Well, it’s here, the record I’ve been looking forward to with a mix of high excitement and an anticipatory dread that it might not be the album I’ve been waiting for. I’m talking about the new Babyshambles album, the follow-up to Down In Albion, which a lot of people just didn’t get on with but I loved to the point where over the last year and more I’ve played endlessly and been endlessly thrilled by – and I’m not just saying that to further annoy Jeff Tweedy. The still-untitled new album fetched up on my desk last week – by coincidence only a couple of hours before I set off to see errant Shambles guitarist Patrick Walden make a return to active service at the Rock Against racism 30th anniversary concert at Hackney Empire. It was accompanied as most advance CDs are these days with enough cautionary small print on the sleeve to make you think it should have been delivered by a bailiff of the court and some burly members of the constabulary. Well, I’ve checked through the small print and while it’s hot on unauthorised duplication – beheading seems to be the preferred punishment for burning or uploading the thing – there’s nothing I can see that tells me I can’t write about it. So here are some first thoughts. As a huge fan of what the majority of its noisy critics dismissed as Mick Jones’ ramshackle production of Down In Albion, I have to admit to a certain palpable nervousness about its follow up, which I wasn’t at first entirely thrilled to learn was going to be produced by Stephen Street. Mick it seemed to me had on DIA found a sound to match Babyshambles reckless waywardness, created out of sessions that by subsequent reputation were somewhat chaotic a musical universe unique to the band – a desolate gloaming, at times, that crackled with gripping tension, fractured beauty and a conspicuously English lyricism that also harnessed the singular firepower of Walden’s unpredictably thrilling guitar. Fans on various Babyshambles forums have been bracing themselves for something approaching the worse here – worried not so much about he album’s contents because they are already familiar with the bulk of the songs, but how those songs would sound, rendered by Stephen Street, concerns as I say I largely shared. As it happens, all parties can relax. I’ve been playing the album all weekend, and it sounds great. Street as expected has given them a fuller, brighter sound, free of DIA’s narcotic murk and clatter – to which it teasingly hints via the discordant guitar squall that introduces opener “Carry On Up The Morning” – and gone for dazzle rather than darkness, a radio-friendly glare replacing the wracked static of DIA. As my wife is fond of pointing out, if you stripped Pete’s vocals from DIA, the album would still notably sound like Babyshambles, thanks to Pat’s guitar. Here however, Street’s more generic production means that there’s an extent to which the band on their own could be just about anyone – until, that is, Pete comes in and then they just couldn’t be anyone else. I have to say that Street’s approach makes pretty good sense of Pat’s absence, so while there’s nothing like the splintery eruptions of, say, “Pipedown” or “8 Dead Boys”, there are poptastic anthems a-plenty. The band sound great, too, powered by a more conventional guitar assault, for sure, but that’ll guarantee mass audience singalongs on the forthcoming arena tour. There are inevitably more brooding moments on powerfully-mustered tracks like Unbilotitled” and “Unstookietitled” and the closing acoustic lament of “The Lost Art Of Murder”, with Bert Jansch on guitar, is unbearably lovely. More on this later, I’m sure. Meanwhile, if you’d like to see “Up The Morning” from DIA as high as possible in the charts on download sales along, go to http://www.myspace.com/upthecharts The track listing for the new Babyshambles album, by the way is: Carry On Up The Morning Delivery You talk Unbilotitled Side Of the Road Crumb Begging Unstookietitled French Dog Blues There She Goes Baddies Boogie Deft Left Hand The Lost Art Of Murder

