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Ichi The Killer

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Appallingly violent vigilante satire from Audition's Takashi Miike. The opening scenes, with the film's title spelt out in semen and the head baddie puffing smoke through his slashed-open cheeks, promise OTT entertainment. But as the plot unfolds, only the strongest stomach will handle the scenes of torture, mutilation and rape between the black laughs.

Appallingly violent vigilante satire from Audition’s Takashi Miike. The opening scenes, with the film’s title spelt out in semen and the head baddie puffing smoke through his slashed-open cheeks, promise OTT entertainment. But as the plot unfolds, only the strongest stomach will handle the scenes of torture, mutilation and rape between the black laughs.

White Mischief

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With a $25 million budget, major studio backing, special effects from George Lucas' Industrial Light & Magic and epic production design demanding four separate camera units, 1994's The Hudsucker Proxy was the biggest movie the Coen brothers had ever made. It was the logical step for the fraternal film-makers who had progressed with ease, in both popularity and critical acclaim, from 1984's Blood Simple through Raising Arizona (1987) and Miller's Crossing (1990) to Cannes favourite Barton Fink (1991). The Hudsucker Proxy was to be their crowning achievement. Naturally, it was a complete flop. Ambivalent response and a paltry $2.8 million return sent the Coen brothers scuttling home to their native Minnesota with a tiny crew and a cast of character actors in tow. The result, Fargo, is their greatest movie. The opening scene sets the agenda. A tense exchange in a roadside bar in Fargo, North Dakota (the movie never returns to Fargo, and could have been named "Brainerd" or "Minneapolis", after the two main locations). Here, timid car salesman Jerry Lundegaard (Macy) hires criminals Carl Showalter (Buscemi) and Gaear Grimsrud (Stormare) to kidnap his wife and extort cash from his father-in-law. The men bicker about payment and motive until finally the taciturn Grimsrud asks, "Why don't you just ask him [the father-in-law] for the money?" Jerry stutters and blusters, refusing to contemplate the idea, not just because the movie requires the kidnapping in order to execute a calamitous chain reaction of plot-points, but because Jerry doesn't want to lose face. He'd rather torture his wife than be publicly humiliated. As the movie unfolds and the kidnapping sours and local police become entangled in Jerry's deceptions, this same pressure of appearance is underscored with Midwestern politeness. The Coens are fascinated by the banal details of ordinary life, and include scenes of helpful hotel clerks, beaming store assistants, friendly policemen and cheery barmen, all of whom use a homely argot?"You're darn tootin", "Oh yah, you betcha!" And yet when Jerry suddenly trashes his desk in temper, or when a disgruntled customer snaps and calls him a "fucking liar", we get a glimpse of the anger beneath the social veneer. This anger finds expression in the gruesome murders committed by Showalter and Grimsrud, who are possibly the movie's most honest characters?they're pure Id, cursing, screwing and shooting at will. Consequently, there's a chilly misanthropy to Fargo that's consistent with a film-making combo that are often criticised for being too coolly cerebral. Yet it's a chill that's counterbalanced by the movie's greatest creation, police chief Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand). Marge is a Candide-like heroine who infuses Fargo's bleak world with a quirky sense of optimism. She's a savvy criminologist who's equally at ease with dead bodies and hardened convicts, and still she's naive enough to upbraid a mass murderer, "There's more to life than money, you know. Don't you know that?" She's an attempt to provide the film with a moral centre. And even so, occasionally, in her cosy scenes with docile husband Norm (John Carroll Lynch), and despite McDormand's towering performance, you sense that the Coens aren't too enamoured with her either. The movie's other career-making performance comes from Macy. His fascinating face?red button nose, bug eyes, wide twitchy mouth?has never been better employed, somehow revealing a frightening tenacity underneath Jerry's nervous exterior. Stylistically, Fargo is restrained (for a Coens movie). Production design is mercifully light, and camera work is inconspicuous. Instead, we get a hypnotic study in white. Without horizon lines, cars simply drive away from camera into white space, as if into the margin of the screenplay itself. It's this eerie suspicion that there's nothing beyond the hermetic world of Fargo that makes it such a powerful and claustrophobic experience. That the characters trapped within this world can earn our sympathy despite themselves is a testament to the genius of Joel and Ethan Coen.

