Spirited art-rock from swashbuckling quartet... You don’t need to be Sarah Lund to detect the fingerprints of The Beta Band on fellow Scots adventurers Django Django. The cavalier, mix’n’match approach to songwriting and live performance, the way a percussive tattoo named “Zumm Zumm” dissolves into tear-stained campfire sing-along, the art-school bloody-mindedness – it’s writ large across the newcomers’ enormously enjoyable self-titled debut. Nor has it gone unnoticed that Django Django’s drummer and driving force, David Maclean, is the younger brother of The Beta Band’s programmer and art director John Maclean. Their parents, perhaps, have a cracking record collection, and, noting his sibling’s career choices, presumably David now has a good idea of how far a canny outfit like Django Django can push things. “You should never be afraid to make a fool of yourself for art,” he said in a recent interview. Realising that opener “Hail Bop” could be an Everly Brothers number, he clearly means it. Connected to no scene in particular, the four Djangos – Maclean, singer and guitarist Vincent Neff, bassist Jimmy Dixon and keyboardist Tommy Grace – met at art school in Edinburgh and regrouped a couple of years ago when each member had drifted down to London. There, in his Dalston bedroom, Maclean took his time to piece together and produce a record that draws heavily on the music he loves to DJ – vintage soul and funk, Bo Diddley and disco – while scooping up the twang of The Shadows, Beach Boys harmonies and glam-rock’s swagger, all with one eye on the dancefloor in the style of, say, Hot Chip or labelmates Metronomy. So the discernible influences pile up, then, but Django Django are skilful enough to draw the strands together and thread a generous melody through each of the 13 tracks, Neff’s searching vocal lending the likes of “Firewater”, “Love’s Dart” and “Silver Rays” that dolorous quality beloved of The Beta Band. Above all, this handsome debut bristles with ideas that could lead to some truly remarkable music later on. Piers Martin

The follow-up to Hadestown seals Mitchell’s pre-eminence... What’s the next stop after Hadestown? Anais Mitchell’s brilliantly realised 2010 ‘folk opera’ elevated her from the ever swollen ranks of classy U.S. songwriters to recognition as a true original. When she matched the acclaim for her ambitious creation – a re-telling of the myth of Orpheus and Persephone set in depression-era America – with engaging performances as both a solo act and with a full ensemble cast, it was clear a vibrant new voice had arrived. Mitchell’s high, spiky voice is not everyone’s idea of a classic, but it’s immediate and insistent. Most importantly, it’s that of a poet, spraying out phrases that first capture attention and then resonate. “Your daddy didn’t leave a will/He left a shovel and a hole to fill,” (from “He Did”) is a line that Gillian Welch would surely be glad to own. Something of Mitchell’s qualities were apparent on the albums she made in her twenties, 2004’s Hymns For The Exiled and 2007’s The Brightness, the latter after she was signed by Ani Di Franco, one of her early influences. Collections of mostly earnest, confessional songs delivered to acoustic guitar, neither record prepared us for the character-led drama and layered arrangements of Hadestown, or its deft update of mythology. Young Man In America follows on in convincing style. With Hadestown producer Todd Sickafoose again at the helm and an array of seasoned players providing backings, this is a more complex musical creation than Mitchell’s trade description as ‘singer-songwriter’ suggests, full of delicately played fiddles, mandolins, squeezeboxes and guitars, with the odd touch of rhythmic thunder. Its eleven songs are likewise far removed from forlorn navel-gazing, and instead belong to characters inhabiting a semi-mythical America, the kind of frontier landscape conjured by Dylan’s John Wesley Harding, which is evoked in language that’s part modern, part drawn from folk tradition. If Young Man... isn’t quite a concept album, its songs are strongly themed, revolving around issues of children and parenting. The title track is central, conjuring a boy who “arrived like a cannonball” and who will “blow like a hurricane/Everyone will know my name”. With a father who was “a repo man, put me out on the street”, this is the cry of an avenging orphan. The shadow of the father likewise hangs over the delicately picked “He Did”, describing a man who loved his offspring and “kept a blue-grey eye on you” but “couldn’t draw you near to him”. “Tailor” turns the tables, dealing with a child’s desire to please. With its gentle air and almost singalong