You know those people whose taste you instinctively distrust? Who only ever seem to love music that you can't stand? For me, that's Noel Gallagher. Every time he steps up to proselytise on behalf of a band, my heart sinks. Here, after all, is a man whose every aesthetic decision seems predicated on a terrifying fear of the unknown, whose idea of the avant-garde is Beck. If it doesn't fit Gallagher's conservative idea of The Song, he'll never speak out in favour of it. The one great thing Gallagher has done, however, is to have tried so heroically to sustain a career for Mick and John Head and their enduringly wonderful band, Shack. It'd be a bit daft for me to make claims for Shack as a particularly radical group; Mick Head, especially, fits the Gallagher profile of artisanal, traditional, working-class rock'n'roll songwriter to a tee. But for over 20 years now, Head has been investing his songs with an elegaic, hazy quality which sets them apart from virtually any of his contemporaries. Like plenty of other songwriters from Liverpool, the stoned West Coast fantasias of Love have been a particularly potent influence ("Meant To Be" is a perfect recreation of the psych mariachi strain). But really, Shack evade meticulous analysis. Basically, Mick Head is just better at writing songs. About telly and heroin. "Time Machine", which Gallagher is putting out on his own Sour Mash label, is a deserved 'best of' collection; not a 'greatest hits', sadly, despite the best efforts of Oasis and several generations of whingeing music hacks. In the late '90s, it briefly looked as if Shack might creep into the mainstream on the back of the Noelrock boom. A major label album, "HMS Fable", gave Head's ineffably fragile songs some new muscle. NME put Head's weatherbeaten mug on the front cover. And still, it never quite happened. "HMS Fable" felt a bit overfussy to me at the time, compared with the delicacies of the album which preceded it, "The Magical World Of The Strands" (credited to The Strands, and consequently ignored by this comp). Now, though, everything here seems to fit together perfectly, from the rickety acid folk of an early single like "Al's Vacation", through moist, blokey "Fable" anthems like "Pull Together", right up to a couple of feisty new tracks, "Holiday Abroad" and "Wanda". It all makes for a lovely album, although I wouldn't be doing my duty as a music journalist and fan if I didn't complain a bit about the tracklisting. There's nothing from their late '80s debut (as Shack, a couple of LPs as The Pale Fountains preceded it, of course), "Zilch"; a record with a fairly unpleasant, dated production, for sure, but with some undervalued songs like "Emergency" and "The Believers" on it. The Strands' songs are probably my favourites, so it might have been nice to find space for "Queen Matilda" and "X Hits The Spot", say. And while it's great to have a couple of fine early singles ("I Know You Well", which is what you hoped the second Stone Roses album could've been, and "Al's Vacation"), they've missed a marvellous one from just after "HMS Fable", "Oscar". OK, fanboy whining over. "Time Machine" works just fine. And as every aggrieved reviewer will agree in the next couple of months; if you've never given this exceptional band a chance, try this one for size. And if you don't trust me, listen to that nice Noel Gallagher. . .

At nine o'clock, the omens are not great. Sly And The Family Stone are meant to be starting their headlining set right now, and the strict curfew on this inner-city festival is 10.30. On the main stage, though, Chris Stein has decided to add a five-minute guitar solo to "Rapture", while Debbie Harry looks on with a sort of professional vapidity. Blondie, in all their lumpen, functional weariness, aren't going to be finished any time soon. It is, then, nearly 9.50 before Sly And The Family Stone arrive onstage. Actually, it's just The Family Stone. And if we're being picky and going to believe the Wikipedia entry, it's not even The Family Stone, but a tribute band fronted by Stone's sister, Vet, who until recently were called The Phunk Family Affair. Of course, we were expecting nothing more. Sly Stone's recent and highly unlikely return to the stage has provoked a bunch of mildly outraged reviews, as collated on that Wikipedia page. We know the form: the band will play a few of his hits, then Sly himself will wander on for a couple of perfunctory tunes. Maybe the band will carry on for a while, but that'll be it. It doesn't sound like a great deal, but the prospect of seeing this strange and reclusive man, who at least was a genius once, is irresistible to me. Barely sighted onstage in over two decades, Stone is playing just down the road from home in Hackney. However ill-advised it may sometimes be, I can't resist going to see the old heroes, the reformed bands I give a damn about; it's almost an urge to collect heritage scalps, I guess. So anyway, here are the band playing "Dance To The Music", as you might imagine, and to be honest a lot of the crowd don't seem to have noticed that the leader is absent. They're a decent funk showband, a little too fond of taking solos, and fronted by