Underworld‘Beaucoup Fish’

When Irvine Welsh inadvertently changed the face of dance music by plucking 'Born Slippy' from it's original obscurity, and dance-floors around Britain began to echo with shouts of "lager, lager, lager", Underworld became the techno standard that far too many people tried to copy. Fortunately, Underworld have had the foresight to abandon their original mocking title 'Tonight, Matthew, I'm Going To Be Underworld' in favour of ...well, in favour of, erm..., 'Beaucoup Fish'.

'Beaucoup Fish' starts off where Underworld last left us, bass heavy beats setting the rhythm, while near incomprehensible lyrics cycle over the top digging their way into your consciousness. However, two years can be a long time (unless you happen to be in My Bloody Valentine, then it’s merely a tea-break), and the likes of Air and Etienne de Crecy have not only ignored Underworld’s blueprint, they didn't even bother getting it translated into French in the first place, having set a trend for a more-sophisticated coffee table approach to dance music.

Accordingly, 'Beaucoup Fish’ “promises to distil the tried and tested Underworld sound into a streamlined power-house musical soup" (cheers, press release), which, despite sounding like an extract from a business plan submitted to the bank manager to get a loan, basically seems to mean that they now sound a bit like Daft Punk playing the Underworld back catalogue

Underworld appear to refer to their new checklist too often. Vaguely quirky intro - check; rapid repetitive beat and Mogadon induced mumbled vocal - check; song lasting just that bit too long - check; run out of ideas and fade song out - check. Where the formula works, the effects can be amazing, especially on the stand-out tracks 'Something Like A Mama', and 'Moaner', first heard on the latest Batman soundtrack, the former sashaying along in a blissful daze, and the latter a nasty, repulsive beast containing a venomous and bitterness rant directed at a single unnamed character and their boyfriend that would have Tricky hiding behind the sofa, a kind of Jekyll and (Karl) Hyde for the stilted generation.

Unfortunately, at least half of the album pales in significance when compared to these two tracks, and the final feeling is that even Underworld have fallen foul of the lack of innovation and imagination so prevalent in the current generic, ‘here's one I remixed earlier’ dance music scene that has allowed Fatboy Slim to be held up for reverence. Instead of returning with one fantastic EP, Underworld have opted to play it safe, and resorted to a Pete Waterman styled mass production approach to their music. Ultimately 'Beaucoup Fish' is series of nice touches, leading to a couple of flashes of true brilliance, but as Paul Gascoigne knows, that isn't always enough these days.

Snow Patrol‘Songs For Polarbears’

Sometimes, no matter how good the original blueprint, quality is going to lost as a consequence. While many bands have taken the Pixies/Girls Against Boys formula, added their own twist, and made it their own, at times it can sound just that bit too contrived. A narrow line exists between reinvention and rehash, and despite Snow Patrol's obvious good intentions, they stumble along that line for a while, then lose their footing and tumble in the wrong direction altogether.

More than anything else, 'Songs For Polarbears' is a frustrating and disappointing listen, because the potential is there, as rather ironically proved by album opener 'Downhill From Here'. Sounding like Magoo with the treble turned off during a particularly severe world helium shortage, Snow Patrol quite happily lurch through their choppy chord changes, but when the buzzing squealing guitars arrive, they bury them more quickly than the victims of a fatal dose of dysentery at the height of summer. Then just as you expect the guitar mangling to start, instead of running their instruments through the shredder, they simply hand them to the roadie and ask to chip a piece out of the fretboard with his chisel, an interesting idea in itself, but just not that compelling after the third listen.

Elsewhere, Snow Patrol opt for the acoustic approach, and they are magically transformed into the Warm Jets, though that will be the Warm Jets with all the edges sanded down, the soaring choruses replaced with another pedestrian chord change, until eventually all you can do is hope that they find a couple of Guided By Voices records before returning to the studio.

In the end you can't help but feel sorry for the polar bears, not only are they continually being hassled by evil marketing men trying to coerce them into yet another overly sentimental Coca-Cola advert, the only time someone cares enough to write an album for them, this is all they get.

