A bit snowed under with auspicious new things today, amongst them the CSNY live album, Damon Albarn’s “Monkey: Journey To The West”, a new Bonnie Prince Billy live set and, perfect for this heat, Brightblack Morning Light’s superb “Motion To Rejoin”. While I get my head round all these, a mention for a couple of very fine records I’ve neglected to write about in the past few weeks. One is by James Jackson Toth, who’s figured here in the past when he was known as Wooden Wand. To recap: Wooden Wand originally fronted a ragged and delirious collective called The Vanishing Voice, who operated vaguely in the interstices between folk, jazz, rock and general clattery leftfield improv in much the same way as, say, Sunburned Hand Of The Man. All well and good. Of late, however, Wand has been heading down a more orthodox, and surprisingly more satisfying route, showcased on 2006’s “Second Guessing” and last year’s Lee Ranaldo-produced “James And The Quiet”. This time out, with “Waiting In Vain”, Toth has reclaimed his real name and made his straightest record yet. Like those last couple of records, the influence of Dylan hangs heavy over parts of this, especially the rackety faster tracks like the Rolling Thunder-ish “Beulah The Good”. But Toth is shaping more of an individual sonic character to match his myth-heavy lyrics – even if that character seems firmly and purposefully stuck in a deep 1975 singer-songwriter place. In this, he’s recruited another stellar crew, with Andy Cabic and Otto Hauser of the Vetiver/Devendra family, Carla Bozulich, one of Deerhoof and, most pronouncedly, the mighty Nels Cline, currently embedded in Wilco. It’s Cline, I suspect, who shreds up the climax of “The Banquet Styx” in the style, as Phil here pointed out this morning, of Robert Quine. There’s a countryish lilt to some of Toth’s writing, too, which he shares with TK Webb. Webb first made it onto my radar a couple of years back with “Phantom Parade”, a decently grimy stab at Americana which betrayed vague sympathies with people like William Elliot Whitmore and Mark Lanegan. Now, it seems, Webb is taking the reverse path to Lanegan, since TK Webb & The Visions’ “Ancestor” finds him trying on the sort of rootsy grunge that isn’t dissimilar to how those early/mid ‘90s Screaming Trees albums sounded. It’s a good fit for Webb, and his new band – featuring various bits of Love As Laughter, whose new record I should write about, too – sound cool: very heavy, discreetly psychedelic. The essence of his songwriting – earthy, measured, possibly the product of hearing one or two Neil Young albums at a formative point in time – hasn’t really changed that much. But this thick, seething makeover really suits him. A great opening track, “Teen Is Still Shaking”, sets the agenda very clearly.

Welcome to Waitsville. A place where bad jokes are good, Vaudeville never died, and the talk is of smoking monkeys, weasels and the mating habits of the preying mantis. Few musicians have built their own world as resolutely and completely as Tom Waits– that twilight carny town, pitched on a scrapheap in some flickering no-man’s land between Beat generation Manhattan and the Weimar Republic. Entering the theatre in a sweltering Edinburgh tonight, though, the sense of crossing some kind of border into another place, with its own laws, is more intense than ever. In the same way that “free earplugs” became one of the most common talking points surrounding My Bloody Valentine’s recent tour, the ultra-stringent anti-touting measures in place for Waits’s two nights in Edinburgh, his only UK shows, have already provoked endless pre-show chatter. Outside the Playhouse, we line up like patient refugees while a man with a bullhorn orders us to have not merely our tickets, but also our photographic ID and credit cards ready for inspection. The fact that a great many are actually producing their passports at the door heightens the feeling of shuffling through some weird Checkpoint Charlie. Inside, the faded Victorian grandeur of the Playhouse somehow seems a little grander, a little more faded than usual. The waiting stage lies bathed in a mix of deep blue, hard gold and intense red light that lets you take in the impressive amount of percussion instruments