a woman - Vet Stone - who's a capable singer but who doesn't have much in the way of presence. It's OK: the edge of those old records is missing, of course, that precarious mix of tension and euphoria. As they roll out "Everyday People" and "Hot Fun In The Summertime", the pleasures are less complicated; those of a party band, not a blazing collective with a revolutionary subtext. But after about half an hour, just as the rain arrives, so does Sly Stone, and everything changes. He doesn't look great, to be honest - hunched and swivelled, seemingly dressed like Flavor Flav, though at least the towering blond mohawk that he sported at the 2006 Grammys has gone. But then he starts singing "If You Want Me To Stay", and it's terrific; fragile and wandering a little, but with all the emotional resonance that he summoned up nearly 40 years ago. It's quite moving, too, and thankfully the band have cut the showy fills. Earlier reports have portrayed Stone as an invalided, Wilsonesque figure, marooned behind his keyboards, but he seems much stronger and stranger than that. Next is "Sing A Simple Song", that impressionistic, wasted mutter still beguiling, and he's doing this shambolic dance, a kind of stooped shadowboxing, round the stage. Watching him, it occurs to me that his short appearances are not due to physical infirmity, quite, but more down to an extreme version of soulman narcissism. We will tolerate fleeting appearances, goes the thinking, because we are grateful to be in the presence of such a stellar talent. The thing is, if you go to a show like this expecting to be disappointed, as I did, you can deal with such primadonna-ish behaviour. After two songs, Stone appears to say something about going for a piss, and disappears. The band look momentarily flummoxed, and the bassist decides to play another solo. But then they just carry on with the set without him, with "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)". Amazingly, he comes back, and "I Wanna Take You Higher" is great, too. "Stand" is even better, and now Stone is sat on his piano stool, spinning round and round, singing with this great parched feeling, and - judging by the close-ups - an expression of justifiable rapture on his face. Towards the end, he scuttles off without even acknowledging the crowd, and seconds later the curfew shuts down the band. That's it. OK, I didn't pay to get in, so I can't say for sure whether I would have felt ripped off as a 'real' punter. It's not churlish to expect more than four songs from a festival's headlining act, though I personally suspected we might only get three. I do feel, rather sheepishly, privileged to have seen a legend in my own backyard, still with a palpable grasp on his genius. He may be back here again and again, deconstructing his myth with revival after revival. He may never play again. Me, I'm just glad I made the effort tonight.

At nine o'clock, the omens are not great. Sly And The Family Stone are meant to be starting their headlining set right now, and the strict curfew on this inner-city festival is 10.30. On the main stage, though, Chris Stein has decided to add a five-minute guitar solo to "Rapture", while Debbie Harry looks on with a sort of professional vapidity. Blondie, in all their lumpen, functional weariness, aren't going to be finished any time soon. It is, then, nearly 9.50 before Sly And The Family Stone arrive onstage. Actually, it's just The Family Stone. And if we're being picky and going to believe the Wikipedia entry, it's not even The Family Stone, but a tribute band fronted by Stone's sister, Vet, who until recently were called The Phunk Family Affair. Of course, we were expecting nothing more. Sly Stone's recent and highly unlikely return to the stage has provoked a bunch of mildly outraged reviews, as collated on that Wikipedia page. We know the form: the band will play a few of his hits, then Sly himself will wander on for a couple of perfunctory tunes. Maybe the band will carry on for a while, but that'll be it. It doesn't sound like a great deal, but the prospect of seeing this strange and reclusive man, who at least was a genius once, is irresistible to me. Barely sighted onstage in over two decades, Stone is playing just down the road from home in Hackney. However ill-advised it may sometimes be, I can't resist going to see the old heroes, the reformed bands I give a damn about; it's almost an urge to collect heritage scalps, I guess. So anyway, here are the band playing "Dance To The Music", as you might imagine, and to be honest a lot of the crowd don't seem to have noticed that the leader