Black Grape - Live at The O2 Academy, Bristol

As your correspondent was waiting outside the venue, he saw a middle-aged man having a conversation with the door-staff.

The conversation went on for a while, with the man eventually entering the building from a different entrance around the back. This was at 8.50pm; the main act was due on stage at 9pm. Half an hour later, when the band finally made their appearance in front of an intimate crowd, the same man took pole position onstage.

The man in question was Kermit, co-lead vocalist of Shaun Ryder’s Black Grape (to give them their full name) – in the age of careerist professional rock stars, Ryder’s outfit clearly still fly the flag for living life in a different lane.

For all his unique talents, Ryder has never had the most textured of vocal styles, and age has done little to change this approach. He barks into the microphone, his left-field lyrics sadly incomprehensible. Dressed in black and wearing a cap, he looks more like he should have earlier been refusing his bandmate entry to the venue. Hands constantly in pockets, only shifting stance to puff on a vape, he’s one of the most incongruous living legends in music today. As ever with him, it’s about attitude above all else.

Had the door-staff seen any of the gig, they would surely have held their heads in shame as Kermit does virtually all of the heavy lifting, i.e. singing. His joyous cries fill the room for opener ‘In The Name Of The Father’, and he sustains his revelry throughout the entire show. No Bez, Kermit is ostensibly the frontman, drowning Ryder out for most of the set, specifically during the venomous delivery of ‘Nine Lives’. Midway through, he opens a bottle of red wine and swigs from it readily, a man happy with his lot in life.

All that said, this is very much a double-act. At times it borders on cabaret, with cheesy introductions (‘I’ve lived a good life Shaun’…’Not surprised Kermit, you’ve got ‘Nine Lives’’), Ryder not even trying to disguise his lack of preparation; he rarely looks up as he’s too focussed on the setlist and lyrics printed on the floor. But the contrast works well.

With such dominance and emphasis on the front two, the rest of the band are side-lined, yet there’s excellent musicianship on display; the wah-wah funk of ‘Shame’ and the dexterous Revolver-esque solo on ‘Set The Grass On Fire’ are poles apart but delivered with equal gusto.

All three components (Ryder, Kermit and band) come together for ‘Reverend Black Grape’, here with added ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ ‘wooh woohs’ over a pace-quickening outro. Being their best song, it’s unsurprisingly the highlight of the night, its odd placing mid-set meaning everything that follows pales in comparison. Which is a shame, as several of the slices from last year’s fine album Pop Voodoo deserve better.

Shaun Ryder freely admits that he’s juggling tours with both Black Grape and Happy Mondays for financial purposes but, judged purely on tonight’s (November 29th) showing, long may this particular motley crew be at odds with the establishment.

Slaves - Live at The O2 Academy, Bristol

If you had to pick some warm-up music for Kent’s finest, the positively veteran punk rockers Slaves, then it’s a reasonable assumption that pop ‘classics’ from twenty years ago wouldn’t be your first port of call.

Yet the sight of the testosterone fuelled crowd going nuts for the Weather Girls’ ‘It’s Raining Men’ sets the tone for the night (November 20th); passionate but dripping with irony.

Opening with their now infamous cover of Skepta’s ‘Shutdown’, said crowd take things up a gear. For follow-up ‘Sockets’ the venue is literally shaking, virtually all 2000 punters rocking all floors of the building. In their relatively short career, the twosome have built up a fiercely loyal crowd and singer/drummer Isaac Holman has them eating out the palm of his hand for the entire set.

A born showman, any request for the crowd to sing is taken up with relish. He regales the crowd with a tale of when the band first started out and questions were asked about their somewhat limited instrumentation, leading to a chant-then-performance of ‘Fuck The Hi-Hat’. Minutes later, he encourages hugs all round, insisting that even security hug some people from the front row, and then proceeds to pull two fans up on to the stage to dance during ‘Cut And Run’. Later still, before a fully acoustic version of ‘Photo Opportunity’, Holman demands that the crowd not reach for their camera phones, even going so far as to call someone out for doing just that during the course of the song.

Having such a charmer fronting the band is a vital weapon in their arsenal. Consisting only of Holman and partner in crime Laurie Vincent covering the length and breadth of the stage armed only with guitar, chords and volume, what they are able to do with such a limited amount of tricks is impressive.

But most of the tricks aren’t necessary; Slaves’ sound is one of such brutal power that it overwhelms their stage presence; ‘Sugar Coated Bitter Truth’ is replicated in all its fuzzy electric glory, and the out-and-out punk blast of ‘Where’s Your Car Debbie?’ manages to both reiterate their principles and show us how far they have come. The newer cuts from Acts Of Fear And Love have more intricate melodies and are generally more polished than what went before, but without losing the vitality, ‘Chokehold’ being the best example of their new anthemic offerings.

Their USP has its limitations, and having played the game for a while now the boys know not to overdo it. Each song is a punch to the gut, without once going into wig-out territory. It’s an excellent example of restraint and control. It’s quite a short gig, the duo only playing for around an hour but, given the effort they put in (Holman in particular is something of an iron man), very few could leave the gig feeling short-changed.

It’s a perfectly judged visceral punk odyssey.

Gruff Rhys - Live at SWX, Bristol

If Gruff Rhys isn’t careful, he’ll soon be a national treasure.

The very notion would probably repel the Super Furry Animals frontman. Both his band and the man himself have always been more comfortable operating on the outskirts; when they tasted a bit of mainstream success back in the 90s, rather than smarten up their appearance by wearing more expensive clothes or playing the media game, our heroes as usual subverted expectations by dressing up as Yetis.

And so the subversion continues into Rhys’ solo career. Entering the stage to a knowingly butchered version of the 2001: A Space Odyssey theme, we are all cordially invited to visit Babelsberg. With six albums under his belt, his own catalogue is nearly as extensive as his group’s, but the focus for tonight’s (November 12th) first half is his latest effort.

Usually an album is played in full for a celebration (and accompanying reissue) but, contradictory as ever, Rhys plays the album in full, the wistful feel of the record perfectly soundtracking the melancholy of a Monday night. It translates well to the live arena too; ;’Oh Dear!’ races along, ‘The Club’’s melodrama is given more time to breath and the flute section of ‘Drones In The City’ echoes around SWX. Testament to the musicianship, it’s a faithful rendition of the album.

His whole demeanour and canon up to this point can put him alongside Billy Bragg as one of the UK’s greatest living troubadours, but with his onstage patter he’s more of a wry comedian, using dour Welsh wit to gently rib the host city (‘we recorded in Bristol a couple of years ago, it was miserable’) or asserting his presence as the reason we’re out (‘this is called ‘Take That Call’, please don’t.’). He has the crowd’s attention for the whole show, continuing his old trick of utilising placards encouraging ‘a ripple of mild applause’ or similar. Rhys makes the gig feel intimate despite the hundreds in attendance. Best of all is when he stops ‘Negative Vibes’ then encourages the crowd to count in a perfect restart; old performance tricks with a twist, as ever.

