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Anthem For Doomed Youth

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Between the release of his career-defining performances for director John Sturges in The Magnificent Seven (1960) and The Great Escape (1963), Steve McQueen experimented with his screen persona in three wildly varying military projects. He played a scheming Navy lieutenant-cum-casino thief in comic misfire The Hollywood Machine (1961); a cocky WWII fighter pilot in the underrated, British-made The War Lover (1962) and the ferocious, wild-eyed infantryman Reese in Don Siegel's superlative anti-war classic Hell Is For Heroes (also 1962). One of the first Hollywood-produced combat flicks (alongside Robert Aldrich's earlier Attack) to truly deliver on its promised anti-war message, Hell Is For Heroes was originally crafted as a showcase for the emerging McQueen but ended up becoming far more in the accomplished hands of Siegel. Writer/director Robert Pirosh (who'd won an Oscar for scripting William Wellman's 1949 Battle of the Bulge drama Battleground, and went on to create US TV's classic '60s WWII drama Combat!), based his original script on the true story of seven massively-outnumbered Gls in 1944, ordered to hold their position on the Siegfried Line until reinforcements arrived. After polishing up a final draft (entitled Separation Hill) in consultation with his star, Pirosh shot a week's worth of footage before the ever-capricious McQueen demanded a rewrite that increased his screen time and reduced the importance of Pirosh's ensemble cast, which boasted the cream of Hollywood's young acting talent. Pirosh refused, only to have Paramount kick him off his own flick and replace him with Siegel. Which is the best thing that could have happened to the now-retitled Hell Is For Heroes. Despite Pirosh's pedigree as a writer of war dramas, his slender output as director languishes in justifiable obscurity, with only his remarkable 1951 Japanese-American soldiers-at-war opus Go For Broke! worth seeing, while Siegel was about to kick-start 10 years of unparalleled creativity. Hell Is For Heroes bristles with the snappily-edited emotional urgency honed on B-movie classics like Invasion Of The Body Snatchers and Baby Face Nelson that soon became his trademark. Filmed over several weeks, with the woods of Redding, California standing in for wartime France, Siegel's movie takes place over 48 desperate hours as the men of 2nd Squad find themselves reassigned to the Siegfried Line. Joined by the insubordinate, battle-scarred Private Reese, no amount of well-drilled discipline or jovial bonhomie can disguise the lone squad's sense of doom. They're dead and they know it. Despite Siegel and rewrite man Richard Carr's brief to big up McQueen, Hell Is For Heroes works precisely because Siegel, ever the wily professional, was able to placate his needy star and stay true to Pirosh's ensemble vision. Sure enough, McQueen's mesmerising, as he always was with the right director. Sporting a scrubby beard and a snarling fuck-you attitude, he's a killer defined by war, living for combat and left incapable of forming human relationships. McQueen may be the undoubted star, but Siegel serves all his cast well. The film is stuffed with deadly-earnest performances, most of which serve to accentuate the random, ever-present carnage. From James Coburn's wry, fatalistic mechanic Henshaw to Mike Kellin's displaced family man Kolinski and Harry Guardino's raging Sgt Larkin, Siegel takes the usual Hollywood GI stereotypes and relentlessly subverts them. Comic relief is briefly supplied by hustling Private Corby (played so well by ailing Vegas crooner Bobby Darin that you wish he'd devoted his short life to movies rather than lounge-core classics) and green-as-they-come decoy Private Driscoll (first-time actor Bob Newhart, cleverly riffing on his classic man-on-the-phone comedy routines). But even their light-hearted schtick ends in sober desperation as Siegel delivers a bleak monochrome vision of the European theatre at its most unforgiving. This slice of cinematic combat wouldn't be matched for intensity until Saving Private Ryan almost 40 years later. Even then, Spielberg couldn't resist a climactic blaze of flag-waving optimism. No such conclusion for Siegel, ever the dark-hearted nihilist. Hell Is For Heroes ends with 2nd Squad decimated, their sacrifice instantly forgotten as the battle rages heedlessly on and Siegel's camera zooms in on the unimpressive lone pillbox they've sacrificed everything to destroy. War is hell. DVD EXTRAS: None.

Between the release of his career-defining performances for director John Sturges in The Magnificent Seven (1960) and The Great Escape (1963), Steve McQueen experimented with his screen persona in three wildly varying military projects. He played a scheming Navy lieutenant-cum-casino thief in comic misfire The Hollywood Machine (1961); a cocky WWII fighter pilot in the underrated, British-made The War Lover (1962) and the ferocious, wild-eyed infantryman Reese in Don Siegel’s superlative anti-war classic Hell Is For Heroes (also 1962).