Tin Star‘The Thrill Kisser’

Imagine if Mansun had decided to record Primal Scream's 'Vanishing Point', but had only ever listened to U2. What you get is a record so resolutely stuck in the 80's, that it's probably going to become fashionable again soon. If this is the case, then maybe it's a good idea for Tin Star to sound like the worst moments of romo played by Gary Numan, although if any other eventuality should come to light, then 'The Thrill Kisser' is going to sound like it should be renamed 'The Worst Of Depeche Mode'.

Every track on here sounds as if Tin Star have sat down with Depeche Mode and Garbage back catalogues, mixed in the lightest possible touch of Massive Attack, studied the formula, and then created music that is completely without soul.

Of all the crimes presented here – indistinguishable carbon copy songs, mundane lyricism and a vocalist who sings as if he's just asked you to pass the salt – 'Viva' highlights everything that is bad about this album. The beats swirl together like a mud going down the drain, the singer chants "viva la revolution" quite a bit, and you think about maybe putting some music on instead. The only thing more criminal than 'The Thrill Kisser' is that Tin Star will probably reach a reasonable level of success with this brand of over sanitised stadium rock.

Tiger'Rosaria'

After an extended absence following 1996's 'We Are Puppets' album, Tiger have finally stopped shining in the woods, put in a bit more practised on their instruments, and, according to recent single 'Friends', got the tarty venom out. This has seen them clean up their sound, if not their clothes or hair, and their previously squawky, rambling noise has been polished up and covered with a veneer that of which even Mr. Sheen would be proud.

Not that this means Tiger have grown out of their droning lo-fi Fall mannerisms, as 'Rosaria' still represents the rabid mental workings of four slightly odd people, although the nearest we get to any sort of realistic insight into the workings of Tiger's collective mind is via 'Speak To Me' – “you want a change of clothes, you want to eat good food, you like to sleep alone, you'd like a record deal" – though this doesn't really supply enough evidence to have them committed just yet.

Fortunately the threatened Eastern promise of current single 'Girl From The Petrol Station' proves to be more cocktail shaker than Kula Shaker, more shaken not stirred than pseudo-mystical turd. 'Candy & Andy' is the tale of a love triangle with confectionary, in the style of a pre-school Velvet Underground, a child-like mantra telling of Dan's love of his two friends, and their candy, which musically revisits the tune of 'I'm In Love With RAF Nurse', but remembers to be polite enough to bring a bottle of wine to the party.

The only bad point on the album is 'Birmingham' - a drawn-out exercise in filling up space which could have been put to much better use, with a sound that is more Bristol than Brum - but on the strength of the rest of 'Rosaria' we can forgive them this one minor indiscretion. Although 'Rosaria' doesn't offer any more gems with such instant pop appeal as 'Race' or 'My Puppet Pal', there's still enough effervescent fizz here to make sure that the Frosties aren't the only thing to bring out the Tiger in you.

Adamski‘Adamski's Thing’

Somewhere in the depths of time, a man called Adamski made a song called 'Killer', with a little bit of help from his Seal, and then got sued by Lucozade for nicking their logo. Now, many years later, he finally makes his return. However, this time around he has failed to enlist the help of any his polar friends, a mistake which may prove his undoing. Even a penguin would have been able to tell him just how bad this album is, and that he would be better off not bothering to release it.

Across the majority of his 'Thing', Adamski comes across as the techno Divine Comedy, carefully structuring his sounds, mixing in the strings amongst his usual bleepy noises, and then whining all over the top of it. 'Climbing Up' features some Enya type warbling, while 'Piccadilly Circus' bores you to sleep so quickly that you've got to wonder if he's ever been to the place. Even 'One Of The People' and 'Intravenous Venus' don't add any interest to the mix, though if you insist on listening to anything from this album, you should stick to those two singles, and 'Love Story', in which Adamski manages to sound a bit like Barry Adamson moaning along to 'Wanting Song' by the Pecadiloes.

During 'One Of The People', Adamski grumbles that he finds himself "on my own with no one else, listening to the same old song, all night long", well, he's only got his thing to blame for that.

