I had a big plan this morning to try and observe Bill Drummond's No Music Day for as long as we could stick it out. But I got here a bit late and Rufus Wainwright doing his Judy Garland turn was already on the stereo. Up until this year, I've thought that No Music Day was one of Drummond's less endearing ideas, but listening to him on Radio 4 last night, it struck me that this just might be one of his most intellectually stimulating pranks yet. So far as I understand it - and I think Drummond's imperative is to understand it however you choose, ultimately - No Music Day is actually about enhancing the way that we listen to music. Now I can't pretend that I ever feel fatigued at the prospect of another day listening to great music; I shouldn't be doing this job if I did. But Drummond's idea is that, by taking a day off from music, it'll make us listen anew, with fresher ears. It strikes me that this is particularly pertinent for people who are stuck in offices where the radio is on all day, and they're stuck listening, passively, to music which doesn't much interest them. But even with our usual impeccable selections in the Uncut office, maybe a break would do us good. Drummond talked on the radio last night about how he originally envisaged a year, or a week without music before settling on the more pragmatic - pragmatism from Drummond seems such an odd conceit, but anyway - No Music Day. And it makes me think about how I've gone on holidays in the past and not taken any music, tried to cut myself off a little and empty my head, then got back to work and fell on my new CDs with a passion. Right now, Rufus is doing "Swanee" and Drummond's idea has never seemed better. Let me know how you can cope without music, though. Oh, and while I think about it, a date for the diary if you're in London: Howlin' Rain, Damon & Naomi and Sunburned Hand Of The Man at the Scala on Sunday night. Looks like one of the best bills of the year, I think. . .

Quite a curious, though vaguely welcome, phenomenon in London at the moment, where a few American garage and artpunk bands appear to have been adopted by the sort of fashion scene who normally favour pseudo-transgressive electro over gnarly old rock'n'roll. The belated deification of Les Savy Fav is probably the most obvious manifestation of all this. But the sudden prominence of a sloppy-as-hell garage band from Atlanta is definitely another. On one level, it's pretty obvious why Black Lips have been adopted by the Vice crowd (they're on that mag's label): basically, they have handsome trucker moustaches, deviant brat humour, and a rep for pissing in each other's mouths during gigs. But listening to "Good Bad Not Evil", their fourth album, again this morning, they seem to have less in common with that crowd, and much more with the scene that briefly slipped into the limelight around 2001, when many British bands briefly toyed with the idea of finding their very own White Stripes. That hype passed - ruining a few good bands like The Von Bondies in the process. But I suspect that thousands of bands like this continue to flourish on a subterranean level in every urban pocket of the States, oblivious to the possibilities of fame, fortune and not working in second hand record shops that might be offered to them. One of the more prominent bands from this world in the past two or three years have been The Reigning Sound, and I think that's what this Black Lips album reminds me of, in places: a distinctly southern, soul-tinged, very very skinny twist on the old "Nuggets" vibe. Black Lips, of course, are necessarily more mischievous - exhibit A being a dorky love song set in New Orleans called, yep, "O Katrina!". But while they're clearly snarkier than most of their contemporaries, there's an exuberance that they share with so many garage bands; a sense that being in a band and playing rock'n'roll is the most uncomplicated thing to do in the world. A crazy dream, of course, but Black Lips, in their shambolic wise-ass way, are very good at pulling it off. They can also do gris-gris when the mood suits them (on "Veni Vidi Vici"; I have a neat Diplo remix of this kicking around somewhere, too), cornball country ("How Do You Tell A Child That Someone Has Died", its archness burying the poignancy of real bereavement that inspired the lyrics), High School ramalam ("Bad Kids") and sundry bits of jagged garage psych that recall, marvellously, The 13th Floor Elevators. And the hidden track is the best one. But I'm sure you'd have guessed that, right?