chorus, it has something of a kiddy’s song about it, yet it ends on a desolate note, with the apparently orphaned singer wondering “There isn’t anyone to say if I’m a diamond or a dime a dozen. Who am I?” Other songs are less specific. The sprightly “Venus” addresses the glories of womanhood in a way that might refer to either mother or beauteous lover – “My love moved inside me/A snake waked up in my body” – while “You Are Forgiven”, meandering against a soft chorus of voices and horns, is likewise ambiguous. The one clearly romantic song is “Ships”, whose dreamy atmosphere has an abandoned sailor’s woman longing for her departed man, though whether he’s gone on a voyage of discovery or to someone else isn’t spelt out. Then there’s “Shepherd”. Set to rippling guitars, it’s a tale of a shepherd torn between saving his flock and farm or being with his wife at childbirth. It turns out to be inspired by a story written by Mitchell’s father, whose picture at age 30 is on the cover of Young Man..., and whom Mitchell admits is “a presence” on the album. Mitchell grew up on her parents’ farm in Vermont, and although the tale is imaginary, she insists that “the sheep are real”. As much is true of the deep emotional currents captured on a remarkable, genre-defying album. Neil Spencer Q&A Anais Mitchell Is this another concept album? It’s not a narrative like Hadestown, more a meditation. The title track seems like an allegory for the USA. It’s certainly influenced by the recession. The idea of a father who is a repoman came from seeing people turned out on the streets with their furniture. Other lines got thrown way; people unable to pay for medicine, or spending Christmas on a Greyhound bus. There’s a feeling the American is something of an orphan, that we can’t trust we’re going to be taken care of. Any event in your life that’s triggered its themes? A few years ago my dad lost his dad, and to see his loss was very affecting. “Shepherd” is based on a story he wrote when he was my age, 30 - he’s a writer and I’m a writer. I’m not a mother yet and I’m not being parented. In the old days that time in life wasn’t long but nowadays it’s stretched out. Maybe I’m longing for a place I’m not at. What’s next? I’m working on a collection of British Child Ballads. That has affected the way I write. I love the sound of that old English language and the mix with US frontier language. INTERVIEW: NEIL SPENCER Please fill in our quick survey about the relaunched Uncut – and you could win a 12 month subscription to the magazine. Click here to see the survey. Thanks!

Rousing fifth solo LP from peripatetic US maverick... Jim White’s extraordinary first two records, 1997’s Wrong-Eyed Jesus! and No Such Place (2001), were modern signifiers of a new kind of Southern gothic, drawing deep from tradition yet riven with the existential dread of a fallen punk. Since then White has immersed himself in all manner of creative endeavours, often with like-minded souls. There have been art projects, gallery exhibitions, books, theatre scores and musical collaborations with Johnny Dowd and Tucker Martine in bands with names like Hellwood and Mama Lucky. The results have never been less than interesting, sometimes inspiring, but at times you still hanker for the intense mindtrips of those early solo albums. Now along comes Where It Hits You. It’s tempting to read more into the back story of this record than is perhaps pertinent, but its often ominous, heart-ravaged tone may have something to do with the recent upheavals in White’s life. Cut loose by longtime home Luaka Bop, he suddenly found himself label-less and with very little budget. Then halfway through recording, his wife left him for another man. There’s a genuine sense of loss, and certainly anguish, in the resigned feel of “That Wintered Blue Sky”, while the gentle country shuffle of “Epilogue To A Marriage” bemoans the fact that even “on the best of days, still there’s hell to pay”. Which isn’t to say that this is some maudlin break-up record. Its overriding sentiment is instead one of temperate defiance and musical uplift. The addition of various back-up singers and musicians, including Centromatic’s Will Johnson and a strong contingent from Olabelle, bring a lovely Southern gospel vibe to “State Of Grace” and a skinny groove to “Here We Go”. At other times White’s delicate incantations are seasoned by banjo and crying steel (“The Way Of Alone”) or, as on the baleful “Sunday’s Refrain”, tiny squeals of electric guitar and jazz trumpets. White has not only fashioned a terrific album from less than ideal circumstances, but one that finally feels like a worthy successor to No Such Place. Rob Hughes