Rocket From The Crypt‘RFTC’

Since Rocket From The Crypt last appeared this side of the Atlantic a couple of years ago, as 'On A Rope' became the soundtrack to that particular summer, San Diego's original switchblade rockabilly boys have built up a formidable reputation based around frenetic their live shows, matching shirts, ridiculous nomes de plume, and even more ridiculous interview techniques. So, following another successful season of festival appearances by releasing their most mediocre album so far probably wasn't part of the masterplan.

As much as 'Scream, Dracula, Scream' was a disappointing listen after the superlative 'Circa: Now' and 'Paint As A Fragrance', 'RFTC' continues the downward trend, as the now formulaic rock'n'roll work-outs are punctuated by a number of weak tracks which veer far too close towards ballad territory for comfort. The worst culprit of this is 'Let's Get Busy', which sees Speedo failing to impersonate the Afghan Whigs' Greg Dulli, unable to match the ever present threatening tone with which Dulli serenades his devoted legions.

Elsewhere, the Crypt return to a more familiar environment to produce the few highlights contained on the album, such as the ode to animal genitalia that is 'Dick On A Dog', and attempt to kick-start a new dance craze with 'When In Rome'. Unfortunately, these lonely highlights are outnumbered by the likes of 'Panic Scam' (essentially a straight rewrite of the 'On A Rope'); 'Eye On You' (a failed collaboration with Holly Golighty of the Headcoatees); and the glam-rock strop of new single 'Break It Up' which rips it's intro straight from the Beatles' 'Revolution'.

In interview earlier this year, Speedo claimed that the title 'RFTC' wasn't the abbreviated band name, but in fact was an acronym meaning run for the caves, as the animals were about to attack. On the basis of this album, the Crypt would be better hiding from the fans until they rediscover the spirit that used to make them so vital.

Reading Festival 1998Friday

In a year that has signalled the death of the music industry, and been blighted by a stream of cancelled gigs and festivals, what hope is there that the spirit can live on at Reading, the last bastion of indie, and traditional finale of the festival season? However bleak the verdict so far, the search for a pulse must continue, even if it involves carrying out a stomach by-pass on Tiny Ultrasound and personally giving Rick Witter the kiss of life.

Friday sees a good showing from the Chemikal Underground contingent, with label bosses the Delgados leading the way. By ditching the frantic thrashings of their earlier recordings, they no longer resemble a Pavement karaoke act, and their deliciously serene fuzz-pop ramblings ease away the discomfort of having spent a couple of hours in a sleeping bag which had foolishly been left unzipped during a particularly cold night.

While the festival-loathing Rocket from the Crypt infiltrate the main stage to present their rock'n'roll revival revue, and ensure that a few more conscripts join Speedo's Army with another melee of anthemic maelstroms and odes to the cosmetics industry, an explosion of over-active follicles signals the arrival of Grandaddy over on the second stage. Mixing the subtle strains of Sparklehorse with the art-rock noise of Pavement, Modesto's finest show us what skaters are actually capable of when they finally ditch their wheels in favour of six strings, as the sublime 'Summer Here Kids' sets the mood for the entire festival.

The weirdness continues with Yo La Tengo who, after an opening keyboard salvo which sends people running from the tent muttering nasty things about the Doors, launch into an entirely audience-hostile set, building on five minute intros of droning feedback, instrument swapping and dual-drumming, and offer us the first of this weekend's Beach Boys covers as 'Little Honda' is given the distortion treatment until it sounds like the Mary Chain have made a surprise appearance.

Arab Strap appear to be very much out of place during daylight hours, but Aidan soon proves that whatever concoction he's been drinking, darkness isn't a necessary ingredient, and the confines of the Maker tent provides the atmosphere required to stop this particular rambling, shouty drunk bloke sounding like any other tramp you could find stumbling around Kings Cross at night. The once fantastic Kenickie prove that maybe there is something to this bratpop thing, as their new found maturity and extra years strip away the energy that had previously made them so vital, giving them the time to watch Saturday Night Fever once too often, and until the girls finally girls resemble B*witched disappearing up John Travolta's arse.