There are few concessions to his parent band, with only b-side ‘Colonise The Moon’ given an airing. The performance of the song is set against a backdrop stating ‘Brexit Is A Bad Sax Solo’ – of course, an initially bad sax solo is dutifully provided, before morphing into a more mournful sojourn. The rest of the set spans all his albums and serves as a reminder of the raw talent at work. As per usual, there are ventures into his native tongue but for those of us who don’t speak Welsh it matters not, as ‘Gwn Mi Wn’ and ‘Gyrru Gyrru Gyrru’ are little more than steady driving chants.

With no semblance of ego, Rhys gives his band free rein and it’s a collaborative outfit. One suspects that Rhys would be happy to fade into the shadows and let the band take over were it not for having to supply the vocals which are, as ever, soothing and heart felt.

A perfect way to ease into the week.

Parquet Courts - Live at SWX, Bristol

There’s a certain requirement for bands gigging on a Saturday night, namely that it should suit the occasion, be uplifting and essentially soundtrack the party that the punters will be having.

The crowd will have likely made an early start because they can, and are normally pretty well oiled by the time the band take to the stage. On November 10th in Bristol, Parquet Courts stepped up to the plate with relish.

The Texans are somewhat riding the crest of a wave at present; they’ve built up a strong cult following since releasing their first album American Specialities in 2011, but are in the process of crossing over following the success of this year’s Wide Awake!, with huge exposure on various indie radio outlets.

It’s a packed and punchy gig. The band are on for little more than an hour but cram the set, performing with no backdrop to speak of, instead relying on 60s style spotlights. Opening with recent hit ‘Total Football’, one’s immediate reaction is that lead vocalist and songwriter Andrew Savage’s voice sounds a lot more gravelly than on record, although this could be down to the rigours of touring, the Bristol show being their fourth of the week.

One can also presume that the effects of the British autumn aren’t quite the same as being back home. Not that it affects the gig as they rattle through the songs but fluctuate the tempo. ‘Almost Had To Start A Fight/In And Out Of Patience’ is frantic but contrasts with ‘Before The Water Gets Too High’ which immediately slows down the pace with winding guitar carrying echoes of Gorillaz.

Indeed, whether through intent or accident the band evoke several other acts throughout rock’s annals, but fortunately it’s an eclectic and impeccable list. At several points the guitars are blasted in pre-Nirvana grunge fashion, ‘Dear Ramona’ channels the spirit of The Velvet Underground & Nico, ‘Firebird ii’ is the best song Squeeze never wrote, and ‘Back To Earth’ brings to mind the pacing of early Animals. ‘Master Of My Craft’ would sit comfortably on Is This It, and the dramatic ‘One Man No City’ would make David Byrne proud.

Most prominent is the use of harmonies by the entire band, evoking The Beach Boys at their sweetest, and lastly the title-track from this year’s album, crammed as it is with percussion, cowbells and all, brings to mind ‘The House Of Jealous Lovers’ by the sadly missed Rapture. And so an impressively diverse list of influences are all put together in one brimming melting pot, combining to consistently hold the crowd’s attention.

It’s not quite all about the music, man. The technicolour lighting is sparse but effective as it works in time to the music, and the band are all dressed unassumingly (apart from Savage’s mighty moustache). It’s most effective on the aforementioned ‘One Man No City’, as the band are naught but silhouettes as they double the length of an already long song before one last punch to the gut, the visceral ‘Light Up Gold II’.

Perfect Saturday night fare.

The Good, The Bad & The Queen - Merrie Land

This has been coming – Damon Albarn has been opposed to Brexit from the off.

Back in 2016, on the day after the UK’s EU referendum vote, he was at Glastonbury performing with The Orchestra Of Syrian Musicians and addressed the subdued crowd: “Democracy has failed us because it was ill informed,” he said.

A reformation of The Good The Bad & The Queen (back in 2007 it was ambiguous as to whether or not it was a band, an album or a project – now we know) was the most likely of his various platforms to be an outlet for his thoughts on the subject.

Whereas the first album was very London-centric, Merrie Land takes in a national perspective, Albarn observing the working men’s clubs, the green distance between towns and the fairgrounds. The album is peppered with the sound of attractions, from the hurdy-gurdy swirl of the title-track to the buzzing electricity on ‘Nineteen Seventeen’, which is unsurprisingly a lament to the impact of war. It’s the key track on the album; the Great War is the UK’s annual nostalgic indulgence, but Albarn makes the point that it’s perhaps partially responsible for what he describes incredibly accurately as our current ‘Anglo-Saxon existentialist crisis’.

With that in mind, the album couldn’t be better timed, coming as it does in the week of remembrance and also what one assumes is a key stage in the Brexit process. At points, most notably on ‘The Great Fire’ (‘Tuesday nights at Tiffany’s, cocktails please nurse’) he’s quite scathing and will likely rub some listeners up the wrong way. Although the title-track has the caveat of ‘this is not rhetoric, I love this country’, he’s on thin ice, but then if you step back from the B-word, the album is much more of a lament than condemnation.

Any lyrical reference to leaving or goodbyes are initially construed as departure from the European Union, but looking beyond that it could just as easily be the classic British trait of looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses. It’s also not coincidental that his singing, so under-rated but a key component of whichever tone he’s trying to evoke (throughout his career), is much more akin to late 90s Blur than anything else he’s produced recently.

So dominant is the theme of the album that it sometimes blocks out the musicianship. Two other legendary bands are represented, with Paul Simonon’s subtle bass a far cry from anything he did with The Clash and while Simon Tong’s guitar seems comparatively low in the mix, he’s as important to the chemistry as he was when in The Verve. Simonon holds the album together, his work on ‘The Truce Of Twilight’ being used as the beat rather than the bass, giving free reign to the legendary Tony Allen, who it’s fair to say wasn’t used to full effect on the first album. He’s given much more to do here with his shuffling, slinky drumming managing to appear both inessential and impacting on every song. Not only that, but the legendary Tony Visconti is on producing duties – it’s surely his influence which inserted the variation of nuance that rewards multiple listens.

And there is a lot going on musically: ‘The Lady Boston’ features a choir that seems a carryover from Albarn’s past operatic, specifically the Dr. Dee project which is a spiritual forebear of this album, while Drifters And Trawlers has a ska beat held together once again by Allen’s sublime drumming. ‘The Truce Of Twilight’ has a full brass section, as middle-ages English flute rears its head time and time again. It’s a very visual album, the imagery of fallow fields, white crosses and maypoles leaving very little to the imagination.

It’s not quite as essential as the first album; no song matches the wonder of ‘Kingdom Of Doom’. ‘Ribbons’ is the closest relation to the sublime ‘Green Fields’ and indeed opens in almost exactly the same way. It’s beautiful in and of itself but doesn’t quite hit the same heights. Albarn is at his best when he’s plaintive, no more so than on the highlight that is ‘Merrie Land’, a hypnotic stream of consciousness that’s the best thing he’s done in years. Likewise, ‘The Last Man To Leave’ is heartbreaking in its disappointment of modern-day English values (‘we don’t want you anymore’) and the organs and strings evoke the more unsettling moments from their debut.

Damon Albarn’s quality control is remarkable given that this is his third album in 18 months. But it’s also a reminder of the niche that he’s carved out for himself, of a philosophical observer of modern English life. He’s been doing it for nearly 30 years, but not quite as frequently as he once did.