With a $25 million budget, major studio backing, special effects from George Lucas’ Industrial Light & Magic and epic production design demanding four separate camera units, 1994’s The Hudsucker Proxy was the biggest movie the Coen brothers had ever made. It was the logical step for the fraternal film-makers who had progressed with ease, in both popularity and critical acclaim, from 1984’s Blood Simple through Raising Arizona (1987) and Miller’s Crossing (1990) to Cannes favourite Barton Fink (1991). The Hudsucker Proxy was to be their crowning achievement. Naturally, it was a complete flop. Ambivalent response and a paltry $2.8 million return sent the Coen brothers scuttling home to their native Minnesota with a tiny crew and a cast of character actors in tow. The result, Fargo, is their greatest movie.

The opening scene sets the agenda. A tense exchange in a roadside bar in Fargo, North Dakota (the movie never returns to Fargo, and could have been named “Brainerd” or “Minneapolis”, after the two main locations). Here, timid car salesman Jerry Lundegaard (Macy) hires criminals Carl Showalter (Buscemi) and Gaear Grimsrud (Stormare) to kidnap his wife and extort cash from his father-in-law. The men bicker about payment and motive until finally the taciturn Grimsrud asks, “Why don’t you just ask him [the father-in-law] for the money?” Jerry stutters and blusters, refusing to contemplate the idea, not just because the movie requires the kidnapping in order to execute a calamitous chain reaction of plot-points, but because Jerry doesn’t want to lose face. He’d rather torture his wife than be publicly humiliated.

As the movie unfolds and the kidnapping sours and local police become entangled in Jerry’s deceptions, this same pressure of appearance is underscored with Midwestern politeness. The Coens are fascinated by the banal details of ordinary life, and include scenes of helpful hotel clerks, beaming store assistants, friendly policemen and cheery barmen, all of whom use a homely argot?”You’re darn tootin”, “Oh yah, you betcha!” And yet when Jerry suddenly trashes his desk in temper, or when a disgruntled customer snaps and calls him a “fucking liar”, we get a glimpse of the anger beneath the social veneer. This anger finds expression in the gruesome murders committed by Showalter and Grimsrud, who are possibly the movie’s most honest characters?they’re pure Id, cursing, screwing and shooting at will.

Consequently, there’s a chilly misanthropy to Fargo that’s consistent with a film-making combo that are often criticised for being too coolly cerebral. Yet it’s a chill that’s counterbalanced by the movie’s greatest creation, police chief Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand). Marge is a Candide-like heroine who infuses Fargo’s bleak world with a quirky sense of optimism. She’s a savvy criminologist who’s equally at ease with dead bodies and hardened convicts, and still she’s naive enough to upbraid a mass murderer, “There’s more to life than money, you know. Don’t you know that?” She’s an attempt to provide the film with a moral centre. And even so, occasionally, in her cosy scenes with docile husband Norm (John Carroll Lynch), and despite McDormand’s towering performance, you sense that the Coens aren’t too enamoured with her either. The movie’s other career-making performance comes from Macy. His fascinating face?red button nose, bug eyes, wide twitchy mouth?has never been better employed, somehow revealing a frightening tenacity underneath Jerry’s nervous exterior.

Stylistically, Fargo is restrained (for a Coens movie). Production design is mercifully light, and camera work is inconspicuous. Instead, we get a hypnotic study in white. Without horizon lines, cars simply drive away from camera into white space, as if into the margin of the screenplay itself. It’s this eerie suspicion that there’s nothing beyond the hermetic world of Fargo that makes it such a powerful and claustrophobic experience. That the characters trapped within this world can earn our sympathy despite themselves is a testament to the genius of Joel and Ethan Coen.

Brazil

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Sam (Jonathan Pryce) dreams of love and escape from his clerical job in a monolithic bureaucracy, but finds himself sucked ever deeper into a Kafkaesque nightmare. Michael Palin and Robert De Niro play brilliantly against type, while Terry Gilliam's dystopian vision broke the mould. Dazzling, disturbing, darkly comic and downright essential.