It's left for Johnny X to redeem some credibility as he and Aidan amble back on-stage to further augment the (instru)mental as anything Mogwai during the carpet bombing onslaught of 'Mogwai Fear Satan'. Unfortunately, the newer songs don't have the same impact, and although the more recognisable likes of 'Helicon' and 'Rollerball' lay waste to your eardrums in the required manner, the set fails to reach the stellar heights of which we know that they are capable.

Scott4 provide a premature end to the day with their lo-fi country krautrock hip-hop blues thrilling the devoted few in a tent full of pathetic, whining little Gomez fans. When the summer has been blighted by desperate fashion victims willing to believe that the wild west look is a good idea, Scott Blixen is welcome proof that a stetson can look cool, if only the wearer has the style sufficient to carry it off. Surrounded by his entourage of assorted guitarists, keyboard players and a bemused-looking old bloke on pedal steel, Scott offers a punishing, relentless thrashing to the Gomez fans, with 'Your Kingdom To Dust' and 'Deutsche LP Record' leading to the climatic 'You Set The Scene', during which the band valiantly spend five minutes ignoring the soundman's best efforts to get them to leave the stage, leaving your correspondent's head buzzing as he stumbles off to bed.

Reading Festival, 1998Saturday

Saturday starts with Inner Sleeve, somehow resurrecting the career of one of the blokes from Chapterhouse, whose pop-tinted plundering of shoegazing would surely have been cause for celebration for the audience as well as the band this time round, had they actually have been included on the main running order.

Instead, Seafood and Llama Farmers kick-start the afternoon as ambassadors of the new British grunge, and the Nirvana T-shirt clad masses dutifully descend on the Melody Maker tent. Seafood are obviously impaired from the temporary loss of a guitarist after a bizarre slashed-hand incident, and as they so deftly put it, their set is left sonically challenged. After subdued versions of 'Porchlight' and 'Psychic Rainy Nights', and a brave but ultimately foolish rendition of the Pixies' 'Wave Of Mutilation', Seafood bury 'Walking In The Air' (yes, that 'Walking In The Air') in feedback, dragging notes and chords out of the noise as though exhuming the corpse of Aled Jones and giving him a beating until more than just his voice has broken.

Llama Farmers follow this with excerpts from the 'teach yourself grunge' handbook, but fortunately don't seem to have got as far as the chapter titled 'get stroppy and shoot yourself'. However, the majority of the set suffers from being unfamiliar and it is only the recent singles that really show why the Llama Farmers may be worth shouting about in a year's time. The Mudhoney appreciation club is later brought to a close by Idlewild, but a seriously congested line-up on the third stage means that their frantic guitar-abusing squall has to be missed on this occasion, though their continued excellence is confirmed by the number of Idlewild T-shirts seen wandering about increasing rapidly for the rest of the weekend.

Clinic, proving themselves to be the by-product of an illicit meeting between the Buzzcocks and Quickspace, go all art-punk on us, and drone and thrash their way through my sunstroke ravaged mind until nothing can be done except proclaim them saviours of Liverpool's musical heritage. Electric Sound of Joy remind me that I'm not the only one feeling dazed and ever so slightly confused by the heat, as they do their Stereolab-esque krautrock thing having neglected to replace their singer after he did a runner earlier this year.

The Syd Barrett award for weirdest band of the weekend goes to Ten Benson, who turn up in their pizza-parlour waiter uniforms, and proceed to jerk and jiggle their way around the stage singing about claws and bizarre relatives to a soundtrack of seedy countrified lo-fi.

Hefner return proceedings to a more recognisable level, and show us that it's possible to be twee without turning into Belle and Sebastian. All it takes is a love of the Beach Boys, a few Violent Femmes and Smiths albums, and the realisation that, not only do your fans want to see you play live, they want to be able to hear you as well. On stage, Darren is an unlikely combination of reluctant frontman and ascendant star, becoming more comfortable with the audience with each burst of rapturous applause, his shyness overcome by the desperate need to entertain. Elliott Smith swaps the Grammy award ceremony for provincial farmland, and his melancholic tales of woe and loss bring to mind Will Oldham or a particularly sad Lou Barlow, showing why he deserves to be mixing with people other than the likes of Celine Dion.

