Cactus time



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Going with the Flo

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The first I heard about Florence and the Machine was an article in the Guardian Guide last year by Sylvia Patterson, who is very good at puff pieces which don't sound like puff pieces. It portrayed Florence Welch as the sort of flighty, bohemian, behold-my-quirkiness type who would completely get on my tits within five minutes of meeting them. This coupled with hearty endorsements from Johnny Borrell and her rather wanky nom de plume did not leave me awaiting her album with drooling anticipation. Lo and behold, it turns out that Lungs is a rather fine piece of work. Although she's been lumped in with the current crop of 80s-worshipping Next Big Things and covers You've GotThe Love, Florence makes a far more progressive, soul-influenced sound that doesn't slavishly ape the past like, say, La Roux. Welch also has a voice that just when you think it's in danger of becoming one-dimensional will veer off in pleasing new directions. Subjects tackled in the lyrics include...
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R to the E to the er, M

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Went to Twickenham yesterday to see REM. As a pro-football, anti-rugby man I really wanted to have a moan about the venue but annoyingly I could find nothing wrong with it. Even though the station isn't as near the ground as Wembley, the crowd control and journey home were as good as they could realistically be. Curses! I arrived just in time for Guillemots , between whose songs the screens either side of the stage displayed adverts for their album and downloadable songs, which even in these days of commercial saturation seemed a tad vulgar. The 'Mots (as nobody calls them) are as erratic a proposition as you'd expect from a band whose members include a fat Brazilian drummer, an impossibly exotic double bassist/percussionist named Aristzabal Hawkes, and a hyperactive indie-boy leader who goes by as strange a moniker as Fyfe Dangerfield. Take Kriss Kross , which begins with a killer keyboard riff that proceeds to go missing for a couple of minutes as the song tears through a...
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