When he does go back to source, he’s untouchable.

The Blinders - Live at The Thekla, Bristol

The last gig on a month-long, whistle-stop tour of the UK saw The Blinders head to the unique Bristol Thekla, surely the only venue in the UK on a boat. Or if not the only, certainly the best.

Support for the entire tour came from White Room, and the whole night had an ‘end of term’ feel about it. Dressed in what can only be described as a Roger Moore off-cut (if that sounds like an insult, it’s not – he pulls it off gloriously), singer Jake Smallwood fluctuated vocally between David Bowie and Sparks and was constantly on the move despite the limited space he had. It was limited because the band is made up of five members and about twice as many instruments, all of which contributed to a brief but wonderfully eclectic trip.

Half an hour later, darkness descended and ‘Pure Imagination’ from Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory filled the boat. Then, suddenly, the lights came up and The Blinders ripped into ‘Gotta Get Through’.

Enhancing the wonderful drama of their debut album Columbia, it was a very visual performance. Johnny Dream evoked Marc Bolan as he used the guitar as a prop, pointing it at the crowd as if it were a gun, while the debonair Charlie McGough on bass pulled all manner of poses, preening and pouting at the crowd. In contrast, drummer Matt Neale is the grounded presence that enabled his band mates to exhibit wildly, being unassuming yet mighty.

The songs sounded huge; ‘Brave New World’ seemed a beat or two slower but that made it more claustrophobic, while ‘Where No Man Comes’ was optimistically doom-laden. Meanwhile, during ‘Swine’, Dream jumped off the stage, walked into the crowd and sat on the floor chanting the mantra ‘there is no hope’ while hysterical fans accompanied him.

He’s a brave man. The crowd arguably stole the band’s thunder. Your writer was up in the balcony so had a bird’s eye view of the mob. Constantly pushing and shoving each other, or moshing like in days gone by, the punters were a swell of sweat and enthusiasm. Unsurprisingly, it was mainly made up of younger people unrestrained by self-consciousness or worn down by life, but not entirely; there were more than a few white and grey heads rocking out with the best of them.

It’s testament to the Blinders’ appeal that they can transcend and unite the generations, and restores hope in the unifying power of rock and roll. There was air drumming and crowd-surfing, hands in the air while legs disappeared into the maelstrom. From above, it was a glorious sight to behold. The tempo was consistently raised until a final salvo of ‘Ramona Flowers’, ‘Et Tu’ and its immediate partner ‘Brutus’, relentless in its ferocity, took us to rock heaven. No-one could take any more, so wisely the band don’t try.

As the other two departed the stage, under a red spotlight Dream performed the sublime ‘Orbit’, his trademark black make-up virtually non-existent through exertion. Not so much blinding as breathtaking.

Unknown Mortal Orchestra - IC-01 Hanoi

The sessions for Sex & Food, Unknown Mortal Orchestra’s fourth album, spanned much of the globe including stops in Portland, Seoul and Reykjavik as well as Ruban Nielson’s native Auckland. They also stopped off in Hanoi, capital of Vietnam.

One night, UMO regulars Nielson and Jacob Portrait were jamming (rather wonderfully with his father, brother and a local musician Minh Nguyen), and so this splendid surprise came to fruition.

Back on their self-titled debut album of 2011, UMO were lo-fi, guitar-driven psychedeliacs. But as their career has progressed, they have broadened their palette to incorporate 21st century R&B, soul and a wealth of other influences. The crisp snare drums and guitars that defined their sound seemed to fall by the wayside, but now they are back with a vengeance.

Opener ‘Hanoi 1’ (all tracks are numbered in sequence, which either makes things incredibly easy or difficult, depending on your point of view) opens with a bang, an explosion of chugging bass and frenetic Hendrix guitars. Sadly, at just over a minute, it’s over before it begins and we enter and then take a walk around the Kasbah that is ‘Hanoi 2’. The wah-wah peddle is used to maximum effect, and the track is a jam in the best way. It’s aimless, but that gives it the element of surprise.

‘Hanoi 3’ is Low-era Bowie (Side 2) in structure and atmosphere, using Lodger-era instrumentation. ‘Hanoi 4’, meanwhile, has a strutting beat, Nielson keeping the guitar simple but dominated by haunting atmospherics. Brass comes to the party on ‘Hanoi 5’, drizzling noir onto a tight piece held together by the snapping snare. It sounds like Amorphous Androgynous in a bad mood.

Most of the slices here are quite succinct, seven tracks comprising less than half an hour – all except ‘Hanoi 6’ which clocks in at nearly ten minutes. It’s a meandering sojourn, initially dominated by a didgeridoo (there’s really not enough of that around today), which is then usurped by all manner of effects and instruments, including some wonderful saxophone. A ten minute instrumental dominated by the sax has no right to be as enticing as this is. Lastly, closer ‘Hanoi 7’ grinds things down to a slightly drawn out conclusion, the guitar and bass getting one more run out.

If you hadn’t already gathered the, IC-01 Hanoi is an instrumental album. In fact, it’s hard to see it as anything more than a series of jams. Not utilising Nielson’s distinctive winsome vocals could be construed as a waste, but it offers everything else, including the kitchen sink, a moment in the spotlight. This is great music to fall asleep to, in that it encourages your sub-conscious to enter places and zones you don’t even know exist.

With IC-01 Hanoi and Sex & Food debuting within eight months of each other UMO are having their cake, but fortunately the listener gets to be the one to eat it.

The Coral - Live at SWX, Bristol

Scouse royalty The Coral have always existed in their own bubble, but since launching their label Skeleton Key they’ve expanded the membership of the club.

Support act for this autumn tour, She Drew The Gun, are one such example, and their powerful pop sustained attention during their short set. ‘Resister Reprise’ is a raucous belter while ‘Poem’ brought things to street level, singer Louisa Roach channelling her outrage through gritted teeth and a charming voice. Observational musings on the shortcomings of 21st century Britain, it echoes some of Jamie T’s more plaintive moments. Hardly ones to watch as they are now on their second album, but certainly ones to check out.

Once The Coral take to the stage, it’s full speed ahead. Opening with ‘Sweet Release’, James Skelly taking dual vocals with bassist Paul Duffy, it’s a pulsating start that then fed into the scuzz-psyche of ‘Chasing The Tail Of A Dream’. As most of the songs in their catalogue are succinct, it’s a bewildering assault on the senses as they rattle through the hits. Few corners of their canon were untouched, with only 2004’s Nightfreak & The Sons Of Becker and the ‘lost’ album The Curse Of Love unsurprisingly not represented.

Strangely, but hearteningly for a band that have been operating for over twenty years, the newer songs from this year’s ‘Move Through The Dawn’ got as good a reaction as the classics. As Skelly introduced each with ‘this one’s from our new album’, the crowd cheered so loudly that it was often hard to hear what the song actually was. Fortunately, ‘Stormbreaker’ itself didn’t suffer from the same problem; they probably heard the stomping back home in Hoylake.

Hugely underrated anyway, The Coral’s most unheralded attribute is how many beautiful songs they have written. ‘Pass It On’ has one of the most wistful yet catchy melodies one is likely to hear, ‘Jacqueline’ a melancholy tale and ‘Rebecca You’, which Skelly described on this nightas ‘one of my favourite songs of ours’ breaks the heart before haunting the head, with lead guitarist Paul Molloy expanding the song with an extended solo at the end.