The spirit of riot-grrrl is revived with the excellent Sleater-Kinney. However, sometime over the past five years, Sleater-Kinney have done what most of the other girl-boy revolutionaries failed to, and realised that attitude is so much more powerful when backed up with a decent amount of aptitude. Their stripped down garage sound is driven into our heads as the twin vocals and guitar assault rips through the tent, punches us in the face and kicks us in the groin until we submit. Sleater-Kinney are Germaine Greer to Huggy Bear's Valerie Solanas, and if they had been around in riot-grrrl's hey day, the movement may have been taken much more seriously.

Warm Jets unveil yet another personnel change, with former Strangelove guitarist Alex Lee joining a band now almost unrecognisable, in sound as well as appearance, from the one responsible for last year's lacklustre performance. The dirtiest-sounding bass this side of the Pixies underpins the jagged, distorted guitar, swirling keyboards and Louis's Bowie styled tones. Surely now there is little that can stand in the way of the Jets being more than just another obscure Brian Eno reference although, in the light of the restructuring of the band, drummer Ed would be forgiven for if he's a bit worried about how much longer he has left.

Bizarrely only headlining the Saturday night when the Sunday would have been far more appropriate, the Beastie Boys are here to make with the freak freak regardless. Suddenly, it's time to get ill, and as Reading shakes it's rump, the b-boys are rhymin' and stealin', fighting for your right to party, and reminding the Prodigy that it's impolite to smack your bitch up.

Irrespective of their philosophies and opinions, the Beastie Boys remain the ultimate entertainers, looking like Kwik-Fit fitters with attitude in their ludicrous orange overalls, jumping from old-skool hip-hop to dumb-ass punk, while still finding time to discuss the American bombing of terrorist sites. Tonight the funky bosses really are finger lickin' good.

Reading Festival, 1998Sunday

Life in Girls Against Boys doesn't appear to be particularly easy at the moment. Scott McCloud's sexmusik groovers are hampered by not only by being the first band of the day on the main stage when they would have been better off playing the Maker tent, but also by equipment failure. The problems are added to by their decisions to use only one bass instead of their former two, and employ a DJ to provide extra backing, so the resultant mediocre performance is probably best forgotten.

Following on from Saturday's grunge resurgence, the Sonic Youth legacy is revisited as Six By Seven ramraid 'Daydream Nation' for inspiration. Their mix of experimental dynamics and sledge-hammer harmonies blast through the tent like an American jet in a skiing resort, with an awe-inspiring display of sonic pyrotechnics creating a very beautiful shape indeed. Urusei Yatsura ambush the stage armed only with their battered guitars and an even more battered copy of the Youth's 'Goo'. Opening with a barrage of feedback, Urusei's set has been honed to a razor sharp edge, making it all the better for slaying both elves and doubters. As purveyors of the Scottish lo-fi sound, Graham and Fergus mistreat their guitars with a pleasure and malice not seen since Hannibal Lecter last prepared for a dinner party, working off each other like a pair of true superfi stormtroopers.

Due to Neil Hagerty's reluctance to travel by any means other than the QE2, a depleted Royal Trux make their final British appearance of the summer. Although Ariel M guitarist, and former Slint mainstay, Dave Pajo has been recruited for the performance, he doesn't take on any of Neil's vocal duties, and the added absence of backing singer Rian Murphy means that the vocals are provided solely by Jennifer Herrema's impression of Mariella Frostrup with bronchitis. The loose Stonesy, p-funk groove is also sacrificed in favour of a tight growling deliverance, and, despite upstaging many of the bands that played over the weekend, the Trux are merely a shadow of the brilliance they so aptly displayed earlier this year.

Back together once more, New Order return to Reading after headlining six years ago, and it's like they've never been away. Only stopping short of getting John Barnes on loan from Newcastle for the weekend, the greatest hits set even delves back into the Joy Division archives, and New Order prove that age needn't make everyone as obsolete and boring as Page and Plant.