Sam (Jonathan Pryce) dreams of love and escape from his clerical job in a monolithic bureaucracy, but finds himself sucked ever deeper into a Kafkaesque nightmare. Michael Palin and Robert De Niro play brilliantly against type, while Terry Gilliam’s dystopian vision broke the mould. Dazzling, disturbing, darkly comic and downright essential.

The Salton Sea

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With a moody slow-mo intro, followed by a wickedly funny history of methamphetamine and capped by an intriguing roll call of deviant speed-freaks, the first 15 minutes of The Salton Sea promises, and delivers, far more than the rest of the movie can handle. Val Kilmer is the widower hunting his wife's killers among Los Angeles' drug detritus.

With a moody slow-mo intro, followed by a wickedly funny history of methamphetamine and capped by an intriguing roll call of deviant speed-freaks, the first 15 minutes of The Salton Sea promises, and delivers, far more than the rest of the movie can handle. Val Kilmer is the widower hunting his wife’s killers among Los Angeles’ drug detritus.

The Last House On The Left

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Thirty-one years after its initial US release, Wes Craven's debut retains its power to shock, detailing the worst night in the (short) lives of two teenage girls and the bizarre comeuppance of their tormentors. Dated (and overrated) but worth a look.

Thirty-one years after its initial US release, Wes Craven’s debut retains its power to shock, detailing the worst night in the (short) lives of two teenage girls and the bizarre comeuppance of their tormentors. Dated (and overrated) but worth a look.

The Business Of Strangers

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Riffing on early David Mamet or Neil LaBute, writer-director Patrick Stettner's superb three-hander anatomises the airless, amoral culture of top-rank executives. In a faceless airport hotel, high-flyer Stockard Channing plays sadistic sex-and-power games with young business rival Julia Stiles and corporate headhunter Frederick Weller. Sharp, astringent, and proof that complex ideas and strong performances transcend even minimal budgets.

Riffing on early David Mamet or Neil LaBute, writer-director Patrick Stettner’s superb three-hander anatomises the airless, amoral culture of top-rank executives. In a faceless airport hotel, high-flyer Stockard Channing plays sadistic sex-and-power games with young business rival Julia Stiles and corporate headhunter Frederick Weller. Sharp, astringent, and proof that complex ideas and strong performances transcend even minimal budgets.

Animé Attraction

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Fleshing out the cyberpunk universe created by The Matrix and its sequels, these nine state-of-the-art animated shorts were conceived by the Wachowski brothers but created by other directors?mostly Japanese anim...

Fleshing out the cyberpunk universe created by The Matrix and its sequels, these nine state-of-the-art animated shorts were conceived by the Wachowski brothers but created by other directors?mostly Japanese anim

Ossessione

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The James M Cain novel The Postman Always Rings Twice (femme fatale seduces drifter into murdering her husband) has often been revisited: this 1942 Luchino Visconti version, a Scorsese favourite, was considered immoral and subversive on release, yet spawned the Italian neo-realist school. Noir to the core, it's long and fatalistic.

The James M Cain novel The Postman Always Rings Twice (femme fatale seduces drifter into murdering her husband) has often been revisited: this 1942 Luchino Visconti version, a Scorsese favourite, was considered immoral and subversive on release, yet spawned the Italian neo-realist school. Noir to the core, it’s long and fatalistic.

The Hot Spot

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Dennis Hopper-directed noir-by-numbers from 1990. Don Johnson's ambiguous stranger drifts into a sultry small town to run a con, and gets caught between lust for married Virginia Madsen and troubled teen Jennifer Connelly. Routine; but cherish this movie for the once-in-a-lifetime soundtrack Hopper persuaded Miles Davis, John Lee Hooker and Taj Mahal to jam.

Dennis Hopper-directed noir-by-numbers from 1990. Don Johnson’s ambiguous stranger drifts into a sultry small town to run a con, and gets caught between lust for married Virginia Madsen and troubled teen Jennifer Connelly. Routine; but cherish this movie for the once-in-a-lifetime soundtrack Hopper persuaded Miles Davis, John Lee Hooker and Taj Mahal to jam.