Indeed, Molloy is now the band’s most potent weapon; when Distance Inbetween was released nearly three years ago it was notable for its slightly heavier sound, due to his inclusion, in a live environment Molloy takes things to the next level. Every song is beefed up, including their more acoustic offerings such as ‘In The Morning’, but it’s when he wigs out that he flies; ‘Holy Revelation’ has evolved into an absolute beast with its extended Hendrix outro, while the lead guitar on ‘1000 Years’ rips into the night. Elsewhere, the fable of ‘Bill McCai’ gallops as it always did, but with added muscle.

Molloy has the luxury of flying whilst the rest of the band are water-tight. Duffy is the heart of the band, engaging with the crowd (checking the day of the week, their head in the clouds as ever), while Ian Skelly on skins is the solid base, enabling his pals to orbit around him. Nick Power on keys brings the atmosphere that is so subtle but integral, especially on their cover of The Yardbird’s ‘Heart And Soul’. You don’t notice it often, but you certainly would if it wasn’t there.

They all got their moments to shine on the first song of the encore, ‘Goodbye’. Molloy and James had a wig-out each, Ian had an opportunity to show what he can do on drums while Duffy got a small solo. Of course, what followed next was truly Duffy’s moment; ‘Dreaming Of You’’s instantly recognisable bass intro bringing the house down, gone is the ramshackle whimsy.

This is a tight, cohesive rock band operating at the peak of their powers.

Richard Ashcroft - Natural Rebel

Don’t be fooled by the title, this is not rebellious music. As for natural? More and more so for Richard Ashcroft.

Over the course of his nearly 20-year solo career, Ashcroft has readily become a troubadour; as well as the handful of tracks The Verve produced that crossed over, the power of the band was in the sonic dreamscapes that the full complement of members concocted, the breakout tracks much safer and written by Ashcroft himself.

Taking that lead, his first solo album sustained a bit of pace, but each album became less and less compelling but no less listenable, until the career nadir of the United Nations Of Sound project, an album that, a few hip-hop beats aside, was so emotionally over-wrought as to become grating. That it was preceded by a powerful final (at time of writing) offering from The Verve highlighted a stark contrast.

And so Mad Richard disappeared for a few years, re-emerging in 2016 with the strong These People which added some house sprinkle to his universal musings. Since then he has been ubiquitous, most notably as Liam Gallagher’s soul partner in crime. Huge support slots in Manchester for Liam as well as Roger Waters (not to mention a ‘secret’ set at Finsbury Park), have only served to remind people of some of his astonishing songwriting achievements. He’s also running an hilarious PR campaign thanks to The Coral although, needless to say, he’s not taking mockery well.

So you would think he would play it safe from here, with anthemic acoustic indie-rock the order of the day. Not so. The key influence on Natural Rebel is Tom Petty (RIP), who was himself anthemic but with a more middle-of-the-road hue. It’s most notable on ‘All My Dreams’, a curious choice for an album opener, the subject matter being the love of his life Kate Radley, one can safely assume. More of the same follows on ‘Birds Fly’, which is a full-on string ballad with a twist. As ever, Ashcroft is going for timeless songwriting, always covering the big themes of love, life and pain – first single ‘Surprised By The Joy’ is as radio-friendly as he’s ever been; ‘I wanna walk the garden with you. A natural rebel, here I am’.

There follows a lot more in this vein, including ‘That’s How Strong’ and ‘We All Bleed’, with its gospel-Stones vibe. ‘I’m born to sing’ he asserts, and it’s undeniable that there is something about that tremendous baritone that keeps you involved. it’s specifically on the former where he flies. As is to be expected on the tenth album of his career, there are echoes to past work; ‘That’s When I Feel It’ harkens back to Keys To The World, and ‘A Man In Motion’ would sit comfortably on Human Conditions.

It’s a bottom-heavy album, with virtually all the pace in the second half; ‘Born To Be Strangers’ and the electrifying ‘Money Money’ add funk, gusto and rock to proceedings, the first an 80s New York strut, the second an out-and-out rocker, a fantastic Stooges-esque killer complete with riff and solo.

Richard Ashcroft has always been more mature than his years, the last of the great songwriters of that generation (Gallagher, Yorke, Albarn et al) to turn 50, and even that’s not for another three years.

If Natural Rebel is anything to go by, middle-age seems a good place to be.

Editors - Live at The Marble Factory, Bristol

Whilst in the queue for this rescheduled gig, I overheard a conversation between two punters in their early twenties: “Have you seen Editors before?” “Yeah, loads of times. They were my first gig when I was about 13.”

A stark (and depressing) reminder that the Birmingham crew have been going for some time now; while not yet veterans, they are certainly seasoned professionals and their showing here perfectly demonstrated that.

After two well-received received albums, Editors were on course to go ‘headliner status’ in the latter part of the last decade. Instead, they took a brave left turn and released the less accessible, industrial sounding third album In This Light And On This Evening which, although a cracking album, was probably a missed shot at their best chance to crossover. Fourth album The Weight Of Your Love was more radio-friendly but by then the ship had probably sailed.

Since then, they have released two further albums which have solidified their status as consistency kings. Live however, they’ve grown some serious chops. Opening with a left-field choice, ‘The Boxer’ from said third album, the quintet set their own slow but intense pace. As such, it took a while for things to get going before ‘All Sparks’ woke the crowd up for the first sing-along of the night. Predictably, the same followed for all their early stuff – of which there is a fair chunk – including ‘Someone Says’ and ‘Fall’ from their debut, as well as the singles.

As good as they are at festivals, Editors are more of an indoors band, their brand of dark rock all the better when the band are but silhouettes on the screen. As a frontman, Tom Smith has long mastered that sweet spot between Ian Curtis and Bono, and the rest of the band are seemingly happy to be left to their respective instruments whilst somehow still managing to look like students. Smith keeps the crowd interaction to a minimum, only thanking them and introducing the rest of the band at various points, letting his fine vocals speak for themselves.

The new songs from this year’s Violence mixed well with the older efforts, as did the two songs included from the previous album. Being newer numbers, they got a more muted reaction despite having had six months to bed into fans’ consciousness (but then it was a Monday). Regardless, there is enough quality there to bode well for the next tour when they are more established. This fact was brought into microcosm when the mighty ‘Papillon’ was followed by ‘Belong’, a slower new album track. It was a brave choice to do so, but it’s good to see they have faith in their newer material. Editors finished the main set with recent single Magazine, which like the rest of the album has a lightness of touch not worn since their second record but once again, its newness provoked a subdued response.

No such chances were taken for the encore, a closing trilogy of ‘The Racing Rats’, the incomparable ‘Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors’ and a blistering ‘Munich’ sending the crowd singing into the night.

Echo & The Bunnymen - The Stars, The Ocean & The Moon

Here’s an intriguing question: should art be left as it is, unaltered and unedited to stand the test of time? To be a moment in time or to disappear into the maelstrom?

