Yep, I guess it's that Ecstatic Peace time of the week again. Today's offering from Thurston Moore's imprint - maybe my favourite label of 2007, certainly the one I've written about most - is the jamming new album by Connecticut's Magik Markers. I have one other Magik Markers album, whose name eludes me. It's a pretty prickly old racket, if memory serves, being cranked-up free noise from the scarier extremes of the new American underground scene. Great live, I bet, but a bit tricky to live with. "Boss", though, is, well, not exactly a sell-out, but certainly what we could call a focusing of their powers. It reminds me a bit of how Royal Trux drifted into focus around the time of "Thank You", with a take on blues-rock that's at once divine and rancorous, primal and avant-garde. Magik Markers are a boy-girl duo, too: Pete Nolan on drums and stuff, the extraordinary Elisa Ambrogio on vocals and lead guitar. It's easy, and I guess a bit lazy, to slot Ambrogio into a certain lineage that includes Kim Gordon (the incantatory clang of "Axis Mundi") and also Patti Smith. The superb "Last Of The Lemach Line" finds her chanting, "I am the secular Pentecost, Squeezing out the blue snake," while hitting some really profound chords. This is beautiful and intense stuff, and I'm drawn to quote some excellent notes (that read like they were written by Thurston or Byron Coley, maybe), which describe Ambrosio's guitar playing as "with a mix of blues simplicity, an almost Sonny Sharrock wailing and a janky Americana punk reminiscent of Pat Place and Roky Erickson, Ambrosio avoids preciousness like a rash." Good writing, and "Boss" deserves it. Even when she's less imperious, on a sweet and diffident piano ballad like "Empty Bottles", Ambrosio sounds like a great force of nature, rich with character and poetry. I'm sure I read somewhere that she figures on the forthcoming Six Organs Of Admittance album, which sounds intriguing: a good person for Chasny to make mischief with. I don't seem to be terribly lucid today, so I'll stop soon, after noting that Nolan is a limber and inventive foil, that Lee Ranaldo produces brilliantly, and that trying to find Magik Markers on Myspace involves a visit to this place, where we learn, "THIS IS NOT A MAGIK MARKERS MYSPAC,THEY DONT HAVE ONE. THIS WAS DONE BY SOME IDIOT," and ends up at this confusing spot. Very cool band.

Since I first wrote about the new Babyshambles album, there’s been a huge amount of on-line traffic about both the initial preview and what some correspondents have been concerned is guarded praise on my part for the record. The various Babyshambles forums have been particularly lively, with much continued speculation about the album’s merit – or potential lack of it – with more than a few people inclined to think that without both Mick Jones and Pat Walden, the spirit of DIA will be entirely absent and the forthcoming Stephen Sweet-produced album no more than a crass sell-out. These are hardcore fans, clearly, and pretty unforgiving. To make my own position clear, again, I think DIA’s a fantastic record, cruelly maligned by people for whom all the static surrounding Pete is a convenient excuse for not actually listening to it. The thing about DIA, though, is that it’s just not the kind of record you could make again – not that anyone involved has since sounded eager to go through what from all accounts were traumatic and exasperating sessions. And you can’t at the same time imagine EMI, who’ve bankrolled the new album, signing Babyshambles to re-make a record that not too many people got the first time around. No, what they wanted I think is what they’ve got – unapologetically a much poppier album, full of great tunes that’ll sound great live with the full-throated assistance of the band’s fanatical following. I think it’s great, and I’m listening to it more than anything else that’s come my way since the Hold Steady’s Boys And Girls In America. And in eventual response to the many requests I’ve had, here’s a more detailed track by track description of the album. If I’m out when you get back to me with your own comments, I’ve probably been hauled off by representatives of EMI and various grim associates and will probably be paying an unreasonable price for going prematurely public with what follows. CARRY ON UP THE MORNING Opens with a squall of splintery guitar that slyly hints at the scratchy, desiccated sound of Down In Albion, before what becomes this album’s signature sound takes over – guitars as