See No Evil, Hear No Evil

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Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder sleepwalk their way through Arthur Hiller's one-joke 1989 comedy as the accidental owners of a missing microchip who are pursued by an assortment of shady villains. Pryor's blind and Wilder's deaf, but Hiller's pedestrian direction settles for routine caper thriller moves rather than fully exploring the comic potential of this offbeat premise.

Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder sleepwalk their way through Arthur Hiller’s one-joke 1989 comedy as the accidental owners of a missing microchip who are pursued by an assortment of shady villains. Pryor’s blind and Wilder’s deaf, but Hiller’s pedestrian direction settles for routine caper thriller moves rather than fully exploring the comic potential of this offbeat premise.

The Green Man School For Scoundrels

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Two vintage Alastair Sim comedies released as a double-pack. In 1956's The Green Man he plays a political assassin whose plans are interrupted by the arrival of bumbling vacuum cleaner salesman George Cole; in 1960's School For Scoundrels?based on Stephen Potter's One-Upmanship books?he teaches downtrodden nice chap Ian Carmichael how to get the better of dastardly cad Terry-Thomas.

Two vintage Alastair Sim comedies released as a double-pack. In 1956’s The Green Man he plays a political assassin whose plans are interrupted by the arrival of bumbling vacuum cleaner salesman George Cole; in 1960’s School For Scoundrels?based on Stephen Potter’s One-Upmanship books?he teaches downtrodden nice chap Ian Carmichael how to get the better of dastardly cad Terry-Thomas.

Songs Of Experience

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Lucinda Williams SHEPHERD'S BUSH EMPIRE, LONDON MONDAY MAY 5, 2003 When Lucinda Williams first came to London nearly 15 years ago to promote her eponymous third album, she was the most painfully nervous and self-conscious performer I had ever seen. The record was a standout of a bleak year (1988)?but live, with only an acoustic guitar for company, Lucinda was still shaping her own identity from the bare bones of the Delta blues and literary lore she was raised on. Much has happened in the intervening years. She's had enough Grammy Awards and critical plaudits to forestall any nerves and shore up confidence, and she's released a collection of albums that have defined her world view?confirming her standing as the Queen of Vengeful Romance and Delta Gothic?but initially, tonight, the reality of Lucinda doesn't quite live up to the legend. Newcomers are surprised when she takes the Empire stage. A slight, unprepossessing figure in jeans, cowboy boots and black vest, she belies the years of hard graft, perfectionist determination and sacrifice that have gone into her music. There's still a cautious reserve, part early tour nerves, at odds with the hard-drinking wildcat who she seems to become in interviews. There's a time to work and a time to play seems to be the message. Then she leads her subtle but awesomely primed three-piece band through the opening "Drunken Angel" from her 1998 masterpiece Car Wheels On A Gravel Road. As she offloads the song's daunting emotional freight, the seriousness of Lucinda's intent becomes clear. Stage lights dance off her silver jewellery and dyed blonde hair as she details a torturous affair with a loveable wastrel who "passed out on the street" and passed on "to the other side". "Ventura", from the new album, is a striking contrast. She muses on foodstuffs and the lure of the ocean, but the pangs of unrequited love and former recklessness intervene?and suddenly there she is throwing up her confessions in the toilet bowl. As she cherry picks gems from her most recent albums, the depth of Lucinda's work and the reasons why she is acclaimed as one of the leading lights of American song become increasingly apparent. Her canon is a comparatively meagre one, but her songs describe a compelling landscape where the insoluble truths of her blues roots and the grit of personal experience have taken root. Her Southern upbringing emerges in a number of unexpected ways?the giddy tumble of licentious imprecations that swagger through "Righteously" could be the work of a particularly bawdy preacher. She plays "Pineola"?a harrowing but magnificent encounter with the mundanity of death. By this time she has swapped her acoustic for an electric guitar and as she trades clangorous riffs with Doug Pettibone, it's like Flannery O'Connor meets Lynyrd Skynyrd. Lucinda has fearlessness in abundance. She may be on the far side of 50 now, but her songs broker no compromises with fate, respectability or complacency. The passing of time does not change the intensity of how life is lived or her music is felt. She paces the set brilliantly, holding the band in reserve until they can let fly on the deranged "Atonement" and the anthemic "Real Live Bleeding Fingers And Broken Guitar Strings", a hymn to life lived to the full. She praises Chrissie Hynde and, when a heckler ignites her anger, feeds it into "Changed The Locks", a heroic kiss-off to an ex-lover. She revisits the primal wellspring of Skip James for "Killing Floor Blues" and castigates George Bush before "American Dream". The diffident introduction is forgotten, and by the close it's obvious that with Lucinda the Southern rebel tradition is in safe hands.