In the finest festival tradition, Spiritualized close the weekend, and their blistering atmospherics act as an ethereal enema. The sheer volume coming off the stage is like being caught in a hurricane, with the pressure and noise building until your body is shaking and vibrating in time. The crescendo roaring through you is almost enough to make your eyes bleed, and your thoughts and senses begin to merge until all you can do is surrender to the emotion and energy being generated onstage. Once again, Spiritualized have created the sweetest soul music, and in true Spiritualized fashion, Jason Pierce is the only person left unmoved by the experience.

Radio 1 Live '98Coopers Field, Cardiff

Welcome to the Radio 1 theme pub. As with most pubs, the beer is over-priced, there are fourteen year olds everywhere, and a number of mediocre bands are making a tuneless noise in the corner. Appropriate then, that in an atmosphere like this, the novelty act can become a highlight.

Despite the set-list being restricted by which songs the audience will actually recognise, the Shirehorses give us a quick thrilling with their assassinations of the Charlatans, Kula Shaker and Oasis, and their well rehearsed one-liners and banter raise them way above the standard of most of the bands appearing today. All we need now is the boy Lard to reform the Creepers, and give Mark E. Smith cause to wonder why he ever got rid of him in the first place.

Essentially being a marketing scam for Radio 1, today’s agenda seems to be more about promoting the station than providing entertainment. This means that the intervals between bands are often longer than the sets themselves, and DJ Punk-Roc and Dave Pearce are left to fill the gaps, while Radio 1 logos are projected onto anything that doesn't move, just in case any decides to sit down and not look like they're enjoying themselves. Unfortunately, there's not much enjoyment to be had while Hurricane #1 are here to remind you that Andy Bell really isn't much good any more. Their trad-rock riffing even manage to destroy 'Step Into My World', the only decent song they've managed to write, and no matter what you've been told, it's going to take a lot more than 'Rising Sign' to scare My Bloody Valentine out of hiding.

Republica follow this with their red haired Siouxise and the Banshees act, as Saffron jumps around like a grasshopper in a minefield, greatly disappointing your correspondent each time she fails to explode in a cascade of entrails and dyed follicles. The only explosion we get all day is Robbie Williams' ego as we get to hear to chart run-down live just to make sure we realise that 'Millennium' has made number one, and cheeky, chirpy, little Robbie bounds onstage to, yes, you've guessed it, entertain us, yet again.

In order to make room for his head to swell a little more, I stumble from the tent and become one of the five people not willing to take part as Robbie leads the crowd through his greatest hits. I stumble back in to discover that The Divine Comedy’s Neil Hannon is the most fey man in the world. Around him, the strings swell, guitars rock ever so politely, and Neil regales us with tales of woe, women, woodsheds, weevils and other everyday things that begin with the letter w.

This, after another lengthy DJ bout, brings us to the moment that everyone seems to have been waiting for. Each announcement of the running order has been left buried under the clamour of screaming voices at the very mention of their name, the flags have been unfurled, and the expectations have been raised to a new level. Then the Manic Street Preachers walk onstage and bring with them a sense of disappointment not experienced since they last played the Reading festival.

Maybe it was to be expected? After all, the signs were there, but how could a band that once strove to reach so high can now be found finally stooping so low. They may now have the commercial success that had originally eluded them, but tonight's performance once again proves what a pyrrhic victory that has been.

With the stage presence of a troupe of performing ants working a crowd of hyperactive hippopotami, the Manics drearily work there way through the five songs that we have been deemed worthy to hear. A couple of old songs, and a couple of new ones, they said, as the Manics progress from quoting Marx to practising a Stalinist culling of anything that they released before 1996.

In their one attempt at courting controversy, 'Everything Must Go' gets a swift lyric change in order to attack Wales international football manager Bobby Gould, while the new songs merely show that, not only have the Manics started to emulate Simple Minds musically, instead of reaching the level of purity and wisdom of the real poets, Nicky's lyrics seem to be stuck at the phase that most people grow out of during sixth-form. They used to want to be Guns'n'Roses, but now they seem content to be Embrace.

