It’d be nice to claim that I had an infallible eye for spotting a future superstar, but watching the ascent of the Gossip over the past two or three years, I’m reminded that there was a band I could’ve never have imagined becoming big. When I first saw them play in, what, 2002 maybe, I thought they were terrific. But they also seemed to be so tightly embedded in a post-riot grrl scene of fanzine elitists that, for all the strengths of Beth Ditto’s personality and pipes, they’d surely be more or less unintelligible to the mainstream. More pointedly, Ditto appeared so militantly averse to reaching any kind of rapprochement with the mainstream. During that gig, she spent about ten minutes dissecting an NME live review of Missy Elliott, claiming the writer was critical of the show because of sexism and sizeism. In fact, he was critical of Elliott’s show because it was a shambles: I was there, and grievously disappointed as Elliott spent most of the gig arbitrating talent contests and causing fights by throwing her socks and sneakers into the crowd. I wasn’t about to point this out to Ditto, however, as she proceeded to shred the copy of NME while the crowd worked themselves up into a frenzy. Along with a couple more NME writers, I shifted uncomfortably around the back of The Spitz and wished she’d get back to the music. I think of that night more or less every time I open one of London’s free papers and see Ditto beaming from the front row of some catwalk show, or wandering in and out of paparazzi shooting galleries in the company of sundry A-listers whose knowledge of the riot grrl may well be, without being too presumptuous, a bit sketchy. I think of it, too, whenever I play the new Gossip album, “Music For Men”, not least because it doesn’t sound entirely different from how they did that night: “8th Wonder” and "Spare Me From The Mold", especially, are pretty close to the vivid, chattering soul-punk they were peddling so enthusiastically on the underground circuit at the turn of the decade (though "Spare Me" is close to "Rock Lobster", too). “Music For Men”, then, as you’ve probably picked up, has not been produced, as was once rumoured, by Timbaland (for the best, I think, given his recent track record: Chris Cornell!). Instead, Rick Rubin takes charge. Rubin’s usual trick of making everything exceedingly loud works well here, unusually, not least because he has the good sense of not completely revamping the Gossip’s rudimentary formula. From the moment “Dimestore Diamond” prowls in, the bony minimalism of the band is recognised by Rubin as crucial to their appeal, giving Ditto’s heroic vocals all the space they need. It occasionally sounds as if Rubin has polished some of the rough edges off those tones, but not so much that it becomes a discomfiting listen. More amazingly, perhaps, is that the Gossip have achieved something that even a good few of their fans must have doubted; that is, written an album of songs that should ensure they won’t solely be remembered for “Standing In The Way Of Control”. It’s frontloaded, for sure, with a brilliant opening sally of “Dimestore Diamond”, “Heavy Cross” (“Control” part two, crudely, as is “Men In Love”), “8th Wonder” and “Long Long Distance”. “Love Long Distance” is probably the first track that’ll alarm the indie puritans, replacing Brace Paine’s guitar with some Italian House piano and synth washes, not unlike some of the remixes that circulated in the aftermath of the last album. Again, though, as “Love Long Distance” flows into the jittery electrofunk of “Pop Goes The World”, Rubin keeps everything fairly spare, airy and restrained, understanding that even at their most flamboyant and disco-friendly, The Gossip don’t suit a maximalist approach. It’s a canny pop makeover – an “elevation”, as April calls it in her review of “Music For Men” in the forthcoming Uncut – which stands comparison with Peaches’ fantastic “Talk To Me”. There’s a surprising lack of contemporary R&B influence, save maybe the verse of “Vertical Rhythm” which has that “Knightrider” synth sound that was all over hip hop records (a Busta Rhymes hit, was it?) a few years ago, and the shuddering electro ballad, “Four Letter Word” (a hint of Aaliyah here, in a very different way to how she was referenced on The Dirty Projectors’ “Bitte Orca”) . But the great trick “Music For Men” pulls off is that it manages to sound very shiny, modern and commercial without totally scurfing off the DIY vigour of old. Not bad.