One of the first Hollywood-produced combat flicks (alongside Robert Aldrich’s earlier Attack) to truly deliver on its promised anti-war message, Hell Is For Heroes was originally crafted as a showcase for the emerging McQueen but ended up becoming far more in the accomplished hands of Siegel.

Writer/director Robert Pirosh (who’d won an Oscar for scripting William Wellman’s 1949 Battle of the Bulge drama Battleground, and went on to create US TV’s classic ’60s WWII drama Combat!), based his original script on the true story of seven massively-outnumbered Gls in 1944, ordered to hold their position on the Siegfried Line until reinforcements arrived.

After polishing up a final draft (entitled Separation Hill) in consultation with his star, Pirosh shot a week’s worth of footage before the ever-capricious McQueen demanded a rewrite that increased his screen time and reduced the importance of Pirosh’s ensemble cast, which boasted the cream of Hollywood’s young acting talent. Pirosh refused, only to have Paramount kick him off his own flick and replace him with Siegel.

Which is the best thing that could have happened to the now-retitled Hell Is For Heroes. Despite Pirosh’s pedigree as a writer of war dramas, his slender output as director languishes in justifiable obscurity, with only his remarkable 1951 Japanese-American soldiers-at-war opus Go For Broke! worth seeing, while Siegel was about to kick-start 10 years of unparalleled creativity. Hell Is For Heroes bristles with the snappily-edited emotional urgency honed on B-movie classics like Invasion Of The Body Snatchers and Baby Face Nelson that soon became his trademark.

Filmed over several weeks, with the woods of Redding, California standing in for wartime France, Siegel’s movie takes place over 48 desperate hours as the men of 2nd Squad find themselves reassigned to the Siegfried Line. Joined by the insubordinate, battle-scarred Private Reese, no amount of well-drilled discipline or jovial bonhomie can disguise the lone squad’s sense of doom. They’re dead and they know it.

Despite Siegel and rewrite man Richard Carr’s brief to big up McQueen, Hell Is For Heroes works precisely because Siegel, ever the wily professional, was able to placate his needy star and stay true to Pirosh’s ensemble vision.

Sure enough, McQueen’s mesmerising, as he always was with the right director. Sporting a scrubby beard and a snarling fuck-you attitude, he’s a killer defined by war, living for combat and left incapable of forming human relationships.

McQueen may be the undoubted star, but Siegel serves all his cast well. The film is stuffed with deadly-earnest performances, most of which serve to accentuate the random, ever-present carnage. From James Coburn’s wry, fatalistic mechanic Henshaw to Mike Kellin’s displaced family man Kolinski and Harry Guardino’s raging Sgt Larkin, Siegel takes the usual Hollywood GI stereotypes and relentlessly subverts them.

Comic relief is briefly supplied by hustling Private Corby (played so well by ailing Vegas crooner Bobby Darin that you wish he’d devoted his short life to movies rather than lounge-core classics) and green-as-they-come decoy Private Driscoll (first-time actor Bob Newhart, cleverly riffing on his classic man-on-the-phone comedy routines). But even their light-hearted schtick ends in sober desperation as Siegel delivers a bleak monochrome vision of the European theatre at its most unforgiving. This slice of cinematic combat wouldn’t be matched for intensity until Saving Private Ryan almost 40 years later. Even then, Spielberg couldn’t resist a climactic blaze of flag-waving optimism.

No such conclusion for Siegel, ever the dark-hearted nihilist. Hell Is For Heroes ends with 2nd Squad decimated, their sacrifice instantly forgotten as the battle rages heedlessly on and Siegel’s camera zooms in on the unimpressive lone pillbox they’ve sacrificed everything to destroy. War is hell.

DVD EXTRAS: None.

Shane

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The definitive Hollywood western, George Stevens' Shane has inimitable narrative momentum, rolling effortlessly from the introduction of Alan Ladd's buckskin dandy to the initial saloon tensions ("You talking to me?") and the epic punch-up, through the homesteader murder and the final confrontation with Jack Palance's beguiling assassin. Magnificent.

The definitive Hollywood western, George Stevens’ Shane has inimitable narrative momentum, rolling effortlessly from the introduction of Alan Ladd’s buckskin dandy to the initial saloon tensions (“You talking to me?”) and the epic punch-up, through the homesteader murder and the final confrontation with Jack Palance’s beguiling assassin. Magnificent.

