Some good neu-Krautrock this morning, coming from an American/German duo called, evocatively, Cloudland Canyon. I first came across them last year, I think, with an album called "Requiems der Natur 2002-2004" which fitted in with the ambient-cosmic end of the new psych stuff I listen to a lot. There's a new EP, now, called "Silver Tongued Sisyphus", which features two tracks of gravitational, smudged motorik, more propulsive than what I remember of the album, and consequently fairly heavily indebted to Neu!, as you might imagine. It's pretty heavy, too; most of the people who claim to be influenced by Neu! at the moment turn out to be straight-sounding indie-boy shoegazers with a half-decent drummer. Cloudland Canyon, though, sound appealingly further out, with "Dambala" especially pulling off that trick of being at once exploratory and meditative that you find in some of the best vintage German gear. Which brings us to a new Harmonia release, amazingly. There's been some assiduous foraging of the Krautrock archives these past few years, that's fetched up the "Harmonia 76" sessions with Eno already. This one, "Live 1974", is a gig recording that appears to capture Rother, Moebius and Roedelius jamming with that typical impassive euphoria to an entirely empty room. In fact, Michael Rother claims in the press release that the show (in a former railway station in Griessem) was attended by a good 50 or so people, who were too stoned to even applaud, or who couldn't work out where the songs ended. That makes sense: the five lengthy tracks here stretch out to between nine and 17 minutes each, but have an enveloping momentum that makes them feel like they are - or at least should - go on forever. I must admit I haven't played the two studio Harmonia albums for a year or two, but from memory "Live 1974" is more in the vein of the first one, "Musik Von Harmonia". If you're familiar with the work of Harmonia's constituent bands, Neu! and Cluster, but not Harmonia themselves, imagine the humming seascape pieces from "Neu! 75" augmented by the gently chattering rhythm patterns of Cluster's "Zuckerzeit". Perhaps Cluster are fractionally more dominant; Rother's always subtle guitar strafe is, if anything, more discreet than ever, though he does have a mild freak-out on "Arabesque". Anyway, it all makes a very soothing start to the week. Couple more things today. Here's the Myspace link for Cloudland Canyon. And here are some contrasting views about Sly Stone's Bournemouth show from over at the Uncut Festivals blog. "Easily, the worst 'performance' I've ever seen by anyone," writes Paul. "It will take a while for the mental scars to heal and I can play his music again without this farce flooding back." Blimey.

“Good idea this, weren’t it?” shouts Alex Turner from the stage. It was billed as a momentous event and in the end, that’s exactly what it was. Arctic Monkeys have just played the biggest headlining gig of their career at LCC, in front of a deafening 50,000 people and a sea of inflatable hammers. More of which later, as it’s been a terrific day all round. When we arrive at 3ish, I’m dismayed to discover that we’ve just missed the day’s opening gambit: a Beatles tribute band from Japan. Judging by the reaction of those around us, they were a hoot. Half an hour later, it’s clear that tales of Amy Winehouse’s recent demise are highly exaggerated. In mini-skirt, fitted lemon top and full Cleopatra war-paint, framed by backing singers and full brass regalia, she gave "Back To Black" the full works. "He Can Only Hold Her" and the title track were highlights, as was "Me And Mr Jones", but a bold, sassy cover of The Specials’ "Hey Little Rich Girl" threatened to steal it. After nipping off for five minutes, she led a mass shout-along of "Rehab" before ending with The Zutons’ "Valerie". I have to confess that I missed the entire set from The Coral due to the abnormally long queue for the toilets, having waited nearly an hour for the first beer. But the mood of the crowd is good, no doubt helped by the appearance of a beating sun. On returning, I’m told the Scouse seven-piece did pretty rousing versions of “Goodbye”, “Dreaming Of You” and “Pass It On”. By the time Supergrass take the stage just after 7pm, the vibe is so convivial that there are outbreaks of “dance-off” competitions amongst the crowd, rucks of punters gathering to watch various feats of nimble derring-do. Supergrass, as it happens, play a blinder. With a new album imminent, they kick off with what already feels like a classic, "Diamond Hoo Ha Man" (another live version of which is available as a free download from their website, incidentally). The rest