Or should it be the artist’s prerogative to make any adjustments as and when they see fit? When George Lucas tried it, it was reviled. In music, the ‘rules’ are a little less clear but have largely had a muted response. Perhaps it’s because songs aren’t so immutable; any musician worth their salt will expand a song when they play it live, and who can blame them? Surely The Rolling Stones have every right to edit ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’ as they see fit – they are the ones who have played it literally thousands of times after all, and will have to continue to play it until they drop.

Yet laying it down in the studio again is a different proposition. Notable attempts have come from Paul McCartney, who ironically stripped Let It Be of the more saccharine aspects of Phil Spector’s production, in doing so revealing it to be a long-term itch which Macca had to scratch, and an answer to the question was perhaps found when he proved to be the only one that was bothered.

U2 re-recorded certain tracks from the damp squib album Pop for a Best Of a few years later, and polished a few turds. So overall it takes a brave man to try this sort of thing, but then Ian McCulloch is nothing if not confident.

Actually, confident doesn’t do The Stars, The Ocean & The Moon justice; rather than tweak a specific album, or certain songs, he has ‘re-imagined’ the best known slices of the Echo & The Bunnymen catalogue, with two new offerings. In truth, these aren’t huge, wholesale changes so this album resembles a greatest hits. The songs themselves aren’t re-arranged, just added to with strings or keyboards. ‘Bring On The Dancing Horses’ loses a bit of life with less guitar emphasis and the dramatic harmonies, but a great song is a great song. ‘Lips Like Sugar’ puts the bass higher in the mix – justifiably as it carries the tune. ‘Angels & Devils’ features a new drum-beat which manages to sound new, but ‘Nothing Lasts Forever’ now sounds somewhat plodding.

One notable difference is McCulloch’s voice, which is more warm and textured having been through the rigours of time. It particularly adds a gravitas to the already sparse atmosphere of ‘Zimbo’. ‘Stars And Stars’ also benefits from more nuance, and ‘Seven Seas’ has been reworked as a John Cooper Clarke reading. Of the two new songs, ‘The Somnambulist’ stands out with its spirit lifting quality and sits comfortably with everything else here. ‘How Far?’, meanwhile, is ironically the most guitar-heavy track on the album.

Given their longevity, it would be churlish to begrudge Echo & The Bunnymen some self-indulgence. On quality of songs, The Stars, The Ocean & The Moon would be album of the year. Any album containing ‘The Cutter,’ ‘Lips Like Sugar’ and ‘The Killing Moon’ has to be.

Although the less said about this version of the latter, the better.

The Blinders - Columbia

Ladies and gentlemen, we have finally arrived.

As has been noted, we live in troubled times. At the very least, interesting times. Times that would seem ripe for documenting or acknowledging in art. Sadly rock music, specifically that from the UK, has been found wanting. The old guard have been negligent; this week Richard Ashcroft implored musicians to stop giving political speeches, it would be nice to hear from Primal Scream around about now and most disappointingly, despite having spent their entire careers being political, Manic Street Preachers have turned their back on such commentary. As for the class of 2003-6, they have proven what we always suspected: they haven’t got much to say. Arctic Monkeys are gazing at the stars and Franz Ferdinand continue to be beholden to the dancefloor.

In fairness, it’s not been for lack of trying. Slaves and Sleaford Mods have been operating on the periphery for some time, but this year the door has been well and truly kicked open. Shame are the oiks, Cabbage are the dramatists, Idles are the outraged and now we have The Blinders, the fablers.

Described as ‘an alternate world informed by reality’, Columbia lures the listener into its world from track one. The winding, almost Egyptian melody of ‘Gotta Get Through’ charms like a snake which wraps around your neck with a brutal chorus. ‘L’Etat C’est Moi’ (a Louis XIV quote translating to ‘I am the state’) puts frontman Johnny Dream (sadly a stage name) in the shoes of someone claiming to have ‘divine right’ as the band channel Humbug-era Arctic Monkeys around him. ‘Hate Song’, meanwhile, sounds like the riotous defiance of The Stooges while ‘they can’t have what you have’.

‘Where No Man Comes’ marches with foreboding doom, the march concluding with ‘Free The Slave’ which is putting you on notice for what follows. It sounds like it should be opening a Kasabian album, complete with war chant and seguing into ‘I Can’t Breathe Blues’ which ups the pace and is already one of their signature tracks. It’s all driven by Matt Neale’s powerful drumming, lifted straight from the John Bonham school of making the skins a lead instrument. It’s an immersive trilogy which is over in a matter of minutes.

Literary references are the album’s strength. Whilst it’s an obvious touchpoint, George Orwell’s seminal 1984 seems ever more prescient and ‘Ballad Of Winston Smith’ tells us a tale from Smith’s perspective, and with the slowest pace on the album it’s as close as we come to, well, a ballad. The pace is immediately picked up again with ‘Et Tu’, using metaphors in describing the fallout of the UK’s vote to leave the European Union and the headlines accompanying Boris Johnson during the days after. Brutus goes even further, noting ‘a celebration for a kangaroo nation’.

But Columbia doesn’t beat you over the head with its allegories. ‘Brave New World’ might not be about Trump’s America, it could be about an ‘idiot king building a wall’ (although the Kardashians reference makes it hard to avoid), and ‘Rat In A Cage’ doesn’t have to be about the migrant crisis, it could be a straight-forward call to arms, as ‘Dream’ tells us to ‘come together, we need each other’. The politics is there if you want it to be, but it’s oblique enough to ignore should you choose to.

The Blinders join Cabbage, Shame and Idles as pioneers of a movement we’ve needed for some time, giving us faith in rock music again. In 2018, punkadelia has finally caught fire.

Long may they be fanning the flames.

Pale Waves - My Mind Makes Noises

Isn’t this album already out?

It certainly feels like it’s been coming for a long time, but that’s probably testimony to the ripples Pale Waves have been making for a number of years now. Joint songwriters Ciara Doran and Heather Baron-Gracie first met at university in Manchester in late 2014 and after bringing kindred spirits Hugo and Charlie into the fold some time later, began uploading songs the following year.

Spotted the old-fashioned way (i.e. playing a gig), they were swiftly offered a slot on an XFM-sponsored showcase night which brought them to the attention of DJ John Kennedy. Eventually put in touch with Dirty Hit, the label behind The 1975 and Wolf Alice, they have since been building up a head of steam with some killer singles and EPs and, after being heavily tipped at the beginning of 2018 as ones to watch, the album is finally here. It’s fair to expect similar levels of success as their label-mates to come the goth popsters’ way.

You may have never known you wanted a mix of Taylor Swift and The Cure in your life but here it is, with added brutally honest lyrics. Starting with the stomping ‘Eighteen’, a paean to the rigours of being that age, the effects of love and the discombobulating effect it has on the hormones and the heart, Baron-Gracie puts all cards on the table from the off.

At times it borders on uncomfortable listening such is the insecurity evidenced here. ‘I feel pathetic in so many ways, how can you just stop loving me in a matter of days’ she laments on the gut-wrenching ‘She’, the centre-piece of the album. There’s no ambiguity, this is confronting variations of emotions that we’ve all had, but were so much rawer the first time experienced.