The Heroes Of Telemark

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Cracking old-school account of the Norwegian resistance's WWII attempts to destroy the Nazi factory responsible for developing Germany's atom bomb. Rousingly directed by Anthony Mann with the visual sweep typical of all his later productions (EI Cid, the first hour of Spartacus). Watch out for the curious sight of Kirk Douglas, in his prime here, acting brooding hambone Richard Harris off the screen.

Cracking old-school account of the Norwegian resistance’s WWII attempts to destroy the Nazi factory responsible for developing Germany’s atom bomb. Rousingly directed by Anthony Mann with the visual sweep typical of all his later productions (EI Cid, the first hour of Spartacus). Watch out for the curious sight of Kirk Douglas, in his prime here, acting brooding hambone Richard Harris off the screen.

The Desperate Hours

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William Wyler's 1955 suspense classic, later remade by Michael Cimino, finds Humphrey Bogart frowning and sweating as only he can (in a role first played on stage by Paul Newman). Three on-the-run cons hold a family hostage in their home, but after plenty of mind games, the suburbanites outfox them. Humph had done it better in Key Largo, but it still crackles gamely.

William Wyler’s 1955 suspense classic, later remade by Michael Cimino, finds Humphrey Bogart frowning and sweating as only he can (in a role first played on stage by Paul Newman). Three on-the-run cons hold a family hostage in their home, but after plenty of mind games, the suburbanites outfox them. Humph had done it better in Key Largo, but it still crackles gamely.

The Matrix Reloaded

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Taking apart their original monster hit, piecemeal, including smart cod-philosophy, brain-teasing story-twists, set-piece kung fu spectaculars and final-reel resurrections, and then reassembling it with a much bigger budget and a greater dollop of hubris, the Wachowski brothers here prove that limitless resources plus final cut can be a volatile mix.

Taking apart their original monster hit, piecemeal, including smart cod-philosophy, brain-teasing story-twists, set-piece kung fu spectaculars and final-reel resurrections, and then reassembling it with a much bigger budget and a greater dollop of hubris, the Wachowski brothers here prove that limitless resources plus final cut can be a volatile mix.

The Omega Man

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Charlton Heston plays the Last Man On Earth after everybody else has been transformed by a plague into albino vampires in this so-so adaptation of Richard Matheson's novel I Am Legend. Some nice post-apocalyptic moments in the first half, but the vampires really aren't scary enough and the allegorical ending is on a par with a flying mallet. Disappointing.

Charlton Heston plays the Last Man On Earth after everybody else has been transformed by a plague into albino vampires in this so-so adaptation of Richard Matheson’s novel I Am Legend. Some nice post-apocalyptic moments in the first half, but the vampires really aren’t scary enough and the allegorical ending is on a par with a flying mallet. Disappointing.

Dark Blue

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Tough thriller from director Ron Shelton based on a James Ellroy story. Kurt Russell is outstanding as veteran bad-ass Los Angeles cop Eldon Perry, who realises too late the waste he has made of his life. Great support from Brendan Gleeson as his malignant boss and Ving Rhames as the upright officer dedicated to bringing him down.

Tough thriller from director Ron Shelton based on a James Ellroy story. Kurt Russell is outstanding as veteran bad-ass Los Angeles cop Eldon Perry, who realises too late the waste he has made of his life. Great support from Brendan Gleeson as his malignant boss and Ving Rhames as the upright officer dedicated to bringing him down.

Girl On A Motorcycle

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Originally released in 1968 as Naked Under Leather, this infamous Marianne Faithfull fantasy is more legendary than it is actually any good. A bored small-town wife speeds off on her Harley Davidson to romp around with the Alain Delon of her imagination. An amusing piece of kitsch, bizarrely helmed by iconic cameraman Jack Cardiff. Had they spiked his tea?

Originally released in 1968 as Naked Under Leather, this infamous Marianne Faithfull fantasy is more legendary than it is actually any good. A bored small-town wife speeds off on her Harley Davidson to romp around with the Alain Delon of her imagination. An amusing piece of kitsch, bizarrely helmed by iconic cameraman Jack Cardiff. Had they spiked his tea?

To Joy

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Ingmar Bergman's early films are often passed over. To Joy (1950) has hardly been seen in the UK, but it's highly personal, autobiographical even, totally involving, moving, and its theme of marital disharmony runs through much of his mature work. Marta and Stig meet, marry, he cheats, they reunite....

