I’ve just finished reading Nick Tosches’ Hellfire, a jaw-dropping biography of Jerry Lee Lewis that is by common agreement the best book about rock’n’roll ever written. I’m reviewing it for next month’s Uncut, and can’t recommend it highly enough. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifEc-RazQlY

Been a bit distracted today, as I've been engaged in a Sisyphean task to try and compile all the catalogue numbers of the Factory label, including the cat, Rob Gretton's dental work and so on. Further to my Robert Wyatt review yesterday, I now have a fraction more info to flesh out my impressions. Fairly unsurprisingly, guest players include Eno, Phil Manzanera and Paul Weller, who've all figured on the last couple of Wyatt albums, if memory serves. The other thing I've gleaned is that "Comicopera" is split into three "acts": "Lost In Noise" (vaguely romantic), "The Here And The Now" (vaguely political) and "Away With The Fairies" (largely Spanish). I haven't had a chance to play "Comicopera" today to check all this out, so I'll try and report back again on this engrossing record. I've just finished listening to a Richard & Linda Thompson live album from November 1975, never released at the time, which is set to come out in August, I think. Unsurprisingly, it's terrific, drawing on their first three duo albums for most of the material. One of my favourite Richard songs, "The Calvary Cross", stretches out to 14 minutes of wracked soloing, and it's almost matched by an 11-minute version of "Night Comes In". For the most part, though, the tone is one of nervy jauntiness: an accordian player (John Kirkpatrick, I imagine) is all over everything here - so much so, you occasionally wish he'd ease off and give Richard some space. There's also a version of "Now Be Thankful", one of Richard's last Fairport Convention songs, given a new dimension by Linda's lead. It's at times like this that I wonder whether, of all the British folk singers who emerged in the late '60s and early '70s, she might be my favourite. It's a kind of forceful economy which she has, a sense of passion which never strays into either sentimentality or folksy cliche. I saw her sing a few years ago, at a great Festival Hall show that was effectively a jam session featuring Rufus Wainwright, his sister Martha, the McGarrigles and sundry relatives, folk brats and fellow travellers, and her voice hadn't changed at all. Rumour has it she has a new solo album due later this year. I'll keep you posted when I hear more. And also, there's reportedly a deluxe (whatever that means) version of "Liege And Lief" on the way. Not sure if anything new will fetch up there, but we'll soon see, hopefully.

I've been promising to write about this Robert Wyatt album for quite a while now, I'm aware. But it's been hard to blog about this one. Not because of any problems with the music - it's wonderful, actually. The problem I'm finding is that listening to "Comicopera" is a kind of immersive experience, so much so that it's hard to come out of it with a critical angle. You know those photos of jazz musicians from the '50s and '60s? Blue Note sleeves, Herman Leonard portraits, the ones where the musician looks away from the lens, absorbed, while a coil of cigarette smoke is caught in low lights? That's what "Comicopera" reminds me of. There's always been a jazz element to Wyatt's music, of course, but "Comicopera" goes beyond that, so that it seems imbued with a particular, romantic jazz atmosphere: a somnambulent fug, maybe. Following the pattern of "Cuckooland" from a few years back, Wyatt (I assume it's him, anyway: I have no credits right now) is playing more and more trumpet, allowing his horn to pick up the high notes that he can no longer quite reach. One of the many charms of "Comicopera" is how his trumpet and voice seep into one another, both gracefully disintegrated instruments. On the title track and in many other places, Wyatt hums wordlessly over a crepuscular ambient hum, and it can be hard to tell when he's playing and when he's singing. This is the prevailing vibe. Drums are brushed indolently, and some earlyish Miles Davis sides have clearly been worn out over the years. "Do Us A Favour" feels like a primitive, Anglicised response to "So What?", with the perpetually puzzled Wyatt expressing a certain envy for those who have religious faith. "Just As You Are", meanwhile, is an extraordinarily tender duet (with a singer I can't place, sorry, though she sounds like a warm Nico, if you can imagine that) about enduring love, clearly intended for Alfreda Benge. Or possibly written by her, come to think of it. I'll fill in some of these gaps when the credits turn up, I promise. Occasionally, there's a break in this enveloping atmosphere. "Beautiful Peace" begins with Wyatt exclaiming, "Oh look, there's a dead rabbit; all flat!", then becomes a warm, ambling strumalong, much more simple and direct than his usual meticulously layered sound. "Something Unbelievable" is dense and cloudy, but edgier and more dissonant than usual, built around a series of escalating, jolting organ stabs. By the end, Wyatt pretty much abandons English, with a string of Spanish songs. "Pastafari" is a lovely and curious piece on, I think, vibes, and finally, "Hasta Siempre" suggests Wyatt is belatedly auditioning for one of those many empty spots in the Buena Vista Social Club. He'd be a great recruit, of course: how many other British singers have continued such a sympathetic, long and open-minded love affair with the possibilities of song, and can summon up melancholy and enduring passion with such mature guile? This is a beautiful album, and I should listen to it some more.