of the set is tight, rambunctious and fizzing in all the right places: "Richard III"; "Grace"; "Caught By The Fuzz", "Lenny". There’s another new tune in there somewhere too, called "Rough Knuckles". And so to the main event. If there were any lingering doubts that Arctic Monkeys might be extending their reach with the biggest stadium gig of their short young lives, they were blown away in an instant. Just before 9pm, they trooped on to the pumping strain of the "Rocky" theme, before careening straight into current favourite, "Fluorescent Adolescent". By the second song, "I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor", they’d instigated a frenzy. There’s not too much banter from the band themselves, but every utterance is greeted with booming cheers. After "Brianstorm", Alex Turner asks if everyone’s having a nice day. After "Still Take You Home", it appears someone’s thrown something on the stage. A miniature bottle of Bell’s whiskey, as it turns out. "How polite!" offers Turner. For the most part, it’s the Monkeys on blanket-bombing form, a giant noise leavened by the observational pith of a surly Alan Bennett. By mid-set, a prolonged chant of "Yorkshire! Yorkshire!" has kicked in, but there’s a hiccup as the band’s sound cuts out during "Balaclava". The Monkeys, oblivious, are still in full throttle. Ten minutes and an embarrassed apology later ("Let’s put it behind us," says Turner), they relaunch with "Old Yellow Bricks". "Mardy Bum" and a particularly potent "View From The Afternoon" stir everyone up again, before returning for an encore. They do b-side "Plastic Tramp", though I admit to not knowing it beforehand. In a quick vox pop of those around me, six other people have misheard Turner announce the song too. Answers vary from "Parrot Lips" to something equally odd. And with Turner moving on to keyboards, they close with "505" (The Rascals’ Miles Kane on guitar) and "A Certain Romance". The last time I saw Arctic Monkeys was two years ago, here in Manchester, rocking the sprung wooden floor of The Ritz. Back then, the thought of them filling out stadiums wasn’t inconceivable, just unlikely, given their stubborn sense of autonomy and their place in the music business. In the end, like everything else, they’ve now done it their way. This review was written by ROB HUGHES

One or two hangovers in the Uncut office today, so I'm cheerfully trying to make them worse by playing this new live album by Konono No 1. It's a terrific album, but it also operates on an insistent, reverberant frequency which, I suspect, may well be rattling around the skulls of a few sore heads. Konono, if you've missed out on all the hipster world music news these past couple of years, are the Congolese band who were recruited by Bjork into the intercontinental avant-garde collective that staffed her "Volta" album: it was their undulating, relentless rhythms that intersected with Timbaland's beat design on "Earth Intruders" so effectively. Their schtick, exuberantly demonstrated on "Live At Couleur Cafe" (and their 2005 Western debut, "Congotronics"), is to hook up a few thumb pianos to a primitive, ultra-distorted amplification system, add some high-intensity percussion on instruments made out of scrap metal, then chant and whistle a bit over the top. The result is a kind of cranky and rapid trance music; a quick google has turned up this excellent Guardian piece on them, including the useful fact that their name translates as "Assume Crash Position". I've never been much of a fan of industrial music; too many po-faced, quasi-intellectual goths striving to be transgressive in the '80s for my liking. But Konono No 1 occasionally feel like a positive step on from the experiments of Einsturzende Neubauten, Test Department, SPK (were they the comparatively poppy ones?) et al. Konono's music is jarring and uncompromising, the harshness of the metallic tones tapping into that tradition of earnest tin-bashing. But while it's pretty lame to assume that music from Africa is experimental by accident rather than design, Konono sound like they're making radical music out of unusual materials without trying to be particularly subversive, removing the portentous subtext that traditionally comes with scrap metal music. I bet they're amazing live. Amazing live, too, of course are the Boredoms, whose percussive barrage has vague affinities with Konono No1. I wrote a while back, consumed with jealousy, about their amazing 77-drummer show in New York. And while I can't be sure of the ethics of linking to dodgy boots, I can suggest you have a mooch round the internet for a superb quality MP3 of the entire 105 minute performance.