The 1975 frontman Matt Healy has co-produced some of the record, and it shows. Synth-driven tracks dominate proceedings with the vocals often double-tracked to add to the wistful ambience. It’s polished pop, but not to the extent that it blinds you – there is soul amongst the sheen. Meanwhile, the guitar solo on ‘Red’ comes straight from Dave Keuning’s locker. Indeed, The Killers are often evoked here; the dance-pop feverishness of Kiss echoes the pace and urgency that Hot Fuss was built upon.

The heartbreak goes further on final track ‘Karl (I Wonder What It’s Like To Die)’. Presumably to a family member, it’s a gut-wrenching ode. ‘Sometimes you cross my mind…that’s a lie, you’re on my mind all the time’. Otherwise, there’s not much deviation from the source material of affairs of the heart, but it’s well-ploughed turf for a reason, and in Pale Waves’ hands it’s never boring, in fact, rarely has it been so evocative.

This album makes you feel like you’re back in that golden/dreadful period between 17-22; for those in that age range in 2018, this is surely a record that will be held close to their hearts for the rest of their lives.

For the rest of us, we can just appreciate its lack of inhibitions.

Garbage - Live at Ashton Gate, Bristol

Rescheduled from a more central location which wasn’t ready in time, Bristol City’s football stadium played host to Garbage and support band The Horrors on a grey Friday night last week. Whilst not an obvious choice, it worked brilliantly as a venue.

Rather than taking place on the pitch, the gig instead took place in the foyer of one the main stands. Being an echo chamber, the sound was excellent and there was plenty of space for punters, equipment, merchandise stands and bars. If the closing of venues throughout the UK continues with such military precision, other football stadia around the country would do well to follow Ashton Gate’s example.

Resplendent in a shiny black leather jacket with trousers to match, at 6’4 Horrors frontman Faris Badwan immediately demanded attention as the Southenders took to the stage, but once the music commenced he had to compete. The Horrors have steadily built up an impressive setlist over their 12 years in operation; ‘Still Life’ sounds as positive and life-affirming as it ever has, ‘Who Can Say’ is all Mary Chain brutality and ‘Sea Within A Sea’, the platform on which their career was built (rightly, everyone now ignores the pantomime-goth of their debut), now has added muscle.

But it’s the newer songs from last year’s fine album V that stand out. ‘Machine’’s industrial thump batters the synapses, and ‘Ghost’’s slow build is genuinely chilling. However, nothing can compare to the glorious, ecstatic ‘Something To Remember Me By’, surely selected as set closer as nothing else could possibly follow it.

If anyone’s game to have a go though, it’s Shirley Manson. After a gentle easing in with soft B-sides ‘Afterglow’ and ‘Deadwood’, Garbage exploded into life with ‘Temptation Waits’. Even with the producer of Nevermind in the band, Garbage is very much Manson’s vehicle; she knows it herself, acknowledging the crowd with references to the last time they played Bristol, followed with ‘did you miss me?’, but that’s to no-one else’s chagrin. The woman is a born star.

She was vivacious and vibrant as she prowled the stage during ‘The World Is Not Enough’, confronted the crowd for ‘I Think I’m Paranoid’, quite literally under the spotlight for the entirety of the gig as the rest of the band operated in the shadows, but ‘twas ever thus. A good egg, she also showered The Horrors and fellow Scots Honeyblood with effervescent praise, and overall seemed genuinely pleased to be here.

Ostensibly to commemorate the 20th anniversary of second album Garbage 2.0, the set spanned B-sides and cover periods from that era as well as the aforementioned Bond theme. As such, there was no place for their anthems ‘Stupid Girl’ and ‘Only Happy When It Rains’, which was a shame, but there was ample replacement in the form of some well-chosen covers; Big Star’s ‘Thirteen’ and ‘Can’t Seem To Make You Mine’ by The Seeds. Snippets of ‘Personal Jesus’ and Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Dreams’ were bolted on to ‘Wicked Ways’ and ‘You Look So Fine’ respectively.

Before ending, as all gigs should, with a David Bowie cover (‘Starman’), Manson gave a speech about the uncertain world we live in, which is par for the course nowadays, but left with one crucial message: “We’ve been doing this for 25 years. Let me tell you, getting old is f***ing cool.”

If they can keep these blistering performances up, there’s no reason to doubt her.

Mogwai - KIN Original Motion Picture Soundtrack

Bands that occupy their own universe are either adored or ignored.

In modern times the most obvious example is Radiohead; say a bad word against them in the wrong company and their devotees will have your head on a spike. Alternatively, sing their praises to one who hasn’t delved into their oeuvre and you will most likely be met with an air of indifference. You know the ones; they’ve heard of them but have zero interest.

In Scotland, Mogwai garner similar responses. Held close to their hearts by the faithful, the Glaswegians have gone against the grain. After well-received debut Mogwai Young Team followed Come On Die Young which, in some quarters, failed to meet rabid expectations. Ever since then, offerings have always operated in the shadows, which you sense is where they feel most comfortable anyway. Largely devoid of lyrics, it can often seem inaccessible to untrained ears.

So when the then-quintet (guitarist John Cummings departing in 2015) ventured into the realms of soundtracks, it was a comfortable fit. Slightly incongruously, their first foray was for a documentary about French football legend Zinedine Zidane before contributing to Darren Aronofsky’s surreal The Fountain, which seemed much more in line with their sensibilities.

And so to their first full film soundtrack; KIN, a science fiction (would it be anything else?) action film. Based on the soundtrack, it’s likely to be a very tense film. The standout track is also the last; ‘We’re Not Done (End Title)’ features Stuart Braithwaite in one of his rare ventures to the mic-stand. It’s upbeat and almost poptastic with lyrics about fighting one’s past and holding back fear, unusually optimistic for anything under the Mogwai name. It’s also, by pure coincidence, the best thing they have done for a while.

That’s not to say the preceding eight tracks are lesser, but they are much more traditionally atmospheric. The score is hung around a piano-centric frame, the watchword in the studio must have been ‘brooding’ as the ivories provide a sense of unease which hangs over the entire score. ‘Funeral Pyre’ is fittingly named, a piece of maudlin, strung-out beauty. ‘Flee’ is all scattering soundscapes and cacophonous drums, and ‘Guns Down’ has a swirling build-up with pay-off to match.

Taken as one piece of work, the film itself has a tall order to match the quality on offer here.

Reading Festival 2018 - Sunday

The third day of a festival is always an endurance test. Some punters will have been on-site for five days, probably their minds and certainly their bodies having been put through the wringer with copious amounts of alcohol, questionable food choices and minimal sleep.

Therefore, the acts tasked with performing on Sundays have to work that little bit harder for attention and acclaim. Adding to all this, on the Sunday at Reading Festival 2018 there was also the grottiest possible weather; the rain and wind washing away any last semblance of humanity from the 80,000 punters.

This year, Twisted Wheel had the enviable task of opening the Radio 1 tent for its final furlong. The last few years haven’t been kind to these indie kids; just shy of a decade ago they were being lauded as the next great hope with Oasis support slots to boot. Several misfortunes have befallen them since, but if they are brow-beaten by their experiences they don’t show it. The crowd can’t have been a three-figured amount, but the boys played like they were back at Wembley, with oldie ‘She’s A Weapon’ being the highlight.

