at his controlled, no-frills best. In Red Beard, Mifune again excels as Dr "Red Beard" Niide, the harsh taskmaster who runs a rural clinic and teaches his ambitious graduate intern the real meaning of being a doctor. Three very different, equally beguiling films that testify to Kurosawa's rich storytelling genius.

A welcome release for three Akira Kurosawa classics from the BFI. In Ikiru, Takashi Shimura delivers a fine, understated performance as a dying bureaucrat. Sanjuro stars longtime Kurosawa collaborator Toshiro Mifune, playing mostly for laughs as the eponymous hero, a slovenly but experienced samurai who teams up with nine younger, idealistic warriors to defeat corruption in their town. The climactic duel shows the great Japanese director at his controlled, no-frills best. In Red Beard, Mifune again excels as Dr “Red Beard” Niide, the harsh taskmaster who runs a rural clinic and teaches his ambitious graduate intern the real meaning of being a doctor. Three very different, equally beguiling films that testify to Kurosawa’s rich storytelling genius.

The Old Soul Rebels

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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.

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.

Thea Gilmore – Adam Masterson

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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.

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.

Bonnie “Prince” Billy – Cecil Sharp House, London

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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.

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.

Both Sides Of The Coyne

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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.

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.

The Thunder Rolls On

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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.

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.

John Lee Hooker – Face To Face

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Thanks to the star guests on albums such as The Healer and Mr Lucky, John Lee Hooker sold more records in the final decade of his life than he had in the previous 40 years. Face To Face was in the making when he died in 2001, and includes collaborations with Johnny Winter, Robert Cray, Canned Heat, George Thorogood and Van Morrison. The delay in its release suggests a certain posthumous touching-up was required, and his voice was clearly in decline. But the spirit is still there on new versions of Hooker classics such as "Dimples" (featuring Morrison) and a dirty-sounding "Boogie Chillen".

Thanks to the star guests on albums such as The Healer and Mr Lucky, John Lee Hooker sold more records in the final decade of his life than he had in the previous 40 years. Face To Face was in the making when he died in 2001, and includes collaborations with Johnny Winter, Robert Cray, Canned Heat, George Thorogood and Van Morrison. The delay in its release suggests a certain posthumous touching-up was required, and his voice was clearly in decline. But the spirit is still there on new versions of Hooker classics such as “Dimples” (featuring Morrison) and a dirty-sounding “Boogie Chillen”.

This Month We’re Being Buried In Blues And Roots

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Probably the best blues album in the world...ever! Martin Scorsese's seven-part TV series on the blues has had mixed reviews in America. But it's impossible to fault the accompanying five-CD box set, which must qualify as the most comprehensive blues compilation ever released. With 116 tracks chron...

Probably the best blues album in the world…ever!

Martin Scorsese’s seven-part TV series on the blues has had mixed reviews in America. But it’s impossible to fault the accompanying five-CD box set, which must qualify as the most comprehensive blues compilation ever released. With 116 tracks chronologically sequenced and expertly annotated, there’s hardly a big name in the genre who isn’t represented.

Nevertheless, the set raises fundamental questions about why anybody should still bother listening to the blues. The music, after all, came from a specific set of economic, geographical, cultural and social circumstances that pertained to the Mississippi Delta in the first half of the 20th century. When the say-it-loud-I’m-black-and-I’m-proud revolution happened in the ’60s, African-Americans no longer wanted to be reminded of their former share-cropping oppression. Ironically, it was left to white British musicians to sustain and revitalise the blues tradition.

Scorsese provides several answers. First, by presenting the likes of Blind Willie McTell, Charley Patton, Son House and Robert Johnson in context, Discs One and Two revalidate a body of work that may today sound scratchily ancient and from an experience almost totally beyond our comprehension by proving it can still speak with a voice of awesome emotional power and dramatic resonance.

Secondly, the set is subtitled A Musical Journey, and, as the old clich

Eric Clapton – Martin Scorsese Presents The Blues: Eric Clapton

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If Scorsese skimps on the British blues in his box set, he compensates with a single spin-off disc focusing solely on Slowhand's contribution to the devil's music. Ten tracks trace Clapton's development through his days with John Mayall to Cream, Blind Faith and Derek And The Dominos. We also get "Rockin' Today" from the famous 1970 London sessions with Howlin' Wolf. There's nothing of more recent vintage, such as his 2001 collaboration with BB King. But it's still an impressive summary of Clapton's credentials as?surely?the greatest white blues man of them all.

If Scorsese skimps on the British blues in his box set, he compensates with a single spin-off disc focusing solely on Slowhand’s contribution to the devil’s music. Ten tracks trace Clapton’s development through his days with John Mayall to Cream, Blind Faith and Derek And The Dominos. We also get “Rockin’ Today” from the famous 1970 London sessions with Howlin’ Wolf. There’s nothing of more recent vintage, such as his 2001 collaboration with BB King. But it’s still an impressive summary of Clapton’s credentials as?surely?the greatest white blues man of them all.

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