It seems tonight that only four people can ease the ills of the day, and Ash are convinced that they can be that band. After about three seconds we're convinced as well, Ash are on stunning form given the opportunity to show themselves off to this extent, despite the fact that many of the 10,000 gathered here have already left, whisked off to bed by their impatient parents. Those who stay are rewarded with Ash reaching new heights, as Charlotte adds the necessary style and volume needed to flesh out the songs and raise the performance to another level. They play nearly everything, from a trashy, thrashy 'Jack Names The Planets' to the Mary Chain meets the Ramones New York sleaze of 'Jesus Says', all the time building to a crescendo until 'Oh Yeah' and a gloriously sublime rendition of 'Get Ready' change the pace, but still manage add to the intensity gathering around the stage. Now that the metal tendencies have been worked through, Ash are on the verge of going supernova, they've left their teenage kicks behind them, and they'll get away with it now that they're not pesky kids any more.

PJ Harvey, the Dirty ThreeColston Hall, Bristol

They say that your past always comes back to haunt you, and these days it seems that no matter what happens, Polly Harvey just can't escape the lingering touch of Nick Cave, as his spirit follows her around like some age-old curse. After all of the recent intimations and denials concerning the alleged relationship between the pair, not only has Polly’s new album has finally arrived to draw the attention away from her moribund Antipodean companion, she’s even seen fit to head out on her first tour for a couple of years, but there, lurking just around the corner, are the Dirty Three.

Fronted by part-time Bad Seed, Warren Ellis, the Dirty Three pedal an exhilarating slant on post-rock, effortlessly merging both violin and guitar. While many post-rockers often neglect to actually write a song, believing that the absence of vocals is in itself justification of their art, the Dirty Three subtlety blend their the twang of their instruments together, carrying each other along, providing the opportunity for each other to soar, before clashing together, as the individual squalling cacophonies threaten to eclipse everything else, before subsiding into harmony once more, creating an environment in which the presence of a singer would only distract from the music.

The ensuing subdued mood suits the entrance of PJ Harvey perfectly. Having left behind the more direct hormonal head-fuck blues of her past behind, Polly has, like Nick Cave himself, become a gifted storyteller. Where she would have previously screamed and hollered like a banshee out for blood, she now allows her songs to build to heightened levels of intensity, full of brooding menace. Live, the subtleties of the music become enthralling, providing a much needed atmosphere in the far too clinical surroundings of the Colston Hall, while Polly's more natural, almost relaxed manner gains a magnetic nature, drawing the attention away from Rob Ellis and the various assorted session musicians present on stage.

Unfortunately, this adaptation of style adds to the slight feeling of disappointment with tonight's performance. Although the changes throughout her career have been discreet, the transition has not been without cost. While 'Is This Desire?' definitely warrants the praise lavished upon it as an album, and the likes of 'Angelene' and 'The Sky Lit Up' are fantastic songs deserving of their inclusion tonight, when performed live, the similarity of many of the songs on the new album becomes too much, especially when they make up so much of the set. The few earlier songs included tonight only serve to emphasis this, as the phenomenal 'Snake', the salvation call of 'Taut', and the Beefheart stomp of 'Meet Ze Monsta' give Polly the chance to reel about the stage, howling as if she is about to be consumed, needing to let the blues out before they destroy her very soul.

Polly appears to be in a unique position, she is one of the few artists to remain so consistently good in her recorded output, her newly expressed confidence has seen the music gain centre-stage, but it still seems that something is missing, and it is this that renders this a not quite perfect day.

SebadohCoal Exchange, Cardiff

Opportunities like this only come along once in a while, for Sebadoh are one of the most contrary of beasts. Rarely seen on this side of the Atlantic, let alone this side of the Severn, you just have to hope that this time that they deliver upon the promise of a spectacle, rather than Lou simply delivering his spectacles to the crowd, as he did during his onstage strop at the Reading festival a couple of years ago. For someone who spends so long much time singing of forgotten friends and ruined romances, he certainly knows how to break hearts and cause disappointment.

