Adele – ’19′
British Sea Power – ‘Do You Like Rock Music?’
Burial – ‘Untrue’
Elbow – ‘The Seldom Seen Kid’
Estelle – ‘Shine’
The Last Shadow Puppets – ‘The Age Of The Understatement’
Laura Marling – ‘Alas I Cannot Swim’
Neon Neon – ‘Stainless Style’
Portico Quartet – ‘Knee-Deep In The North Sea’
Robert Plant And Alison Krauss – ‘Raising Sand’
Radiohead – ‘In Rainbows’
Rachel Unthank And The Winterset – ‘The Bairns’

My immediate reactions were twofold: firstly, what happened to Portishead and MIA, whose stellar albums have been improbably overlooked; and then, perhaps predictably, who on earth is Rachel Unthank, not to mention her beloved Winterset?

Comparing the actual list to my predictions, I’ve managed to score a not-too-shabby total of six correct predictions (BSP, Burial, Elbow, Last Shadow Puppetse, Robert Plant, Radiohead), but it’s some of the albums I chose that weren’t included that are more puzzling. As I hinted at earlier, Portishead’s Third is the kind of album that only emerges once a decade – that’s not to say that it’s the best album of the decade, just that such an album, with all it’s timeliness and resolute gloominess is as apt a product of its time as we will get this decade. As for MIA, to omit Kala (having nominated Arular three years ago) is utterly bizarre: Kala is a significantly better work, with far more experimentation and boat pushing than before.

The token jazz albums notwithstanding, the surprise inclusion in my eyes is most definitely Estelle’s Shine. I accept that she’s been through the wars these last couple of years, but the fact that she has now decamped to the USA and made a fairly average RnB album with all the producers du jour does not a Mercury nomination merit.  As Andy Gill writes in The Independent,

There’s little evidence of undue PC colour-consciousness affecting recent Mercury nominations, with only one or two black acts appearing in each of the last four years’ lists. This is probably due to the traditionally track-based, rather than album-based, nature of black music generally,

all of which leads me to conclude that Shine’s presence on the list is tokenism at its worst, not least because there have been much better “black” albums this year – Wiley’s Grime Wave is one. To be brutally honest, even Hot Chip’s Made In The Dark works better as a “black” album than Estelle’s Shine.

Though Neon Neon wasn’t on my list, I had already accepted that it would appear on the real thing after I published the last article. Though I still haven’t heard it right through, it’s just the kind of whimsical electro album that the judges would appreciate, over and above the outright sonic geekdom of the Hot Chip album. On an ancillary note, I actually quite like the fact that there’s a token jazz album every year, but I’d have to express disappointment that they didn’t plump for the most recent Polar Bear album, a fast-paced jazz act whose debut was previously nominated in 2005.

On the whole, it’s not a particularly bad set of albums. It was clear that one of the folky, acoustic, female singer-songwriters was going to get nominated, and at least it wasn’t Kate Nash. The two with whom we have ended up are probably the least offensive of the lot, to be charitable. On the brighter side, there’s no Coldplay, no Blunt, no Ting Tings, no Wombats, no Pigeon Detectives… no excreta, basically. Though I’m bitterly disappointed for MIA and Portishead, neither artist probably cares that much, all of which leads me to wholeheartedly endorse Radiohead as my worthy winners of the bunch, with British Sea Power and Burial tied in second place.

Finally, I’d like to point out what an incredible achievement it is for Alex Turner, who has now appeared in the Shortlist three years in a row – proof of his consistent songwriting ability, even if he won with Arctic Monkeys with the wrong album! Now, all eyes must turn to September 9, when the winning album will be announced to much fanfare (and a cheque for £20,000).

Nevertheless, my knowledge of the era could do with some reinforcement, so I’ve embarked on a voyage of reading, by picking up John Harris‘s acclaimed book, The Last Party: Britpop, Blair and the demise of English Rock, which was described by Q Magazine as “A fine, bittersweet read.” Harris is a music journalist for whom I have great respect: his articles in The Guardian continue to educate and provoke discussion; his appearances on Newsnight Review are always memorable. I’m hoping that his book will effect similar enthusiasm in me.

I’ll be sure to let you know when I’ve finished reading it, after which I’ll try and get a review of it up on the blog.

In its current format, the programme is now in its eleventh series, and it’s not a surprise that it has become the Big British Castle’s biggest global export. It should be required viewing for the whole population.

So far, so normal. It’s perfectly fine to publish a preview, and then a review. But I advise you to read both the Pitchfork review and then the new DiS review side by side, and perhaps comment on the numerous similarities in detail and in tone between both reviews. I think someone’s got a case of cold feet.

Sorry if I sound ridiculously paranoid, but it appears that Mr. Wale has given to his readers a veritable simulacrum of the review provided by a rival publication earlier on today.