There's an interesting interview with Steve Albini in the forthcoming issue of Uncut, where he talks about various albums he's been involved with over the years. One of them is PJ Harvey's "Rid Of Me". "Around that point, Polly was a wicked guitar player," Albini says. "One of the things that I think she lost after she moved away from the band format, and into the solo artist format, is that she doesn't show off her guitar playing any more - she's not in a situation where her guitar playing matters as much." I wonder what Albini will make of Harvey's new album? It's called "White Chalk", and there is barely any guitar on it. Instead, this is a piano album, a record of great beauty, austerity and discreet power. The first thing you notice about it, though, as "The Devil" begins, is that there's a pronounced change in her voice. Far from the deep, carnal swagger that dominated "Uh Huh Her", Harvey's voice is pitched higher, and is much more fragile-sounding. "White Chalk" is not, for once, a PJ Harvey record that will draw the usual Patti Smith comparisons. In fact, the first point of reference that springs to mind as "The Devil" rides along on firmly plonked piano and tambourine, is the ethereal soul of Laura Nyro. The relative bounce of this proves to be a bit of a red herring, though. For much of "White Chalk", there's a sombre austerity to proceedings, epitomised by the cover portrait of Harvey sat, prim in white gown, looking for all the world (as our pic researcher Phil astutely points out) like a Whistler portrait. There's a touch of antique gothic here, as you might imagine, a hint of romantic spirit struggling to express itself in a tightly-buttoned environment. The imagery is visceral and loaded: words "are tightening around the throat of the one I love" in "Dear Darkness"; "Grow Grow Grow" involves planting roses and tramping earth down beneath "twisted oak groves"; "Scratch my palms, there's blood on my hands," she observes in the title track. "When Under Ether" has the atmosphere of a haunted Victorian hospital, a tripping song far away from the raptures of psychedelia. It's a short record (33 minutes, I think) of 11 songs, and the nearest antecedent I can remember in Harvey's back catalogue are those piano nocturnes on "Is This Desire?" (especially "When Under Ether", for some reason). At other times ("Broken Harp" and "White Chalk" itself), I'm faintly reminded of Will Oldham, his meticulous, emotionally-charged minimalism - though "White Chalk" escalates into something discreetly epic, a Morricone sketch. As far as I know, the only other musicians are the faithful Eric Drew Feldman and the great Jim White, a new recruit, on drums. White is well trained in this sort of understated music, having worked plenty with Chan Marshall, and he brushes his kit so stealthily at times as to be practically invisible. The idea, clearly, is to put all the focus on the piano and the voice. Sometimes, Harvey's vocals are treated and dislocated: on "To Talk To You" her tone has a voluptuous soft-focus shape a bit like that of Liz Fraser (in This Mortal Coil, rather than in the over-varnished clutter of The Cocteau Twins, though). Once or twice, when the songs become less impressionistic and more immediate ("Silence", especially), there's a momentum which sounds like a ghostly, subversive response to the dominant piano rock of Coldplay, Keane et al. "White Chalk", of course, sounds nothing like that: it's far too odd and intimate and cobwebby for mass singalongs in the O2 Dome, I'm sure. It's also, I think, one of the most compelling albums that Harvey has made. That confrontational crunch of guitar and stentorian bass voice may be absent (though not gone forever, I suspect), but an identifiable musical character remains: balancing, perhaps more overtly than ever, shyness with great passion. Thirty seconds before the record ends, in "The Mountain", she lets out this great melodious banshee wail, very Kate Bush actually, and sounds like she's making an escape from the formal strictures she's imposed on herself. It's a thrilling moment of liberation, but it'd be meaningless without all the atmosphere and tension which precedes it.