Lucinda Williams

SHEPHERD’S BUSH EMPIRE, LONDON

MONDAY MAY 5, 2003

When Lucinda Williams first came to London nearly 15 years ago to promote her eponymous third album, she was the most painfully nervous and self-conscious performer I had ever seen. The record was a standout of a bleak year (1988)?but live, with only an acoustic guitar for company, Lucinda was still shaping her own identity from the bare bones of the Delta blues and literary lore she was raised on.

Much has happened in the intervening years. She’s had enough Grammy Awards and critical plaudits to forestall any nerves and shore up confidence, and she’s released a collection of albums that have defined her world view?confirming her standing as the Queen of Vengeful Romance and Delta Gothic?but initially, tonight, the reality of Lucinda doesn’t quite live up to the legend.

Newcomers are surprised when she takes the Empire stage. A slight, unprepossessing figure in jeans, cowboy boots and black vest, she belies the years of hard graft, perfectionist determination and sacrifice that have gone into her music. There’s still a cautious reserve, part early tour nerves, at odds with the hard-drinking wildcat who she seems to become in interviews.

There’s a time to work and a time to play seems to be the message. Then she leads her subtle but awesomely primed three-piece band through the opening “Drunken Angel” from her 1998 masterpiece Car Wheels On A Gravel Road. As she offloads the song’s daunting emotional freight, the seriousness of Lucinda’s intent becomes clear.

Stage lights dance off her silver jewellery and dyed blonde hair as she details a torturous affair with a loveable wastrel who “passed out on the street” and passed on “to the other side”. “Ventura”, from the new album, is a striking contrast. She muses on foodstuffs and the lure of the ocean, but the pangs of unrequited love and former recklessness intervene?and suddenly there she is throwing up her confessions in the toilet bowl.

As she cherry picks gems from her most recent albums, the depth of Lucinda’s work and the reasons why she is acclaimed as one of the leading lights of American song become increasingly apparent. Her canon is a comparatively meagre one, but her songs describe a compelling landscape where the insoluble truths of her blues roots and the grit of personal experience have taken root.

Her Southern upbringing emerges in a number of unexpected ways?the giddy tumble of licentious imprecations that swagger through “Righteously” could be the work of a particularly bawdy preacher. She plays “Pineola”?a harrowing but magnificent encounter with the mundanity of death. By this time she has swapped her acoustic for an electric guitar and as she trades clangorous riffs with Doug Pettibone, it’s like Flannery O’Connor meets Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Lucinda has fearlessness in abundance. She may be on the far side of 50 now, but her songs broker no compromises with fate, respectability or complacency. The passing of time does not change the intensity of how life is lived or her music is felt.

She paces the set brilliantly, holding the band in reserve until they can let fly on the deranged “Atonement” and the anthemic “Real Live Bleeding Fingers And Broken Guitar Strings”, a hymn to life lived to the full. She praises Chrissie Hynde and, when a heckler ignites her anger, feeds it into “Changed The Locks”, a heroic kiss-off to an ex-lover. She revisits the primal wellspring of Skip James for “Killing Floor Blues” and castigates George Bush before “American Dream”.

The diffident introduction is forgotten, and by the close it’s obvious that with Lucinda the Southern rebel tradition is in safe hands.