I was talking recently to fellow Uncut Bob fanatic Damien Love, ostensibly about a feature we are working on together for Uncut’s looming 10th anniversary issue. Pretty soon, however, the conversation had drifted somewhat in the direction of Dylan bootlegs – the alternative Bob universe, if you like – and what might be the best of them. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7i1rG610fWU

I just noticed this morning that Jack White has two albums coming out on June 18. There's the White Stripes' "Icky Thump", and then there's "Hentch-Forth.Five" by The Hentchmen. I have a few Hentchmen records somewhere at home, and they're full-blooded, uncomplicated garage rock, typical of all those Detroit records I bought around 2001. This one eluded my grasp, though, with good reason. "Hentch-Forth" originally came out in 1998, limited to 1,000 vinyl copies. I wonder how much those vinyl discs are worth now? Because it transpires that, for this album, The Hentchmen were augmented by Jack White. There he is on the back cover. The three Hentchmen are posing stiffly in thrift shop jumpers, trying very hard to look like they sound - ie like a geeky/deranged high school band from 1965. A boyish Jack, meanwhile, is stood a few paces away. He is dressed in black, with a sort of short back and sides cut, cigarette by his side. He is glaring at his bandmates, evidently keen that people realise that while he's happy to play with these dorks, he's not actually one of them. It's a great picture, and the record's not bad either - though whether I'd ever choose to play most of it ahead of, say, "Nuggets" is doubtful. The Hentchmen are a guitar/organ/drums combo, and Jack mainly adds bass, ironically, to these punchy ramalams. Listen out for him on a bash through the Yardbirds' "Psycho Daisies", though. Just as the White Stripes are beginning their career, here's White on guitar, already playing those shrill, spluttery leads - a kind of ecstatic punctuation - which would become his trademark. Also in the post today was the new EP by Joanna Newsom. Newsom has never really struck me as a fan of puns, but this one is called "Joanna Newsom & The Ys Street Band". It's making the point that, unlike "Ys" itself, this EP features her touring band instead of the full Van Dyke Parks-and-orchestra trip. "Cosmia" from "Ys" is here, in its stripped-back, live form - proof that there's substance to these marvellous songs beyond the opulent instrumental packaging. Most interesting, though, is a new song called "Colleen", which she played on her UK tour in January. It's a frenzied Celtic jig where her resemblance to Kate Bush is more pronounced than ever. Unlike "Ys", this music feels more immediate, for all its complexity ("Colleen" is a bit shorter than most "Ys" songs, but it still gallops through a bunch of radically different passages, still evades corny old verse-chorus-verse) it doesn't sound like Newsom has spent two years fretting over every note. That perfectionism was one of the glories of "Ys", but "Colleen" proves that something approaching spontaneity works for her, too. Amazing stuff.