On the Main Stage, Shame brought things right back up to date. Themselves also Great White Hopes, but for 2018 rather than 2008, the south Londoners are an alternative to the more aggressively political overtures of Slaves and Idles, being more conventionally indie. In truth, they aren’t Main Stage players just yet, falling slightly flat (although not through lack of effort on their part) because of the conditions and Sunday cobwebs. This shouldn’t be the last Reading Festival sees of them.

Peace filled in the surprise slot of the day over on the BBC Introducing Stage. The Brummies are nearly veterans of the festival circuit now and have several tricks in their armory. The latest one is to open with a cover of pop midget Avril Lavigne’s early 00s hit ‘Complicated’, which got the sizeable crowd bopping in their wellies. ‘Lovesick’ and ‘Higher Than The Sun’ sustained the mood, interspersing with the 11-minute ‘1998’ and offerings from their most recent album Kindness Is The New Rock And Roll. Finally, the cobwebs were starting to be blown away.

Back in the Radio 1 tent, DMAs picked up the baton readily – after a summer of extensive touring, they know how to play the crowd. Their Australian sundances worked; upon leaving the tent, the rain had stopped, the ponchos were off and it was time to get serious.

The Festival Republic tent had Spector reminding everyone that they weren’t dead. Another band who have yet to fulfill their early promise as Pulp covering The Killers, unsurprisingly all of what one assumes is the new material fell flat, but ‘Chevy Thunder’ and ‘Celestine’ are still capable of getting a crowd moving.

Meanwhile, back on the Main Stage, The Vaccines were the first of the final indie big-hitters. Although he’s their songwriter, Justin Young’s limitations vocally have always been the band’s Achilles’ heel, but whatever steps have been taken to remedy this are paying off. More musically muscular, the quintet thoroughly rocked the stage and Young was the consummate frontman. The newer material sits well alongside ‘Wreckin’ Bar’, a guaranteed mosh-starter, and ‘20/20’’s frantic oeuvre. However, they’ve yet to come close to ‘All In White’, wisely included here.

And so the sun sets and the big boys come out to play. The Courteeners are perhaps the most curious act in rock today; ignored by scenesters and largely by the press, they can sell out Heaton Park in their home-town and must have played Reading countless times. Their ascent up the bill has been glacial – now only one step away from the top, they auditioned for the headline slot in relentless fashion. A career-spanning set, the highlight ‘The 17th’, one of their most recent singles, is a subtle banger driven by synth keyboards, a world away from the cranium crushing ‘Cavorting’, which was also given an airing.

Sure as eggs is eggs, the set closed with ‘Not Nineteen Forever’ and ‘What Took You So Long?’, complete with the usual sprinkling of James’ ‘Tomorrow’. It would be interesting to see what would happen if these songs were somewhere (anywhere) else in the set. Still, an impressive showing nonetheless.

Reading Festival has taken a lot of criticism this year, mainly for its diversity, but one suspects if they had had anyone else in as their headliner, they may not have had such bad press – no-one likes Kings Of Leon anymore do they?

After the mega success of Only By The Night a decade ago, it has been a slow, drawn-out slide into irrelevance. Still capable of selling out arenas, purely on the basis of ‘Sex On Fire’ and ‘Use Somebody’, their last three albums have largely passed by unnoticed. Wisely, the boys focused on the mid-section of their now long career for this headline set and, freed from pressure, looked at their most assured and confident for years. You know when you are so impressed with a set, but afterwards reflect on what else they could have played? This was one of those. The set had the perfect balance of crowd-pleasers and deep cuts; for every ‘Fans’ there was a ‘Knocked Up’, for every ‘Radioactive’ a ‘Taper Jean Girl’.

Whisper it, but it might be time to start paying attention to them again.

White Denim - Performance

White Denim have followed a similar career trajectory to The Black Keys. Prolific in their early years, progressing from garage rock through boogie-woogie blues, stopping off for some progressive jazz flirtation along the way, they’ve built up something akin to a cult following.

In 2016 they released the album Stiff, which managed a degree of mainstream success and they’ve now expanded to become a four-piece, recording their latest album in eight weeks spread across twelve months. Will follow-up Performance be their El Camino?

It certainly has the potential to be so. This is a blistering rock album, a brief but potent blast that, while mainly taking its cue from the 1970s, manages to harness a classic sound and yet feel very modern.

Recent single ‘Magazin’ is the best song not on T.Rex’s Electric Warrior, the use of horns on the chorus supplying the swagger and sway as the lesser-used saxophone makes up a solo which disappears into the ether and then comes back again.

The upbeat title-track never sits still, while ‘Fine Slime’ starts with darting guitars and then moves on to an outro which commences as a funky workout before some strange voices fade into the mix, then bends out again to let the band pick up where they left off. If White Denim weren’t so tight one would think it was an improvised jam.

There is no other word that can describe centre-piece ‘Double Death’ than bonkers. Initially we’re in Sly & The Family Stone territory before frontman James Petralli’s vocals become distorted and surrounded by hand-claps, trumpets and wah-wah guitar.

It’s all a bit overwhelming at first, but it certainly ups the serotonin levels. ‘Moves On’ later ventures into psychedelic territory, sounding like what would happen if Pink Floyd had upped their average BPM whilst David Gilmour was on speed. The interaction between the band is again razor-sharp.

Bringing things back down to earth, ‘It Might Get Dark’ sounds like an off-cut from Exile On Main Street with a mid-section that copies Ocean Colour Scene’s ‘Up On The Downside’ to a t. One can’t imagine these rootin’ tootin’ Texans ever seeking inspiration from the Brummy Mods, but these are strange times we live in. Elsewhere, Petralli lets rip vocally on ‘Backseat Driver’, which stands out for its shuffling percussion.

The album flies past at breakneck speed, never letting up in either tempo or tone. In truth, it could do with one or two slower pieces to provide some breathing space from the freneticism, but that’s a minor quibble. That’s what Sunday mornings are for. This is a Saturday night album.

Interpol - Marauder

Interpol have managed to survive the early noughties American explosion better than most and have arguably flourished without Carlos D; one could argue that, whilst adding coolness and X factor, he was often a sideshow that distracted from the main event.

Their sixth album Marauder offers full closure from the split and demonstrates a band now comfortable to express themselves more succinctly.

Opening proceedings, ‘If You Really Love Nothing’ gallops along with a melancholic rhythm which befits the title of the album. A mid-paced number, it recalls mid-period Kings Of Leon before fame and fortune consumed their creativity.

You should all know ‘The Rover’ by now, built around a chiming riff it’s frenetic, vital and a perfect pop song. It builds, but in a subtle way, little details being added as the song progresses; more drive to the rhythm guitar on the second verse, the ‘uhs’ before the second and preceding choruses, the drum fills becoming busier and lastly the pace ever so slightly quickening for the final chorus. For a band perennially associated with darkness, to have released the song of the summer is quite a feat.

Complications has a fuller sound than normal, the chorus rolling around this seesaw of a song with noticeably fluctuating melody and bass, meanwhile ‘Flight Of Fancy’ has next single written all over it. The chorus is a little more optimistic than its surrounding and the outro is cut criminally short – one imagines it was the unfortunate victim of some serious editing. Indeed, Marauder has many contenders for singles, in particular ‘Mountain Child’ which recalls their finest hour, ‘Slow Hands’, the chorus upping the stakes significantly from the verse to be a defiant, sky-kissing beauty.