Kathleen Edwards – Uncut Presents At The Borderline, London

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Kathleen Edwards was one of the highlights of this year's South By Southwest Festival in Austin. Surely, I thought, she couldn't sound as good on a dull Wednesday night in a dingy London basement. But she could and she did. The buzz created by her debut, Failer, attracted some top London record company bosses to her first ever UK date. Among those were alt. country specialists Loose?although if they have designs on her, they must have been dismayed by the competition, which included Warner's chief, John Reed. And he surely could not have failed to be impressed. At 24, the Canadian-born Edwards has an easy stage presence that commands total attention. Like several other female alt. country singers, including Lucinda Williams and Tift Merritt, she's tiny?no more than five-foot-five in her cowboy boots. But her talent is outsized. She played all 10 songs from Failer, a superb album of potently melodic, country-tinged songs that earned a four-star review in Uncut recently. But here, backed by a band whose intentions were obvious from guitarist Colin Cripps' MC5T-shirt, she rocked far harder than anything on the record as "One More Song The Radio Won't Like" and "Maria" from the album were given tough-edged, roadhouse outings infused with the sort of ragged glory we associate with Crazy Horse. The band took a break while she played a brief acoustic interlude, sounding like a female Neil Young on "Independent Thief", a mighty fine song (not on Failer) about a bar "where they water the drinks down and the band plays too loud". Then she followed with a stunning version of Young's "Unknown Legend" from Harvest Moon before changing course again to evoke the spirit of Loudon Wainwright on the wry "Shinny". The band returned for "12 Bellevue" (featured on this month's Uncut CD) and an improbable alt. country version of AC/DC's "Moneytalks", dedicated to "George W", before they finished with the jangling "Six O'Clock News", arguably the best song on Failer. Edwards returned alone for the encore to play "Sweet Little Duck", the lonesome closer to her album, then was rejoined by Cripps to play Black Sabbath's "Changes" as a haunting guitar duet. She'll be snapped up by a major before the year's end?unless she prefers the independent route?for Edwards is one of the most gifted and compelling new talents around.

Kathleen Edwards was one of the highlights of this year’s South By Southwest Festival in Austin. Surely, I thought, she couldn’t sound as good on a dull Wednesday night in a dingy London basement. But she could and she did.

The buzz created by her debut, Failer, attracted some top London record company bosses to her first ever UK date. Among those were alt. country specialists Loose?although if they have designs on her, they must have been dismayed by the competition, which included Warner’s chief, John Reed.

And he surely could not have failed to be impressed. At 24, the Canadian-born Edwards has an easy stage presence that commands total attention. Like several other female alt. country singers, including Lucinda Williams and Tift Merritt, she’s tiny?no more than five-foot-five in her cowboy boots. But her talent is outsized.

She played all 10 songs from Failer, a superb album of potently melodic, country-tinged songs that earned a four-star review in Uncut recently. But here, backed by a band whose intentions were obvious from guitarist Colin Cripps’ MC5T-shirt, she rocked far harder than anything on the record as “One More Song The Radio Won’t Like” and “Maria” from the album were given tough-edged, roadhouse outings infused with the sort of ragged glory we associate with Crazy Horse.

The band took a break while she played a brief acoustic interlude, sounding like a female Neil Young on “Independent Thief”, a mighty fine song (not on Failer) about a bar “where they water the drinks down and the band plays too loud”. Then she followed with a stunning version of Young’s “Unknown Legend” from Harvest Moon before changing course again to evoke the spirit of Loudon Wainwright on the wry “Shinny”.

The band returned for “12 Bellevue” (featured on this month’s Uncut CD) and an improbable alt. country version of AC/DC’s “Moneytalks”, dedicated to “George W”, before they finished with the jangling “Six O’Clock News”, arguably the best song on Failer.

Edwards returned alone for the encore to play “Sweet Little Duck”, the lonesome closer to her album, then was rejoined by Cripps to play Black Sabbath’s “Changes” as a haunting guitar duet. She’ll be snapped up by a major before the year’s end?unless she prefers the independent route?for Edwards is one of the most gifted and compelling new talents around.

Solitary Refinement

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Beck THE APOLLO THEATRE, MANCHESTER SUNDAY APRIL 27, 2003 To detractors, last year's stripped-down, gloomily wonderful Sea Change was merely another smoke bomb in the Beck armoury. After the preening Princely funk of 1999's Midnite Vultures and the lugubrious country blues of Mutations (1998), wa...