Ingmar Bergman’s early films are often passed over. To Joy (1950) has hardly been seen in the UK, but it’s highly personal, autobiographical even, totally involving, moving, and its theme of marital disharmony runs through much of his mature work. Marta and Stig meet, marry, he cheats, they reunite. Victor Sj

Teenage Wasteland

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From those opening apocalyptic chords by industrial metal-heads Rammstein, as director Moodysson's free-wheeling camera chases down a bruised and battered teenage girl stumbling through a bleak, formless cityscape, Lilya 4-Ever reveals itself as a dogged hunt, a pummelling pursuit. And here before us is our exhausted quarry. Flashback to three months earlier, and the movie roughly grabs the pristine Lilya (Oksana Akinshina), quietly ecstatic, packing her bags, about to depart the drab, punishing former Soviet Union with her mother for America, and pitches her headlong down an interminable and hellish narrative staircase, hitting a world of pain with every bump. Her mother leaves without her. Bump. She's evicted from her flat, flakes out of school, runs out of money, becomes a prostitute, gets beaten, gang-raped, bump bump, and is finally sold by her scheming lothario into the Swedish sex trade! This unflinchingly sadistic narrative trajectory simply shouldn't work. There's little dramatic ebb and flow here. And yet, thanks to Moodysson's genius casting and careful writing, the descent is as harrowing as it is relentless. There's a hidden nobility behind Akinshina's increasingly puffed Slavic eyes and soft girlish dimples, and a morality in her actions (she throws away 'dirty' money) that we latch onto for dear life. She displays foolhardy optimism (by trusting her slippery boyfriend against her better instincts) because it's the only thing that can save her from a life of ruination. That it doesn't, in the end, is what ultimately makes the movie so disturbing.

From those opening apocalyptic chords by industrial metal-heads Rammstein, as director Moodysson’s free-wheeling camera chases down a bruised and battered teenage girl stumbling through a bleak, formless cityscape, Lilya 4-Ever reveals itself as a dogged hunt, a pummelling pursuit. And here before us is our exhausted quarry.

Flashback to three months earlier, and the movie roughly grabs the pristine Lilya (Oksana Akinshina), quietly ecstatic, packing her bags, about to depart the drab, punishing former Soviet Union with her mother for America, and pitches her headlong down an interminable and hellish narrative staircase, hitting a world of pain with every bump. Her mother leaves without her. Bump. She’s evicted from her flat, flakes out of school, runs out of money, becomes a prostitute, gets beaten, gang-raped, bump bump, and is finally sold by her scheming lothario into the Swedish sex trade!

This unflinchingly sadistic narrative trajectory simply shouldn’t work. There’s little dramatic ebb and flow here. And yet, thanks to Moodysson’s genius casting and careful writing, the descent is as harrowing as it is relentless. There’s a hidden nobility behind Akinshina’s increasingly puffed Slavic eyes and soft girlish dimples, and a morality in her actions (she throws away ‘dirty’ money) that we latch onto for dear life. She displays foolhardy optimism (by trusting her slippery boyfriend against her better instincts) because it’s the only thing that can save her from a life of ruination. That it doesn’t, in the end, is what ultimately makes the movie so disturbing.

The Honeymoon Killers

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A key tome in the lovers-on-the-lam canon, with uncredited mastershots from a fledgling Martin Scorsese, Honeymoon Killers is the tale of a bloated, psychotic nurse (Shirley Stoler?Divine meets Louise Fletcher), her oily Spanish lover (Tony Lo Bianco) and the various needy, neurotic, half-witted women they deceive and murder. Startling photography, am-dram performances, and deeply misogynistic.

A key tome in the lovers-on-the-lam canon, with uncredited mastershots from a fledgling Martin Scorsese, Honeymoon Killers is the tale of a bloated, psychotic nurse (Shirley Stoler?Divine meets Louise Fletcher), her oily Spanish lover (Tony Lo Bianco) and the various needy, neurotic, half-witted women they deceive and murder. Startling photography, am-dram performances, and deeply misogynistic.

Good Golly Miss Polly

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PJ Harvey/Elbow EDEN PROJECT, CORNWALL Friday August 15, 2003 PJ Harvey TATE MODERN, LONDON Monday September 1, 2003 Polly harvey's first uk appearance in almost two years?and her absence has established her as one of our few home-grown stars in possession of charisma and mystique?takes place ...