I’m conscious that, with the Lemonheads and Sonic Youth posts last week, the blog’s slightly in danger of degenerating into something of a dewy-eyed home for alt-rock fans who were students in the late ‘80s. But unfortunately, I’m going to have to keep this going for a while longer, since the new Dinosaur Jr album represents another band of that generation sustaining their current run of form. Mascis, Barlow and Murph’s comeback album, "Beyond”, was the subject of the very first – and with hindsight somewhat sketchy – post on Wild Mercury Sound, and much of the same things hold true for “Farm”. If anything, though, this one’s even better than “Beyond”, very much bucking the trend of bands putting out a serviceable reunion album, using it to keep the comeback tour rolling for another 12 months, then quietly dissolving again. Thinking about it this morning, there’s very little reason why Dinosaur Jr should be able to return with such a hot streak – with two albums that are probably better than virtually everything J Mascis has recorded since Lou Barlow first jumped ship. The chemistry of lineups is a peculiarly unsteady science at the best of times, but that which empowers the original Dinosaur trio is especially baffling. How can we talk of chemistry at all, really, in a band that was always so legendarily dysfunctional, or at least run as some kind of passive-aggressive autocracy by Mascis? Perhaps Barlow and Murph, for all their caution, understand Mascis and the way his songs work better than any other musicians, and perhaps Mascis himself, in spite of the mythical blankness of his demeanour, is motivated by their presence? Whatever: they’ve made a generally pretty thrilling album. “Farm” is a bit more varied, relatively speaking, with fractionally less of the hardcore thrust of “Beyond” – a thrust you could probably ascribe to them recording that comeback on the back of live shows that pivoted around “You’re Living All Over Me”. There are some gentler, more or less, songs here like “See You” and “Plans”, the odd moment where a certain keening Southern rock groove emerges (on “Friends”, especially) from the usual protean chug, and the occasional air between the effects (on the outstanding solo in “I Don’t Wanna Go There”, specifically) where Mascis reveals the delicacy and technical precision of his playing that’s often so gloriously fudged and obscured. Mostly, though, it’s a typical J Mascis/Dinosaur album, but a much better than average one. The song titles remain heroically unmemorable: surely, he must have including a great lurching song called “I Don’t Wanna Go There” on every album he’s made in the past two decades? It begins, again, with a song that appears to have already been going on for about a minute – this one’s called “Pieces”, has a marvellous hook, and follows what we might call the “Wagon” model. Then there are Lou’s songs – two this time – which again present the tantalising vision of his great mature songwriting allied to Dinosaur’s incomparable muscle. The first one, “Your Weather”, is a classic even by his standards, fit to stand comparison with his finest surging folk-rockers like “Beauty Of The Ride”. Heartening stuff. As, by the looks of it, were the performances on the Uncut stage at Brighton’s Great Escape festival. A quick reminder that Tom’s been blogging about White Denim, Abe Vigoda et al here for us.

If last night was loosely the folk night of Club Uncut’s Great Escape bill, this is probably the ‘rock’ or ‘psych’ night. The evening starts with a red herring, though. Blind Pilot, a quartet from Portland, Oregon, are folk-rock through and through. Grounded by a double bassist and fleshed out by a banjo player, they’re obviously country-influenced, but tastefully so. Frontman Israel Nebeker’s clear Fleet Foxes-esque vocals are well complimented by hired hands Katie Claborn and Luke Ydstie’s harmonies. Their Neil Young stylings on tracks like “Go On Say It” are certainly pleasant and entirely listenable, but hardly unique, so it’s relieving that they turn all tribal and Glitter Band for one track, with Claborn joining drummer Ryan Dobrowski to bash out a heavy rhythm on the toms. An invigorating set then, although it would have been better if Claborn’s lead banjo had been louder than Nebeker’s rhythmic, but less interesting, acoustic strumming. Next up are Crystal Antlers, former headliners of a recent Club Uncut night in London. The six-piece are on blistering form, segueing between their prog epics with hardly a word to the audience. With their Doors organ, Cuban-sounding percussion and hoarse screaming, the Long Beach group sound like a cross between The Mars Volta and At The Drive-In – fitting, then, that their debut EP was produced by the former’s keyboardist. The Pavilion Theatre’s great system really gives definition to each distorted, echo-laden instrument, averting the risk of the sound turning into a swampy psychedelic soup. In his blog on their previous Club Uncut set, John Mulvey complained that Andrew King’s frantic wah wah solo-ing is unfortunately pushed to the back of the mix, again a slight problem tonight. New songs from their forthcoming album “Tentacles” are the highlight of the set; in particular, new single “Andrew” is a swirling 6/8 blues treat. Glasgow’s The Phantom Band begin their set all striking percussion instruments as Moog synth loop burbles underneath. The six-piece are as progressive as Crystal Antlers, but embrace pulsing Krautrock instead of the Long Beach residents’ hairy jamming. Songs like set highlights “The Howling” – their next single – “Burial Sounds” and “Crocodile” invoke the eccentric, fluorescent spirit of Super Furry Animals and The Beta Band, or a less lysergic Animal Collective. The instruments they use are as eclectic as any of the above, their guitars and odd synths joined by duelling