Beck

THE APOLLO THEATRE, MANCHESTER

SUNDAY APRIL 27, 2003

To detractors, last year’s stripped-down, gloomily wonderful Sea Change was merely another smoke bomb in the Beck armoury. After the preening Princely funk of 1999’s Midnite Vultures and the lugubrious country blues of Mutations (1998), was this just another stylistic detour for this most restless of musicians? In truth, the simple acoustic folk of Sea Change is where Beck Hansen’s true spirit lies. Though the album itself picks over the debris of a doomed relationship to uncharacteristically direct effect, stylistically at least, this is how he first headed out, mining a deeply unfashionable folk-blues seam around the coffee bars of New York and LA in the late ’80s. If Beck has a spiritual Mecca, it’s somewhere between the Delta cotton fields and Greenwich Village, between Avalon and Bleecker.

Billed somewhat loosely as solo acoustic fare (during the course of the evening he digs out electric guitar, Hammond organ, beat-box, harmonium and tape loops), tonight’s show is a return to last year’s one-man trawl of the US, prior to his more publicised stint with Flaming Lips as backing band. Grabbing him backstage 15 minutes before showtime, Beck admits to Uncut: “You get tied to the people in a band. I was always most comfortable playing by myself. It was something I felt I could use and manipulate. I’ve always wanted to do this, but we never had time.” On stage, it soon becomes apparent that the black clouds that glowered over Sea Change have somewhat dispersed. Over the course of two hours, our protagonist is often inspired, brilliant and atypically brimming with anecdotal bonhomie. There’s even an absurdly surreal moment where, attempting to tune a rotten piano, he breaks into Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me A River”in such a far-flung falsetto he nearly brings the house down.

In between, there’s much to admire, not least Beck’s singing. On record often a lazy rumble filtered through a sonic maze, tonight he comes over all throaty and deep, like a boho Scott Walker or wounded Leonard Cohen. His guitar-playing too, often buried under studio sleight-of-hand, is something to behold.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, it’s the recent stuff that resonates deepest. After strapping on acoustic and harmonica?

Loop Guru – Bathtime With Loop Guru

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It's typical of their cheery nature but Bathtime With Loop Guru is a bit of a debilitatingly flip title. Don't be put off. This ranks up there with their best work. Beneath their mock-Hare Krishna trappings and big, cyclical rhythms, LG are a scholarly duo whose vast, eclectic musical knowledge, ran...

It’s typical of their cheery nature but Bathtime With Loop Guru is a bit of a debilitatingly flip title. Don’t be put off. This ranks up there with their best work. Beneath their mock-Hare Krishna trappings and big, cyclical rhythms, LG are a scholarly duo whose vast, eclectic musical knowledge, ranging from Gamelan to avant-garde, lends the LP a wealth of nuances and citrus twists.

From the samples of Edgar Varese’s Po

Cinerama – John Peel Sessions: Season 2

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It's a shame Cinerama are still seen as a Wedding Present afterthought: David Gedge has built them into a much more interesting vehicle for string-soaked, painfully acute romance. They sound like Petula Clark theme tunes with kitchen-sink cinema's messy details left in, or Jarvis Cocker's grand ballads circa Different Class, minus the spite. Gedge is simply bemused by the dress-dropping party girls who toy with his attentions. You can see why ageing indie kids still listen. With songs as sadly true as "Get Smart"(asking his girlfriend to be unfaithful discreetly, so he can stay), we all should.

It’s a shame Cinerama are still seen as a Wedding Present afterthought: David Gedge has built them into a much more interesting vehicle for string-soaked, painfully acute romance. They sound like Petula Clark theme tunes with kitchen-sink cinema’s messy details left in, or Jarvis Cocker’s grand ballads circa Different Class, minus the spite. Gedge is simply bemused by the dress-dropping party girls who toy with his attentions. You can see why ageing indie kids still listen. With songs as sadly true as “Get Smart”(asking his girlfriend to be unfaithful discreetly, so he can stay), we all should.