at the ready, as well as the weird, mushroomy assemblages of 1940s-era loudspeakers. The PA plays a sublime mix of music that suggests old radio waves bouncing back off satellites - jump blues, country, R&B, early rock ‘n’ roll, garage rock, gut bucket gospel. Still, it doesn’t distract from the fact that heat is already tropical, and by the time Waits has kept us waiting 30 minutes past the strictly appointed 8pm start, the buzzing, sweating crowd is growing restless. Slow handclaps break out, minds perhaps beginning to turn to the average £100 ticket prices. (An unconfirmed, but plausible story: when, off the record, a representative of the agency behind the tour was asked why tickets were so expensive, the reply came: “That’s just Tom Waits having a laugh.”) Any hint of ill will, though, is instantly dispelled when Waits finally appears and mounts his private little dais at the centre of the stage while his five-man band take positions around him. Before he’s even opened his mouth, he’s accorded an ovation, which he shamelessly milks and orchestrates, standing in the spotlight and raising his trembling arms like a sideshow conjurer, directing the applause. As he kicks into a ferocious bastard blend of “Lucinda” and “Ain’t Goin’ Down The Well,” the crowd is already fully hypnotised. And “kicking-off” is right. From the first, the lead percussion instrument is Waits’s stomping motorcycle boot. As he pounds the beat out, you realise the podium he’s standing on is coated in a layer of white powder – flour, perhaps, or talcum powder, or maybe ground-up bones - so that a cloud of pale dust rises around him as he stamps. In his weather-beaten black suit and bowler hat, he’s part silent movie slapstick clown, part Samuel Beckett ghost, part New Orleans voodoo funeral director. He never breaks from his patented “Tom Waits” character, but his ragged stagecraft is flawless. Sometimes he jerks like a machine-man; sometimes he rattle about like a zombified bag full of bones; often, he stretches and moves inside his music with the languid grace of a ballet dancer, walking between raindrops. The hammering industrial polka is maintained into “Raindogs,” before he shifts gears abruptly with an unspeakably gorgeous “Falling Down.” On songs like this – and, later, a similarly bruised and beautiful “Bottom Of The World” – Waits and his band suggest the kind of music The Rolling Stones might have made if they’d ever allowed themselves to grow up. But, as they remind you by lurching straight into a delirious “Cemetery Polka,” crashing from marching mutant oompah into lyrical, looping, drunken sweeps and back, the Stones never took anyone on a trip like this. Waits’s band – Larry Taylor (bass), Patrick Warren (keyboards), Omar Torrez (guitar), Vincent Henry (sax, harmonica) and Casey Waits (Tom’s son, on percussion, and sometimes joined by his younger sibling, Sullivan) – define the term “sidemen.” They settle into the shadows, anonymous figures almost, but their instruments become lead characters, storytellers as spellbinding as Waits himself. Together, they lead you through the backstreets, bars, junk shops, jazz dives, civic halls, cafes and fleapit theatres of a mongrel city, a place where the German, Italian, Spanish, Jewish and Gypsy neighbourhoods all merge into one. A place where Mariachi bands invite klezmer clarinettists to sit in for wedding gigs in Harlem, where guitars can sound like zithers, and where Lester Young or Lightnin’ Hopkins might stop by any minute, looking for help on a spaghetti western soundtrack. Meanwhile, in his dusty halo, their leader is singing, growling, roaring, hissing and whispering as if, after years of distressing it, he’s finally got his voice the way he always wanted it, sounding like Louis Armstrong and Captain Beefheart getting together with a failed opera singer to sing Billie Holiday in 1930s Berlin. Picking up his guitar to thumb out the thick, itching groove of “Get Behind The Mule,” Waits takes us from cabaret to roadhouse, with Henry wailing out waves of distorted mouth harp that would have astonished Howlin’ Wolf. A grotesque, meandering tale of circus freaks resolves itself into “Table Top Joe.” For “Jesus Gonna Be Here,” we’re in a tent by the muddy river, listening to a rogue preacher testify his customised gospel. Then, moving to the piano with only Taylor’s stand-up bass for support, the mood shifts again, the theatre transformed into a tiny, late-night barroom, as Waits begins to ramble and rasp out more and more of his trademark showbiz-barfly shaggy dog stories: • “Y’know what annoys me? When people say, ‘My cell-phone is a camera, too.’ I mean – why can’t something just be what it is and be happy about it? Makes me want to say, ‘My sunglasses are also a tricycle.’ Yeah, but I never do.” • “Y’know why shrimp never give money to charity?” (“Why?” comes the crowd's foolish cry) “Yeah. Well, basically – they’re shellfish. (Pause.) My wife told me never to tell that joke again.” • “I met someone who’d been there, and he told me what the moon smells like. Y’know what the moon smells like? Fireworks. Makes perfect sense. I mean, that’s where they all end up.” And on and on he goes, dishing out patter like a washed-up Catskills entertainer. Of course, in between all the non sequiturs, he’s busy breaking hearts, breathing out exquisitely tender readings of some of his loneliest, most beautiful songs: “Picture In A Frame”; “Invitation To The Blues”; “House Where Nobody Lives”. During “Innocent When You Dream,” he leads the audience through a mass sing-along, the place sounding like a wartime music hall. As he rises from the piano and makes his way back to his little stage, you can see that Wait’s thick black suit is drenched through in sweat. There’s just time to register the fact that, all around, people are sitting forward, literally on the edge of their seats, before he pushes the pace again, the group slamming into bone-shaking “Lie to Me,” and an immense “Hoist That Rag,” a long, fast, snaking, hard mamba. “Hang Your Head” is burning blue soul. “Green Grass” manages to be sinister and gentle at once and finds room for a great whistling solo. On “Way Down In The Hole,” Waits mounts a successful, swampy campaign to reclaim his song from The Wire soundtrack, nailing down the beat by stamping on a fire bell and beatboxing like an asthmatic Rolf Harris. “Make It Rain,” follows, the band hammering out a slow, jagged pneumatic funk groove that builds mercilessly while Waits jerks and cries for his rain. It finally comes, when, in a flourish of pure, old school showbiz, a cascading shower of golden glitter suddenly pours down upon him from the rafters. With the crowd on its feet again, baying again, Waits returns for a too-brief encore, laying out the sinister comic-book rumble of “Goin’ Out West,” and a weary, looping end-of-the-night waltz through “All The World Is Green”. Then, after two-and-and-half hours of booglarizing, beguiling and binding us in his unique spell, he’s gone, taking his world with him, and leaving us trying to find our way back to ours. Astonishing, simply. And, in case you were wondering, worth every penny, and all the problems of passport control. Nights like this, performers like this, are as rare as rocking horse dung. DAMIEN LOVE SETLIST Lucinda/ Ain’t Goin’ Down To The Well Raindogs Falling Down On The Other Side Of The World Shoot The Moon Cemetery Polka Get Behind The Mule Cold Cold Ground Table Top Joe Jesus Gonna Be Here Piano set: Picture In A Frame Invitation To The Blues House Where Nobody Lives Innocent When You Dream Lie to Me Make It Rain Bottom Of The World Hang Your Head Green Grass Way Down In The Hole Dirt In The Ground Make It Rain ENCORE: Goin’ Out West All The World Is Green

It’s the moment half way through the set when she arrives, with a swish of the curtain, on stage astride a giant silver skull, wearing a flowing red trouser suit and cap, that we realise we just aren’t in Kansas any more, Toto. Welcome, then, to the first night of Kylie’s week-long residency at London’s 02 Arena. It is, as you might expect, a shiny world of sequined pop fun – but one that also delves slyly into a more provocative and subversive world of pop art. The merchandise, for instance, is full of sparkly Kylie wear, but look closer and there’s also t-shirts that cheekily play on the Andy Warhol sleeve for the first Velvet Underground album – the banana replaced by a yellow microphone, Warhol’s signature substituted for