What do I make of it? Very simply, it’s a progression on Flux, with added brass and no discernible guitar. That said, it’s got that immediate breath-catching appeal that has blessed many previous singles from the band. I get the same feeling from it as I did upon hearing The Prayer, which I maintain is one of the most daringly impressive moves the band ever made. I’m not yet convinced that Mercury is anything more than a fad-orientated cash-in, particularly since the band have said their next album will combine the rawness of Silent Alarm with the experience of A Weekend In The City – this new song sounds like the band’s nu-rave interest combined with a burgeoning love of excess and pomp, as typified by their giggle-inducing (but ultimately successful) collaboration with a choir at the Electric Proms recently.

Mercury is highly danceable; displays a fondness for Auto-Tune which is at first cringe-worthy, and then bores a hole in your head so catchy it’s difficult not to smile gleefully; and features a brass section clearly transported from Hercules and Love Affair. The bass is frequently droning and fuzzy; Matt Tong has lost none of his propensity for murderous drumming, and, importantly, the whole thing is completely devoid of the over-processed, over-flattened, over-compressed production style (courtesy of Jacknife Lee) that made A Weekend In The City such a lifeless affair at times. Rumour has it that the band’s third long-player will be produced jointly by Jacknife Lee and Paul Epworth, the latter of whom made Silent Alarm such a thrilling listen – on the back of Mercury, I wish the band would dispense with Lee’s services with immediate effect. 

If the rest of the forthcoming album displays similar levels of experimentation, and doesn’t fall back on the metrosexual-lifestyle-clichés that quickly grated on the previous LP, they may have pulled off quite a coup.

Update: Sean Michaels, writing in The Guardian, suggests that with Mercury, Bloc Party have gone all trip-hop, and should consider moving to Bristol. I disagree on several counts. Michaels refers to the appearance of trumpet blasts as a clear sign of the band’s new predilection, but trip-hop never uses trumpets in this manner. Furthermore, the pacing of the song is far too driving and upbeat to be considered trip-hop, particularly when compared to the grimy, spongily-paced songs on Massive Attack albums. If this is a response to that same band’s anti-trip-hop album, Mezzanine, which is what Michaels insinuates, then the Queen might as well be a reptilian alien life form. Mercury couldn’t be less like trip-hop. Even Kele’s vocals are utterly in contrast to the soulful, velvety vocals oft found in songs by Portishead or Massive Attack. The drums are far too raw, and are certainly not buried beneath twenty layers of grime and decay and reverb and delay. There isn’t even a regular bass line in Mercury. Suffice to say that Bloc Party have definitely not gone trip-hop.

I do hope you (all seven readers) weren’t thinking of deserting the blog, so please don’t stop reading now. I shall try and crank up the pace again.

In the meantime, I should say that I just bought the following albums:

Spiritualized – Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space

My Morning Jacket – It Still Moves

British Sea Power – The Decline Of British Sea Power

Roxy Music – Country Life

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds – The Boatman’s Call

So maybe expect something about those albums in the near to distant future.

I’ve always been a fervent believer in the importance of lyrics in making a good song great – after all, though OK Computer is musically astonishing, the key link between the listener and the band is Thom Yorke’s lyrics of urban dissatisfaction and emotional trials. A song like Climbing Up the Walls works doubly well because the chilling music is combined with disturbing lyrics; a song like No Surprises manages to convey dis-ease and ennui through its lyrics, even though it is musically saccharine. Many great artists build off this contrast between the tone of the music and the mood of the lyrics, and so, even if the lyrics aren’t as socially relevant as those of Thom Yorke’s, it is still possible to admire, for instance, the music of Muse, because what Matt Bellamy sings about matches perfectly with the stürm und drang of the music.

And yet there are so many examples of bands and artists with a semblance of melodic knowledge who consistently pump out mediocrity by filling their songs with meaningless, cringe-worthy lyrics. In many cases, the vocalists themselves are not that bad singers, it’s just that the words they spew out are literally vomit-inducing. In such cases, you have to ask if they seriously believe the listeners are taking heed of their lyrics. It would be more worthwhile if they sang in tongues.

A band like Battles knows its limitations; they realise that people listen to them because the music speaks for itself, conjuring imagery too powerful for any words to ameliorate. And so, in place of actual, understandable lyrics, we hear Tyondai Braxton‘s vocals mutated and modulated beyond recognition – they become another instrument. Tangentially, I believe it’s possible to get more excited about good instrumental music – Amon Tobin‘s jazz-influenced breakbeat, for instance – because, in the absence of words, the music is allowed to import fuller meaning.

Of course, there are countless bands where both the music and lyrics is bereft of originality or invention – much of the UK’s chart rock fodder springs immediately to mind – but it’s worth considering whether there could a future for instrumental rock beyond the genre of post-rock. It would certainly make listening to Radio 1 a more painless experience.

Sigur Rós works on record because it feels like they’ve taken a slice of the Icelandic landscape and packaged it up for anyone to appreciate at home, but, in the live environment, the band works on a considerably more visceral level. Freed from the shackles of the hi-fi or the iPod, it is on stage where the true majesty of their sound becomes apparent: how it is being created; how the band members react to the noises they conjure from all manner of instruments; how a collective group of fans sits or stands, beaming to the rafters with appreciation and wonder. How appropriate, then, to kick off the evening with a charmingly fey and twee opening act from the band’s trombonist, Helgi Jonsson, who brought one tiny fragment of our understanding of Iceland (typified by his comments before a song named Digging up the tree at the back of the garden - “This song is about waking up in Iceland in the middle of April and it is still Christmas time”), before the rest of the band (which numbered 13 for most of the songs – the four core members of the band; the string quartet Amiina; and a five-piece brass band, the Horny Brasstards) could unleash a more rounded, wholesome musical and visual depiction of their bewildering culture.