PJ Harvey/Elbow

EDEN PROJECT, CORNWALL

Friday August 15, 2003

PJ Harvey

TATE MODERN, LONDON

Monday September 1, 2003

Polly harvey’s first uk appearance in almost two years?and her absence has established her as one of our few home-grown stars in possession of charisma and mystique?takes place at one of our most peculiar venues. Standing within the bowels of the Eden Project, you can’t help but imagine you’re on the set of a ’70s sci-fi movie in which they envisaged the future a little too enthusiastically. Huge bubble-shaped domes, strictly “biomes”, dominate the landscape around the stage, and as the sun sets everything turns a fluorescent green. The design’s intended as a homage to timeless nature, but you feel as if you’re in Dr Evil’s gigantic outdoor lab: possibly aliens are set to invade any minute. When PJ enters wearing something that’s half Aladdin Sane smock, half straight-outta-Essex micro-skirt (is she shooting for postmodern glam icon or ‘ironic’ lad-mag ‘stunna’?), the all-round gaucheness is bewildering, if entertaining.

Perversely, given this’d be a great venue for, say, Kraftwerk, she plays a stripped-down, harsh, retro-bluesy set as part of just a three-piece band, back to basics, ditching the slicker gloss adopted around the Stories From The City…album, and electing to show that she was doing raw and ravaged before The White Stripes were a twinkle in Ren

The Hi-Lo Country

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Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings SHEPHERD'S BUSH EMPIRE Wednesday September 3, 2003 When the heady drug-like spell cast by this captivating show began to fade, it got me thinking. Perhaps the greatest vindication of the music created by the dirt-poor founding fathers (and mothers) of country is the way their influence has reached out across the years and class barriers to a place where, to quote the late, great Sam Phillips, "the soul of man never dies". With just their acoustic guitars and the occasional banjo for accompaniment, David and Gillian are stripped down to the core essentials of melody and harmony, loss and wonder, longing and loveliness. They make The White Stripes seem overdressed, but the idea that these former Berklee Academy students are interlopers or revivalists is beneath contempt. Hank Williams, Ralph Stanley and The Carter Family may have known privation, but the contributions made to the endless river of song by well-heeled lads like Townes, Gram and Kristofferson are just as lasting. Right now the "it's not where you're from but where you're at" principle applies to no one as much as it does to Rawlings and Welch. They play so softly that early on Gillian asks the photographers to leave the pit because they can hear the shutters better than they can hear themselves. This is indicative of the tender chemistry that binds their voices together as they describe the seductive wantonness of "Look At Miss Ohio" or revel in "Elvis Presley Blues", which is even more open and allusive than the version they recorded for Time (The Revelator). Amid their corny asides and bone-dry humour ("Thanks," said Dave returning to the stage and his mic stand and quieting the rapturous applause for Gillian's solo spot), it's obvious this pair have found the key to a timeless, haunted realm. Their songs?for vagabonds of the heart and wounded soul searchers?inhabit an idealised jukebox of the type you might think only accessible in Dreamland. "Make Me A Pallet On Your Floor" offers prayerful contemplation; "Wrecking Ball" follows a trail of destruction until it becomes a powerful statement of freedom and self-expression. Their "Manic Depression" eerily captures the highs and nagging futility of the condition and makes you think?Welch does Hendrix? I'd buy that. Then Dave's ornery solo spot on cowboy ballad "Diamond Joe" suggests an album of Rawlings' campfire classics would be a treat, too. But signs are that such a parting is a long way off. One of best things they do all night is a new, untitled song that is a miraculous blend of wound-healing and Everlys Dreamland harmonies. Then came the epic finale "I Dream A Highway" in all its gilded wonder. You could see it stretching far beyond this west London night into the nether land of thrilling and foreboding American dreams and nightmares. Awesome.

Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings

SHEPHERD’S BUSH EMPIRE

Wednesday September 3, 2003

When the heady drug-like spell cast by this captivating show began to fade, it got me thinking. Perhaps the greatest vindication of the music created by the dirt-poor founding fathers (and mothers) of country is the way their influence has reached out across the years and class barriers to a place where, to quote the late, great Sam Phillips, “the soul of man never dies”.

With just their acoustic guitars and the occasional banjo for accompaniment, David and Gillian are stripped down to the core essentials of melody and harmony, loss and wonder, longing and loveliness. They make The White Stripes seem overdressed, but the idea that these former Berklee Academy students are interlopers or revivalists is beneath contempt.