is absent. They're a decent funk showband, a little too fond of taking solos, and fronted by a woman - Vet Stone - who's a capable singer but who doesn't have much in the way of presence. It's OK: the edge of those old records is missing, of course, that precarious mix of tension and euphoria. As they roll out "Everyday People" and "Hot Fun In The Summertime", the pleasures are less complicated; those of a party band, not a blazing collective with a revolutionary subtext. But after about half an hour, just as the rain arrives, so does Sly Stone, and everything changes. He doesn't look great, to be honest - hunched and swivelled, seemingly dressed like Flavor Flav, though at least the towering blond mohawk that he sported at the 2006 Grammys has gone. But then he starts singing "If You Want Me To Stay", and it's terrific; fragile and wandering a little, but with all the emotional resonance that he summoned up nearly 40 years ago. It's quite moving, too, and thankfully the band have cut the showy fills. Earlier reports have portrayed Stone as an invalided, Wilsonesque figure, marooned behind his keyboards, but he seems much stronger and stranger than that. Next is "Sing A Simple Song", that impressionistic, wasted mutter still beguiling, and he's doing this shambolic dance, a kind of stooped shadowboxing, round the stage. Watching him, it occurs to me that his short appearances are not due to physical infirmity, quite, but more down to an extreme version of soulman narcissism. We will tolerate fleeting appearances, goes the thinking, because we are grateful to be in the presence of such a stellar talent. The thing is, if you go to a show like this expecting to be disappointed, as I did, you can deal with such primadonna-ish behaviour. After two songs, Stone appears to say something about going for a piss, and disappears. The band look momentarily flummoxed, and the bassist decides to play another solo. But then they just carry on with the set without him, with "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)". Amazingly, he comes back, and "I Wanna Take You Higher" is great, too. "Stand" is even better, and now Stone is sat on his piano stool, spinning round and round, singing with this great parched feeling, and - judging by the close-ups - an expression of justifiable rapture on his face. Towards the end, he scuttles off without even acknowledging the crowd, and seconds later the curfew shuts down the band. That's it. OK, I didn't pay to get in, so I can't say for sure whether I would have felt ripped off as a 'real' punter. It's not churlish to expect more than four songs from a festival's headlining act, though I personally suspected we might only get three. I do feel, rather sheepishly, privileged to have seen a legend in my own backyard, still with a palpable grasp on his genius. He may be back here again and again, deconstructing his myth with revival after revival. He may never play again. Me, I'm just glad I made the effort tonight.

Just got back from an incredibly frenetic show by !!! - the US dance-punk outfit were incredible. Singer Nic Offer fuelled with helium sneakily passed onstage by CSS' Lovefoxxx who was still waiting in the wings having just played another technicolor show, welcomed the baying crowd squeaky high - and the show was on! Power to the site was rectified shortly after the last post, but apologies for the delay in getting back to the laptop - simply had to go get infected with the hi-energy brand of !!!'s dance with loud guitars. The stage was filled with at least nine members of the Sacramento band - with at least three drummers on the go at any one time - and the rhythm was certainly infectious. Abusing/utilising my pass for the first time this weekend, I watched from the side of the stage, and the crowd in and out of the tent stretched far into the horizon, all with their arms in the air. Offer introduced "Shit Scheisse Merde Pt 1" in his newly learnt Spanish, but the crowd didnt really understand, and went very quiet for the only time during the band's stage roaming. Rapping, singing, shouty vocals, it was all covered and more. I've woken up now, and raring to go, The B-52s are onstage now - hope they play the lobster song! I'll file my round-up of this evening's bands a wee while later - highlights so far include Camera Obscura's Tracey Ann guesting with Peter, Bjorn And John, and Os Mutantes brought their psychedelic latin-beats rock to the festival - feel privileged to have seen them as it was one of their rare appearances in Europe. I'll tell you all about it later. Anyhoo - B-52s are calling my name.