Taking to the stage beneath five enormous illuminated balloons and a variety of piercing lights that matched Jón Þór Birgisson’s guitar tone in intensity, Sigur Rós began with a brooding rendition of Svefn-g-englar, showing off what was to become the recurring motif of instrumental virtuosity from the keyboardist, Kjartan Sveinsson. The waves of cello-bowed guitar that resonated throughout the church did not fail to astonish an audience clearly divided between revelling devotees of the band, and those whose sole acquaintance of the band was the placing of Hoppípolla in the BBC’s Planet Earth trailer. The band then proceeding to play three further songs from their previous albums, from which the highlight was surely the fleeting appearance of the brass band, who marched down onto the stage, and then marched off it to coincide with the equally fleeting brass arrangement in Sé Lest.

Before the crowd-pleasing Hoppípolla, the band then proceeded to air the first of the new songs: Við spilum endalaust, a suitably Arcade Fire-aping number from the new album, Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, which ended in all thirteen musicians banging drums, plucking strings and thrashing keyboards in unison. Though the audience would continue to appear slightly cautious when showing their appreciation for the new songs, which were interspersed throughout the setlist, it was apparent that, yes, Sigur Rós have lost none of their talent for penning beautiful songs: it is only a new economy in size that has appeared, clearly aimed at tinkling the cash registers. But who can blame them, I would argue? It is only logical that, following the increased exposure they have seen since the release of Takk…, they should pursue a slightly more accessible musical route, and they are certainly well-suited to playing up the tribal, carnival mood that imbibes these new songs.

The remainder of the set included many of the band’s most recognisable songs, differing only from the studio versions in their extended length and the aforementioned magnification of volume, which resulted in the drums taking on a more pounding role than on record, and the guitar turning into a weapon of considerable strength. Though the stalls lining the concourses of the venue sold only tea, fruit juices and sandwiches (this was a church, after all), the propensity for the band to explode in a battle of ear-splitting white noise suggested slightly stronger spirits were at play.

The encore began with Hafssól, an older song dating back to their debut, Von, before Jónsi encouraged the crowd to lend their hands to the new Animal Collective-styled campfire single, Gobbledigook, which resulted in time signature-shifting clapping that would surely rival the 5/4 beat of 15 Step across the other side of the city. After an extended performance of Popplagið, the band vanished, before reappearing on several occasions to take a series of bows to an adoring audience, whose vocal worship was a clear indication that a further encore was desired. Eventually, and, I must add, only after a third of the audience had departed hastily to their pipes and slippers, Jónsi, Kjarri, Goggi and the brass band returned for one final song, which transpired to be the moving closing track from the new album, entitled All alright, and, for the first time ever, sung in English by a clearly overjoyed Jónsi who, had there been time, could probably have played for the rest of the night. This frontman’s energy never subsides, even whilst engaging in his bowed-guitar antics.

What a night! As we left the venue, postcards were distributed, informing the victorious crowd that Sigur Rós are to return to the UK this winter, a tour which will culminate in a headline performance at London’s Alexandra Palace. However, I would testify that it is unlikely that that performance later on in the year will provide such overpowering pleasure as this did: I am almost certain that their reverb-drenched sound will vanish in the cavernous confines of Alexandra Palace, and I felt privileged to have seen the band at such close quarters, and in such a wonderful setting, beneath the shallow dome of Westminster Methodist Central Hall.

The band played:

• Svefn-g-englar
• Glósóli
• Sé Lest
• Ný Batteri
• Við spilum endalaust
• Hoppípolla
• Með Blóðnasir
• Fljótavík
• Viðrar vel til loftárása
• Sæglópur
• Inní mér syngur vitleysingur
• Olsen Olsen
• Hafssól
• Gobbledigook
• Popplagið [encore]
• All alright [second encore]

As a final update, there are some decent photographs from the gig that have been uploaded to this Flickr pool. I did take some on my phone: though they aren’t brilliant (I was up at the back of the balcony, cloaked in far too much darkness), you can find them in this Facebook album.

I’m hoping it sounds a bit like this:

The only tinge of regret I’m feeling is for not having a ticket to see Radiohead the next day

Thus I have decided to open my mind to Loveless one more time, to see if I can finally come to understand its genius, which has thus far eluded me. I really do hope I can love it, if only so that I won’t feel so guilty enjoying other, even more noisy, reverb-drenched stuff.

When I do decide to give it another go, I’ve also decided to ‘liveblog’ my experiences of it, here on the blog, which should be fun. I dare say that it won’t quite achieve the fame or reputation of this particular liveblog series, but, still, what with MBV setting out on their reunion tour as we speak, it should be a timely occasion for me to approach such an influential work.