Hank Williams, Ralph Stanley and The Carter Family may have known privation, but the contributions made to the endless river of song by well-heeled lads like Townes, Gram and Kristofferson are just as lasting. Right now the “it’s not where you’re from but where you’re at” principle applies to no one as much as it does to Rawlings and Welch.

They play so softly that early on Gillian asks the photographers to leave the pit because they can hear the shutters better than they can hear themselves. This is indicative of the tender chemistry that binds their voices together as they describe the seductive wantonness of “Look At Miss Ohio” or revel in “Elvis Presley Blues”, which is even more open and allusive than the version they recorded for Time (The Revelator).

Amid their corny asides and bone-dry humour (“Thanks,” said Dave returning to the stage and his mic stand and quieting the rapturous applause for Gillian’s solo spot), it’s obvious this pair have found the key to a timeless, haunted realm. Their songs?for vagabonds of the heart and wounded soul searchers?inhabit an idealised jukebox of the type you might think only accessible in Dreamland.

“Make Me A Pallet On Your Floor” offers prayerful contemplation; “Wrecking Ball” follows a trail of destruction until it becomes a powerful statement of freedom and self-expression. Their “Manic Depression” eerily captures the highs and nagging futility of the condition and makes you think?Welch does Hendrix? I’d buy that. Then Dave’s ornery solo spot on cowboy ballad “Diamond Joe” suggests an album of Rawlings’ campfire classics would be a treat, too.

But signs are that such a parting is a long way off. One of best things they do all night is a new, untitled song that is a miraculous blend of wound-healing and Everlys Dreamland harmonies. Then came the epic finale “I Dream A Highway” in all its gilded wonder. You could see it stretching far beyond this west London night into the nether land of thrilling and foreboding American dreams and nightmares. Awesome.

Willard Grant Conspiracy, Grand Drive, Horse Stories – Union Chapel, London

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From Melbourne via LA, Horse Stories' frontman Toby Burke stands alone, and sends his lovely voice soaring up into the Union Chapel's vaulted darkness. He's essentially a singer-songwriter dressed in country raiment, but it fits him well. His is an elegant melancholy; peals of electric guitar lapping against his songs like a mournful tide. You feel he deserves an orchestra. Grand Drive's Julian and Danny Wilson were originally from Australia, but grew up in south London. They take the "alt" out of alt.country to make music reminiscent of Nashville at its commercial worst, music that belongs on the soundtrack to Dawson's Creek. It reaches its nadir on the cornball fluff of "Harmony", a song which conjures the unholy memory of Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney as it offers the definition "when two people sing as one", which isn't even musically correct. Even the charm of an early song like "Wrong Notes" has soured into schmaltz. There is something oddly narcissistic about the Wilsons' helium harmonies; they billow gassily rather in the manner of Clannad, which isn't at all what the doctor ordered. "You'll be happy to know the [new] record is a meditation on mortality," Robert Fisher deadpans as Willard Grant Conspiracy take the stage, "which is another word for death." A perfectly timed comic pause. "You won't be required to do much dancing." "River In The Pines" sets the tone, a traditional song in which, quips Fisher, "boy meets girl, they fall in love, then they die tragically." Uncut's Album Of The Month for July, Regard The End, from which the bulk of tonight's set is taken, is certainly sombre. But as the descending notes of "Ghost Of The Girl In The Well" swell its wordless chorus, it suggests transcendence. Fisher is blessed with a voice that has all the gravity of a Cash, a Cohen or a Cale. This isn't simply a maudlin exercise in classicism, however. This is a tradition whose relevance couldn't be more sharply felt. "People have called this our anti-war song," says Fisher of "Another Man Is Gone", "which is okay as there aren't enough of those." "Day Is Passed And Gone" is introduced as "a lullaby, and like many lullabies, it features death prominently." Fisher tells us his mother thought" you should sing children to bed reminding them that they are mortal: they wake up grateful." The majestic "Suffering Song" reminds us that what unites us is our painful humanity. We walk out grateful.

From Melbourne via LA, Horse Stories’ frontman Toby Burke stands alone, and sends his lovely voice soaring up into the Union Chapel’s vaulted darkness. He’s essentially a singer-songwriter dressed in country raiment, but it fits him well. His is an elegant melancholy; peals of electric guitar lapping against his songs like a mournful tide. You feel he deserves an orchestra.