bright as searchlights, really big tumbling drums, punchy up-front bass, a busy vocal mix and a huge chorus. The lyric is wry going on paranoid, anticipating the album’s recurring themes of loyalty, trust, betrayal, weary explanation, self-recrimination. “I know you used to be into me/Now you’ve got it in for me,” Pete sings, flirting with self-pity. DELIVERY There were echoes of Ray Davies all over DIA, but nothing as explicit as the Kinks’ riff that fuels this pop gem, the first single from the album and as insanely catchy as “Fuck Forever” or “Killamangiro”. You can only imagine where Pat Walden might have taken the song during the instrumental break – sonic lift off inevitable, surely – but Mick Whitnall, Pat’s oft-criticised replacement, brings a bruised sweetness to another anthemic chorus. YOU TALK This sounded at first a bit of a throwaway, but after repeated plays its mordant swagger becomes irresistible. “I never ever said it was clever,” Pete sings with mischievous gusto in a final twist to the chorus. “I just like getting leathered.” UNBILOTITLED The kind of smouldering guitars that suggest someone’s been listening recently with more than a passing interest to Neil Young’s Zuma introduce a song that finds Pete foregoing contrition for unapologetic defiance. “The more that you follow me, the more I get lost,” Pete sings, turning on who knows quite who. “You think that you know me, you’re pissing me off,” he goes on. “Yeah, you said that you love me, why don’t you fuck off. . .” And, later: “Messed my head, messed my head/ How happy I would be, just to shine fire on everyone and no one. . .” SIDE OF THE ROAD Raucous punk thrash, and a noisy take on a song that first surfaced as part of The Libertines’ repertoire (they did a version during their 2003 New York sessions). Not exactly “8 Dead Boys”, but it errs towards the ramshackle at a timely moment here. CRUMB BEGGING Fantastic version of one of the highlights of the Bumfest sessions, here driven by shuddering guitar riffs and an inspired outro featuring scalding full-throttle Hammond and serrated rhythm licks – not quite John Cale and Lou Reed biting chunks out of each on “Sister Ray”, but feral enough to make your palms sweat. “I’m a crumb-begging baghead, baby,” Pete fairly yowls, something looking for a full moon to get noisy beneath. “I bet you say that to all of the girls,” he adds with a wonderful slurred flourish. UNSTOOKIETITLED Achingly pretty reworking and fleshing out of another great song from the Bumfest tapes, partly inspired by a guitar riff from “Fuck Forever”, from which it actually quotes the “one and the same, one and the same” refrain. Mass singalongs to this on the forthcoming stadium tour are as inevitable as the track is irresistible. FRENCH DOG BLUES At the time of writing possibly my favourite track, even catchier than “Delivery” and “Unstookietitled”. The guitars by turn wash, swirl and ebb, cut and slash, the chorus swells and swaggers and gives glorious way towards the end to an instrumental peak inspired by The Who. Named after the drawing of a dog by Pete on the cover of DIA. THERE SHE GOES Full band version of a song performed solo and acoustic on the Bumfest demos, given a jazzy little arrangement, passingly reminiscent of “La Belle Et La Bete” from DIA. Cool enough, but perhaps just a tad heavy handed. BADDIES BOOGIE Chiming guitars and wheezy harmonica brightly introduce a song that perversely is one of the darkest tracks on the album – a song about the descent of a once relationship into “It’s a lousy life for a washed-up wife with a permanently plastered pissed-up bastard DEFT LEFT HAND Where The Kinks inspired “Delivery”, so the Stones provide the musical template for the opening guitar salvo here, which borrows heavily from the rifftastic openings to “Soul Survivor”/”All Down The Line” from Exile on Main St. The “golden years” section is magical. Since you ask, I think it’s just surpassed “French Dog Blues” as my favourite track on the album. THE LOST ART OF MURDER Sixties folk guitar legend Bert Jansch was a guest at the recent An Evening With Pete Doherty at Hackney Empire, where the pair duetted on a beautiful version of Jansch’s classic heroin song, “Needle Of Death”. The pair are reunited on this sombre, quietly chilling album closer, with Jansch on stunning acoustic lead and Pete on electric guitar. “You call yourself a killer boy,” Pete sings, “but all you’re killing is your time. . .”

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.