Interpol’s secret weapon has always been drummer Sam Fogarino. Secret no more; ‘Stay In Touch’ opens with a classic Interpol riff but is a slow, brooding beast before Fogarino takes centre stage as the song winds down, veering into jazz territory with his free-form drumming. Throughout the whole album the hi-hat gets put through its paces, and it’s no surprise to learn that he broke a kick drum due to such heavy hitting during recording. Never at less than 100%, the drums are the backbone of the album.

That said, there isn’t a huge amount of variation from their traditional formula of chiming licks, pronounced bass and an overall dread-laden, claustrophobic air. At one point, it works against the band in the most ironic way; we all know the influence Interpol had on Editors, but on ‘NYSMAW’ things come full circle. Paul Banks’ resemblance to Tom Smith’s vocals is uncanny, right down to his intonation on the higher notes. It’s one of two or three tracks that could have been jettisoned.

However, the most indispensable tracks are the interludes. Arguably the best songs on the album (this is not meant as a dis-service), they both act as tent poles for the rest and add a cinematic atmosphere that foreshadows the coming winter months, almost disconcertingly so. On ‘Interlude 1’ you can almost see the breath in the air.

The highlight, though, has to be the aptly named ‘Number 10’. With a great opening 50 seconds that evokes The Edge’s stadium-filling riffs, it explodes into life with a deftness of touch (by their standards) that is missing from the rest of the album. Well, apart from closing track ‘It Probably Matters’, which feels like the first ray of sunrise, Banks yearning to be ‘on the beach with my friends’. After a sometimes intense listening experience, its optimism offers promise for the future.

More than most, Interpol generate a feeling. It’s probably closest to what we know as anxiety, fuelled as it is by self-doubt but also dichotomised with righteousness.

Marauder is a perfect honing of this trademark sound, but with added aplomb.

Slaves - Acts Of Fear And Love

The rapid decline of the NME was palpable. From late 2015 until earlier this year, it was little more than an entertainment rag, a tabloid version of Shortlist. It really died in summer 2015, when it stopped being a paid-for magazine. Its last issue a celebration of its history, so it’s fitting that the last band to take the coveted…cover was Slaves.

Kent’s finest represented everything the NME once stood for: aggression, passion and a punk ethos that is too pervading to be anything other than pure. Their last album, Take Control, whilst not exactly a mis-step, didn’t push them to the heights that were justifiably anticipated after the promise of their debut Are You Satisfied?. Released in 2016, the sophomore effort may have suffered from the its title, ‘Take Back Control’ having certain negative connotations to the more pro-European music fan.

Whilst speculation, it would be incredibly ironic if that was the case as Slaves deliver the most pertinent anti-establishment rhetoric heard in rock music for years on ‘Bugs’, despairing about ‘another let-down generation’ and ’inaccurate information’. The vitriol towards certain elements of society continues on ‘Magnolia’, its title taken from the most common colour of wall in the UK, with allusions to sides of buses. Needless to say, it’s all backed by ferocious drums and nuclear guitars. First single ‘Cut And Run’ is Slaves of old, it being lyrically repetitive in both verse and chorus without needing anything more.

Although succinct at 9 tracks (considerably shorter than Take Control’s 14), Acts Of Fear And Love isn’t just all ferocity. Ellie Rowsell of Wolf Alice makes an appearance on ‘Daddy’, adding her usual breathy vocals to a lament (by Slaves’ standards) about the pressures of fatherhood. Structured only around a meandering guitar, it’s a pleasant draw of breath after the bludgeoning of the senses provided by the opening numbers. Recent single ‘Chokehold’ has the lyrical content of a ballad, singer/drummer Isaac Holman dealing with the age-old themes of how fragile the male ego is in the aftermath of a broken relationship. But a ballad it ain’t.

The album has echoes of some of Greater London’s previous heroes; ‘The Lives They Wish They Had’ recalls Graham Coxon’s more frustrated moments in Blur, and the title-track resembles some of that foursome’s experimental elements from their self-titled effort. And, of course, the spirit of The Clash and the Sex Pistols runs throughout. As we all know by now, the band consists of only two members, but like The White Stripes before them the cacophony made is nevertheless impressive.

There’s nothing like British punk. At its height it changed the country – we could do with such a revolution again. Unfortunately, we are all a bit too wise and cynical these days to fall for it, at least those of us that look up from our phones. But in a time when established rock bands are shamefully distancing themselves from our present political and social quagmire (we’re looking at you, Manic Street Preachers), we need the message to be loud and clear.

Compelling and compulsive, Acts Of Fear And Love takes no prisoners whilst grabbing that megaphone gleefully.

Miles Kane - Coup De Grace

It’s by now a well-worn cliché, but like all clichés it’s based on an unempirical truth: Miles Kane is the most well-connected man in music.

However he may also be one of the hardest working, and certainly the most tenacious. For the uninitiated, a quick recap.

After starting out and finding limited success with The Little Flames and then The Rascals, our hero struck up a bromance with Alex Turner, the pair quickly releasing an album under the guise of The Last Shadow Puppets which was drenched in Scott Walker-esque strings and melodies. A great success, the album brought more collaborative opportunities for young Miles while an association with Arctic Monkeys began on live favourite 505.

So Kane was in an unusual position; a successful and recognised musician without an outlet to call his own. After two ‘failed’ bands, he chose to go solo. Coup De Grace is his third album since, the first two featuring contributions from Clemence Poesy, Noel Gallagher, Paul Weller, Gruff Rhys, Ian Broudie, Andy Partridge, Guy Chambers and his compadre Turner. Quite an impressive roll call.

Now, after another dip into the Shadow Puppets, more names join the list; indie hero Jamie T – who co-wrote seven songs on the new album – illustrious popster Lana Del Ray and American act Mini Mansions. He gets by with a little help from his friends alright.

Enough of the pedigree, what of the actual music? Well, it’s another strong indie-rock album. Kane has a formula that works for his solo albums and happily experiments with his band – the formula is frantic guitar-driven anthems, interspersed with more heart-wrenching muses. However, rather than recalling 60s garage rock, the 1970s runs through this album like a stick of rock.

Marc Bolan is the main touch-point, specifically on ‘Cry On My Guitar’. It’s a cracking single, bringing the sexiness of the guitar that made T-Rex such a phenomenon. The disco-inflected title-track, however, has a guitar riff that could make Nile Rodgers ask for a birth certificate.

First single ‘Loaded’ has a US west coast strut, while Jamie T’s influence is most keenly felt on ‘Too Little Too Late’, it being a frantic opener that bursts proceedings into life and which would have sat well on either of the Londoner’s own first two albums. Kane has got a strong set of lungs too; on ‘Wrong Side Of Life’ he begins as Thom Yorke but ends as Richard Ashcroft.

By sheer force of will, Miles Kane has made himself a heavyweight on the indie scene. There is a lot to be said for that, and he does his best to expand his sound at every juncture.

Coup De Grace is unlikely to win him many new fans, but is a worthy addition to a now impressive body of work.