Grand Drive’s Julian and Danny Wilson were originally from Australia, but grew up in south London. They take the “alt” out of alt.country to make music reminiscent of Nashville at its commercial worst, music that belongs on the soundtrack to Dawson’s Creek. It reaches its nadir on the cornball fluff of “Harmony”, a song which conjures the unholy memory of Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney as it offers the definition “when two people sing as one”, which isn’t even musically correct. Even the charm of an early song like “Wrong Notes” has soured into schmaltz. There is something oddly narcissistic about the Wilsons’ helium harmonies; they billow gassily rather in the manner of Clannad, which isn’t at all what the doctor ordered.

“You’ll be happy to know the [new] record is a meditation on mortality,” Robert Fisher deadpans as Willard Grant Conspiracy take the stage, “which is another word for death.” A perfectly timed comic pause. “You won’t be required to do much dancing.” “River In The Pines” sets the tone, a traditional song in which, quips Fisher, “boy meets girl, they fall in love, then they die tragically.” Uncut’s Album Of The Month for July, Regard The End, from which the bulk of tonight’s set is taken, is certainly sombre. But as the descending notes of “Ghost Of The Girl In The Well” swell its wordless chorus, it suggests transcendence. Fisher is blessed with a voice that has all the gravity of a Cash, a Cohen or a Cale. This isn’t simply a maudlin exercise in classicism, however. This is a tradition whose relevance couldn’t be more sharply felt. “People have called this our anti-war song,” says Fisher of “Another Man Is Gone”, “which is okay as there aren’t enough of those.” “Day Is Passed And Gone” is introduced as “a lullaby, and like many lullabies, it features death prominently.” Fisher tells us his mother thought” you should sing children to bed reminding them that they are mortal: they wake up grateful.” The majestic “Suffering Song” reminds us that what unites us is our painful humanity. We walk out grateful.

Jeff Beck – Jeff

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With hindsight, all that '60s brouhaha about who was the fastest guitar-slinger in town now seems pretty silly. Yet it was always clear that Jeff Beck could coax more extraordinary sounds out of his instrument than just about anyone other than Hendrix. Beck's new album ranges from vintage blues-rock to an orchestrated version of a Bulgarian folk tune. His playing is as tasty as you would expect, and his unique guitar style provides a coherent thread that binds the diverse material together. But the hi-tech beats added to several tracks by producers Apollo 440 are gratuitous and can't disguise the need for a few songs to give greater focus to his high-class noodling.

With hindsight, all that ’60s brouhaha about who was the fastest guitar-slinger in town now seems pretty silly. Yet it was always clear that Jeff Beck could coax more extraordinary sounds out of his instrument than just about anyone other than Hendrix. Beck’s new album ranges from vintage blues-rock to an orchestrated version of a Bulgarian folk tune. His playing is as tasty as you would expect, and his unique guitar style provides a coherent thread that binds the diverse material together. But the hi-tech beats added to several tracks by producers Apollo 440 are gratuitous and can’t disguise the need for a few songs to give greater focus to his high-class noodling.

The Wisdom Of Harry – Torch Division

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There's a fine line between winsome and wet, eccentric and affected, but Pete Astor is clearly a skillful tightrope walker. Together with multi-instrumentalist David Sheppard, he's crafted another album of perfectly pitched DIY pop. On Torch Division, the pair have dispensed with the lo-fi electronica that distinguished their previous House Of Binary album to the margins, where it fizzes and twitters only intermittently. The emphasis is now on Astor's songs?sweetly mournful snapshots of the mundane and the miraculous fleshed out with idiosyncratic instrumentation. "Chicken" recalls a malevolent Tom Waits, while elsewhere Neil Young, Calexico and Mazzy Star make their presence felt. An album of great warmth, engaging oddness and real, ramshackle charm.

There’s a fine line between winsome and wet, eccentric and affected, but Pete Astor is clearly a skillful tightrope walker. Together with multi-instrumentalist David Sheppard, he’s crafted another album of perfectly pitched DIY pop.

On Torch Division, the pair have dispensed with the lo-fi electronica that distinguished their previous House Of Binary album to the margins, where it fizzes and twitters only intermittently. The emphasis is now on Astor’s songs?sweetly mournful snapshots of the mundane and the miraculous fleshed out with idiosyncratic instrumentation. “Chicken” recalls a malevolent Tom Waits, while elsewhere Neil Young, Calexico and Mazzy Star make their presence felt.

An album of great warmth, engaging oddness and real, ramshackle charm.