melodicas on one track, and all manner of percussion on others. Again, they say little to the crowd, relying on the force of their motorik rhythms and analogue electronics to keep interest. Vivian Girls bring the evening back to a more stripped-down rock’n’roll feel after all the, admittedly impressive, prog excess. The trio of tattoo-ed Brooklyn-ites mix up the energy and speed of hardcore punk with the beat feel of early Beatles, and showcase most of the tracks from their self-titled debut tonight. They’re as raucous and messy live as they are on record, their lack of technical proficiency countered by their frenzied delivery. At times, it’s like watching your friend’s teenage garage band – just way more exciting. “Is the reverb on?” asks drummer Ali Koehler at the start of the set, not the only time she checks their echoey sound is right – at times, the ambience is almost like a fourth member, and it perfectly suits their vintage sound. To be honest, Uncut loses count of how many songs they play, as they’re all well below the two-minute mark and fired off in quick succession. During the final song, the only one that appears to be longer than three minutes, the trio all switch their instruments, while still raggedly playing the song, of course. Impressive stuff. Californians Abe Vigoda close the packed line-up at the theatre tonight. The four-piece take joy in irritating the crowd by chatting geekily onstage – “So Club Uncut – Uncut – you know what that means in the US?” laughs guitarist Juan Velazquez like a naughty schoolboy. Luckily, their music is much more interesting than their onstage chat, their circular songs clattering along like a cross between The Fall and Fela Kuti. In keeping with the slapdash performance, there seems to be no setlist, and lyrics are virtually inaudible beneath the slap-back echo of their cheap guitars. During the penultimate song, Vivian Girls get up onstage and end up spanking Velazquez with tambourines, rocking the band’s amps back and forth. A fitting end to an intense night, then. Check back tomorrow for more on Club Uncut’s last night at The Great Escape, featuring School Of Seven Bells and White Denim.

The arrival this week of a new live album from Mark Kozelek, “Lost Verses – Live”, has prompted me to go on something of a Red House Painters/Sun Kil Moon binge (a contrast, for sure, to that concurrent Funkadelic trip; thanks, incidentally, for the recommendations – must check that Eddie Hazel solo album out). I was listening to “Lost Verses – Live” this morning, and composing a bunch of things in my head to write about it. Upon checking my blog for the last Sun Kil Moon album, “April”, however, it seems I made pretty much all the same points and deployed all the same adjectives for that record. Which further emphasises the point, I guess, that it’s hard to think of many artists in the past 20 years who have been quite as consistent, both in the tone and in the quality of his material (and, come to think of it, in the typefaces and presentation of the CDs), as Kozelek. The pile of CDs – 14 of them, I think – that I brought in this morning to load onto iTunes, could more or less merge into one giant entity, one vast, dolorous song that tracked Kozelek from Ohio to a permanently fog-bound San Francisco, with sojourns in Bilbao, Brockwell Park and wherever else he’s fetched up on tour, turning over and over evocative images from his childhood and sundry, often unresolved relationships. As the years go by, his voice and playing get stronger, and the lyrics become more reflective than melancholy, but it’s only ever a case of tinkering with nuances. If that sounds repetitive and boring, many who’ve heard Kozelek’s work would probably agree. But for those of us who know and love his records, it’s his persistence and calm adherence to his strengths that makes his music so compelling. “Lost Verses – Live” ends with “Blue Orchids”, from last year, and “Katy Song”, from 1993, but they could have been written hours apart, so unvarying is the style. That pleasurable homogeny comes even more to the surface on Kozelek’s solo and live recordings like this, where the tone remains unstintingly stark and acoustic, missing those thicker, Crazy Horse-like bursts which have punctuated many of his later band albums. Even more here, the impact of his music is cumulative: the longer it goes on, the more potency it gathers, so that when Track 9, the exceptional “Lucky Man”, rolls around, you suddenly notice how much you’ve been enjoying the whole trip. There’s quite an overlap between “Lost Verses” and 2006’s “Little Drummer Boy – Live” double set: again, the tracks are taken from a bunch of different shows rather than presenting one concert, and Kozelek is stealthily tracked by a second guitarist, Phil Carney. This time, though, most of the old Red House Painters songs are absent, replaced by great swathes – eight tracks, I make it – of “April”. As much as anything else, it serves as a reminder of what a terrific record “April” is – one I think I underestimated in that previous blog, as songs like “Lucky Man”, “Tonight In Bilbao”, “Lost Verses” itself, “Moorestown” and “Tonight The Sky” (the latter not attempted on “Lost Verses – Live”) really bed in. Last time I wondered, “Part of me wishes that [Kozelek] would be a little more adventurous, inch tentatively out of his comfort zone.” Thinking about it again today, though, that not only seems unrealistic, but actually undesirable. At the end of that “April” blog, someone called Piers posted, “This is still growing on me and prob will for some time.” And maybe that’s the most remarkable thing about Kozelek: for all the simplicity and familiarity of his schtick, all his records seem to accumulate more and more richness and gravity with age. Think I might put together a playlist for the journey home…