Kylie’s. There’s badges that lift from the iconic Watchmen smiley face button worn by the Comedian in Alan Moore’s graphic novel, an elaborate "K" in place of the spattering of blood from Dave Gibbons’ original art. It demonstrates, if nothing else, a smart mind at work, something canny and clued up behind the gold hot pants and “La la la”s that might otherwise characterise our journey into the kittenish environs of KylieLand. And which draws a line between her and the thousand other disposable pop singers who've come and gone in the 20 years since Kylie launched her singing career. In fact, it seems that Kylie is playing to several different crowds tonight. There’s a lot of folks here for the pop hits – of which there are plenty – and the attendant thrills of an arena gig. Balloons, lights shows, precision-drilled musical song and dance numbers abound - while the sets themselves, influenced by everything from Helmut Newton photography to Broadway musicals, are extraordinary. And when she disappears off for a lightening fast costume change (of which there are seven), I imagine there’s a phalanx of sartorial engineers in the wings who can tug her out of her dress in 0 – 60 seconds and put her in a new one. In much the same way that highly trained mechanics change the wheels of Formula One cars during a Grand Prix pit stop in less than 10 seconds. Elsewhere, in the Pierre et Gilles images of semi-naked men in briefs, and dancers in sailor suits, you have something that chimes, clearly, with Kylie’s prodigious gay following. But what interests me more, perhaps, are the bits that seem to fall somewhere in between. The strange, Haruki Murakami-esque images, for instance, of a robot Japanese girl in a computerised neon-Tokyo blasted on the giant screens that reminded me of Stephane Sednaoui's video for Towa Tei's "German Bold Italic”, with Kylie as a robo-Geisha in New York. Musically, too, there's a sense of pushing her back catalogue into more subversive territories: the slinky rhythms of "Slow" churn into metal-style riffs while "Come Into My World" assumes the sleek motorik of Tiga and Zyntherius' "Sunglasses At Night". I’ve teasingly suggested to Allan in the past that Kylie’s talent for re-invention can occasionally enter the realms of the Dylanesque. You know: Pop Kylie, Indie Kylie, Dance Kylie... If I really want to stretch the point, I'll cite her participation in Nick Cave's cover of "Death Is Not The End" on the Murder Ballads album. But there is something, however slight, in how she’s successfully managed to define “Kylie" as a brand in the way he is, to the public, more “Dylan” than he is a man called Bob. It’s only towards the end of the set, when she performs “No More Rain” – the one song of the recent X album that acknowledges her fight with breast cancer – that she stands alone on stage, in that Prospero at the end of The Tempest moment, to address her own life. But she does it with such poptastic precision that the key to the song, “Got a second hand chance, gonna do it again, got rainbow colours and no more rain”, is both laid expressly bare but also masked by the delivery; as professional as you can get. It tells you nothing and everything. The first half of the show is all about the spectacle: the costumes, routines, Barry Manilow covers, with Kylie, arriving on stage on a scaled down version of the London Eye, cast as, variously, an S&M dominatrix, American football quarterback and show jumper. The material leans too heavily on the electro Glam of the X album, with crowd-pleasing moments like “Spinning Around”, “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” judiciously dropped in. But the second half, when it’s just her pretty much on a bare stage, in a flowing, feminine blue dress, you see a happy, pretty woman enjoying her craft. This isn’t like Madonna, who these days seems like a cold, sinewy ball of charmless pneumaticism, but someone who's palpably enjoying the moment. Somehow, she’s still channelling something of Charlene's goofy guile from Neighbours, via that brilliant spoken word reading of “I Should Be So Lucky” in a pair of tracksuit bottoms at the 1996 Poetry Olympics, up to the impromptu giggles that tonight introduce the Glam stomp of “Two Hearts”. Great fun.