Sigmatropic – Sixteen Haiku & Other Stories

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Originally released in Greek early last year, Boyatzis' musical adaptation of the poetry of Nobel Laureate/compatriot George Seferis undergoes an international makeover. Eighteen guest vocalists from both sides of the pond (including Robert Wyatt, Alejandro Escovedo, Mark Eitzel, Steve Wynn and Howe Gelb) add English translation to power-popper-cum-sound-collagist Boyatzis' delicate noise paintings. Superb offerings from The Czars' John Grant ("Haiku 14B") and Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo ("Haiku 12") are the most linear, but Cat Power's "Haiku 10" and Carla (Walkabouts) Torgerson's "Haiku 5" are softer and more smearily beautiful.

Originally released in Greek early last year, Boyatzis’ musical adaptation of the poetry of Nobel Laureate/compatriot George Seferis undergoes an international makeover. Eighteen guest vocalists from both sides of the pond (including Robert Wyatt, Alejandro Escovedo, Mark Eitzel, Steve Wynn and Howe Gelb) add English translation to power-popper-cum-sound-collagist Boyatzis’ delicate noise paintings. Superb offerings from The Czars’ John Grant (“Haiku 14B”) and Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo (“Haiku 12”) are the most linear, but Cat Power’s “Haiku 10” and Carla (Walkabouts) Torgerson’s “Haiku 5” are softer and more smearily beautiful.

Alice Cooper – The Eyes Of Alice Cooper

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With the comparative youngsters of the so-called New Rock Revolution currently kicking ass, it seems appropriate that panto-rock's ultimate ugly sister should see fit to try his hand at some old-fashioned, stripped-down rock action. Recorded over a month with Godsmack producer Mudrock and a bare-bones band, The Eyes Of Alice Cooper finds the great man thoroughly revitalised. That said, while the rollicking "Detroit City" (Uncle Alice tells it like it is to the neophytes) and the whispery ghost story "This House Is Haunted" are enormous fun, there's also some FM filler, and whether the kids will be won over remains to be seen.

With the comparative youngsters of the so-called New Rock Revolution currently kicking ass, it seems appropriate that panto-rock’s ultimate ugly sister should see fit to try his hand at some old-fashioned, stripped-down rock action. Recorded over a month with Godsmack producer Mudrock and a bare-bones band, The Eyes Of Alice Cooper finds the great man thoroughly revitalised. That said, while the rollicking “Detroit City” (Uncle Alice tells it like it is to the neophytes) and the whispery ghost story “This House Is Haunted” are enormous fun, there’s also some FM filler, and whether the kids will be won over remains to be seen.

Parsley Sound – Parsley Sounds

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With their somnambulistic folk shanties and spliffed-out beeps and blips, Parsley Sounds seem an unlikely acquisition to James Lavelle's Mo'Wax empire. Neither trip nor hip hop, duo Danny Sargassa and Preston Mead drift in a melodic haze of wistful innocence, sounding like cub scout Stone Roses or wide-eyed Shack wannabes. That's no bad thing either: even without electronic squelch and burp, tracks like the serenely sullen "Ocean House" stand unencumbered as great songs with proper tunes.

With their somnambulistic folk shanties and spliffed-out beeps and blips, Parsley Sounds seem an unlikely acquisition to James Lavelle’s Mo’Wax empire. Neither trip nor hip hop, duo Danny Sargassa and Preston Mead drift in a melodic haze of wistful innocence, sounding like cub scout Stone Roses or wide-eyed Shack wannabes. That’s no bad thing either: even without electronic squelch and burp, tracks like the serenely sullen “Ocean House” stand unencumbered as great songs with proper tunes.

Jet – Get Born

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Four bruisers from Melbourne, this band have spent the past year conscientiously building a legend for themselves as fighting, bad-mouthing rock'n'roll archetypes. Perhaps inevitably, their debut album doesn't measure up to the rhetoric, being an efficient if fairly joyless hybrid of the Stones, AC/DC and Oasis. Unlike Antipodean contemporaries The Datsuns, Jet seem bereft of either wit or self-knowledge: it's telling that the most impassioned song here is "Rollover DJ", an attack on the supposed evils of dance music that's more laughable than inflammatory.

Four bruisers from Melbourne, this band have spent the past year conscientiously building a legend for themselves as fighting, bad-mouthing rock’n’roll archetypes. Perhaps inevitably, their debut album doesn’t measure up to the rhetoric, being an efficient if fairly joyless hybrid of the Stones, AC/DC and Oasis. Unlike Antipodean contemporaries The Datsuns, Jet seem bereft of either wit or self-knowledge: it’s telling that the most impassioned song here is “Rollover DJ”, an attack on the supposed evils of dance music that’s more laughable than inflammatory.

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