As sure as that Reading performance was fuelled by conflict between opposing ideals, so is the spirit that lies in the midst of Sebadoh. Fortunately for Sebadoh, although perhaps not so fortunate for us, a mid-ground has been found, a content rather than happy medium, in which Lou's quiet introspection and Jason's hard-core tendencies hold a meet and greet before each is permitted to get on with their own thing.

In the way of a compromise, Lou shuffles up to the microphone in his cardigan, tucks his hair behind his ears, stands very still and mumbles ever so gently as he gently caresses note after lonely, melancholy note from his guitar, while Jason screams like a man out to prove Henry Rollins as a fake, wrenching pure driven noise from his guitar, while, of course, also standing very still.

All these shenanigans mean that tonight's performance is one of two halves. First we get Lou – the man that, with no disrespect to Jason, we’ve all come to see. We’re in awe of his delicacies; the poignancy of his own perceived personal inadequacies cut us to the bone, chilling us with his tales of woe and unrequited emotion. Expressed in this manner, Lou is capable of achieving the seemingly impossible, raising your spirits and warming your heart with the knowledge that suffering can sound so beautiful, while leaving the nagging doubt that no matter how many times your heart is broken, it will never feel so eloquent, so welcome, as this.

Then Lou and Jason swap instruments and position, and the atmosphere is lost, the warmly enveloping mist is blown away, and you're magically transported to a cheerier place, for all Jason wants to do is (indie) rock. Ultimately though, we're not here to be cheery. We want to be reminded, in fact we need to be reminded, that no matter what misfortune befalls us, we can take heart that Lou has already been there, and that the devalued have all the best tunes.

Flaming LipsThe Electric Ballroom, LondonApril 1999

You always know you’re in for a treat when the Flaming Lips are in town. A Chinese gong dominates the stage, and a video camera projects Wayne Coyne’s magnified face onto a giant screen, giving the impression that he’s peering out over the room Big Brother style, though any thought-police aping intrusion into the crowd is replaced by a much more disturbing insight into the inner workings of the Lips’ collective head.

Other than perhaps Mercury Rev - always their most obvious of peers - the Lips are a unique proposition. They're a Utopian Beach Boys alone in a dysfunctional music industry, carving out the most touching of frazzled sounds, fusing harmony and heterogeneity, connecting with that little bit in all of us that craves a band capable of being genuinely extraordinary. In the same way that the feedback driven likes of ‘She Don’t Use Jelly’ sit comfortably next to the soothingly plaintive ‘When You Smile’, the visuals are just as diverse, with studio-bound drummers and footage of small boys with red balloons running down black and white streets interspersed with assassinations and eye-ball surgery, leaving you safe in the knowledge that low-key events don’t come much bigger than this, and wishing that everything in life was as reliable as this bunch of slightly unusual Americans.

NME Carling Premier TourCardiff UniversityJanuary 1999

Despite all the recent press attention, the Llama Farmers prove once again that they’re just not ready to live up to all the hype. While the likes of 'Paper Eyes' and 'Always Echoes' fizz away like a coke bottle about to erupt, the rest of the set still seems to fall flat the moment they open it. Delakota remain lumbered with the 'former Senseless Things' label due to the presence of former drummer Cass Browne, and the murky sound levels and lack-lustre audience reaction with which they’re greeted do little to change the general consensus tonight.

Idlewild's updated post-hardcore, punk rock racket sounds not unlike a landmine exploding inside your cranium. By now everyone knows the script, Roddy stumbles about, mumbling and shouting like your local drunk, hell-bent on proclaiming his philosophies to the world, Rod decides it would be a good idea if he flossed his teeth with his guitar strings, and the venue becomes a single mass of heaving, sweating, screaming flesh, oblivious to the concept of personal injury.

Suffering from having to headline over Idlewild, a DJ Shadow-less UNKLE fail to captivate the imagination, and where their bass heavy beats and cut-up scratching should have filled the room, they are left playing to an emptying venue. Tonight, the man from UNKLE, he say 'no thanks, not just now'.