The Mooney Suzuki – Electric Sweat

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NYC foursome The Mooney Suzuki are the secret architects of the neo-garage rock scene. Released three years ago, their debut album, People Get Ready, caused such a stir that two of The Strokes tried out for a vacancy in the band but didn't make the grade. Recent history suggests that The Mooney Suzuki's loss was the modern rock fan's gain, yet Electric Sweat tells a different story. Produced by Jim Diamond (The White Stripes), it's a rootsy affair that evokes the spirit of the MC5 before wiping the floor with rival garage rock acts on the sublime, Otis Redding-inspired ballad "The Broken Heart".

NYC foursome The Mooney Suzuki are the secret architects of the neo-garage rock scene. Released three years ago, their debut album, People Get Ready, caused such a stir that two of The Strokes tried out for a vacancy in the band but didn’t make the grade. Recent history suggests that The Mooney Suzuki’s loss was the modern rock fan’s gain, yet Electric Sweat tells a different story. Produced by Jim Diamond (The White Stripes), it’s a rootsy affair that evokes the spirit of the MC5 before wiping the floor with rival garage rock acts on the sublime, Otis Redding-inspired ballad “The Broken Heart”.

Alasdair Roberts – Farewell Sorrow

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Roberts must wince every time he's compared with Will Oldham, but the similarity remains on this, his fifth album as either solo artist or pivot of Appendix Out. Besides a similarly faltering vocal style, Roberts presents a myth-ridden, emotionally devious update of British folk music that neatly correlates with Oldham's makeover of American roots tradition. It's an effective formula also deployed by James Yorkston, though Roberts steers his gently rippling songs closer to pagan arcana, leaving his "native land clad in birch and rhododendron", or watching a woman metamorphose into a gosling. Affecting stuff, if not quite a match for the Appendix Out album The Rye Bears A Poison.

Roberts must wince every time he’s compared with Will Oldham, but the similarity remains on this, his fifth album as either solo artist or pivot of Appendix Out. Besides a similarly faltering vocal style, Roberts presents a myth-ridden, emotionally devious update of British folk music that neatly correlates with Oldham’s makeover of American roots tradition. It’s an effective formula also deployed by James Yorkston, though Roberts steers his gently rippling songs closer to pagan arcana, leaving his “native land clad in birch and rhododendron”, or watching a woman metamorphose into a gosling. Affecting stuff, if not quite a match for the Appendix Out album The Rye Bears A Poison.

Dashboard Confessional – MTV Unplugged V2.0

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This is mostly a live version of the Dawson's Creek fan's Nirvana and their largely semi-acoustic breakthrough, The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most. The main addition is a singalong choir of their young, mostly female fans, whose fervour for the neatly handsome Chris Carrabba's songs of heartbreak is hard to dismiss. But though he's a fan of Costello, and attempts the fury of love in the cuts and bruises of "Screaming Infidelities", his well-meaning work is too ordered and bland for even shallow scars, sounding like the self-dramatising agonies of well-off young Americans with few real problems.

This is mostly a live version of the Dawson’s Creek fan’s Nirvana and their largely semi-acoustic breakthrough, The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most. The main addition is a singalong choir of their young, mostly female fans, whose fervour for the neatly handsome Chris Carrabba’s songs of heartbreak is hard to dismiss. But though he’s a fan of Costello, and attempts the fury of love in the cuts and bruises of “Screaming Infidelities”, his well-meaning work is too ordered and bland for even shallow scars, sounding like the self-dramatising agonies of well-off young Americans with few real problems.

Beachbuggy – Killer-B

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And it all seemed so promising. Beachbuggy's third album (their second for Poptones) features knob-twiddler Steve Albini (Nirvana The Pixies) and, impressively, not one but two drummers. Indeed, first single and opening track "Killer Bee" is insanely catchy garage rock, almost worthy of Pixies, or even the Stooges. The subsequent 11 tracks, however, rehash the same wailing, distorted vocals and guitar sound to the point of irritation.

And it all seemed so promising. Beachbuggy’s third album (their second for Poptones) features knob-twiddler Steve Albini (Nirvana The Pixies) and, impressively, not one but two drummers. Indeed, first single and opening track “Killer Bee” is insanely catchy garage rock, almost worthy of Pixies, or even the Stooges. The subsequent 11 tracks, however, rehash the same wailing, distorted vocals and guitar sound to the point of irritation.

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