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Pixies
Alexandra Palace, London, Wed 31 Aug

The trek to the dear old Ally Pally is always the London gig-goer’s most fretful journey. The very act of playing there is a declaration of intent, an attempt to elevate the band in question to the status of The Stone Roses in 1989 or Blur in 1994. Yet as venues go, it can be unforgiving – witness last year’s White Stripes disappointment there in a rattle of echo and feedback.

Of course, the Pixies need not worry about the former contention – their place in rock history is already secure, no matter how the current reunion pans out. But the latter? As perhaps the loudest, most ferocious band ever to play the venue, that’s got to be a concern.

But as it turns out, it needn’t have been. The days when Pixies erupted into their shows, smashing you in the face with the musical equivalent of a baseball bat studded with rusty nails, are long gone. Instead, they start in understated, maybe even subdued form with the gentle 'Uk Surf' version of Wave Of Mutilation. Indeed, the first half hour is disconcertingly … pleasant, featuring their most frivolous tunes like La La Love You and Here Comes Your Man.

Just as old skool fans like myself are getting restless, things pick up with fine versions of The Holiday Song and Neil Young’s Winterlong and before long Frank Black is screaming like he’s both being savagely murdered and blowing a gasket all at the same time.

Only someone who never saw the band the first time round would claim they’re as good today as they ever were, but when Black Francis (he’ll never be Frank Black to me) hits all his old heights of raw power on Tame and Debaser, they still make most of today’s so-called rock titans look like some small boys playing at scary monsters.

Crucially, even at their loudest, the old walls of Ally Pally give them no trouble. It’s a respect thing.


Nationwide Mercury Prize
Grosvenor House Hotel, London, Tue 6 Sep

As is the Mercury Prize, the annual bunfight in which a shadowy panel of people who don’t actually seem to know very much about music tell us what they think the best album of the year is and lots of people get very het up about it all. Try it with your mates and see if anyone cares, but this year’s ceremony, it has to be said, is the most buzz-worthy I can remember.

That’s because, unlike in certain previous years, not only do we not know who’s going to win, but there also seem to be a good five or six acts still in contention as the ceremony gets underway. The bands all arrive in customised Minis (except for the Magic Numbers, who require a Hummer … just joking, guys) and have made varying attempts at 'dressing up' for the occasion.

The Kaiser Chiefs all have very shiny shoes while M.I.A is wearing a top featuring a small woodland creature with a pom-pom for a nose. Unlikely to feature in Heat magazine’s 'That’s so a good look!' column, but it takes all sorts.

The ceremony passes in a blur of grand claims and increasingly surreal interviews, ending when matey-boy from The Go! Team appears to tell me that, should his band triumph, he intends to spend the prize money on “whores”. I try to give him an escape route by saying “A horse?” but no, he really does mean prostitutes.

I have more luck on the wildlife front with Antony And The Johnsons - Antony informs me he will spend the cash on “a llama”, an opinion he hastily revises when he actually does win. He is easily the least likely winner ever (except perhaps M People), as proved by his press conference, when he stands on a podium, his satchel still over his shoulder, looking utterly bewildered.

Although still notably less confused than some of the less clued-up journalists in attendance.

By the way, me and my pals have unilaterally decided that Weezer’s Make Believe is the best record of the year. If you’d like to get annoyed about me giving the Marky Music Prize to an American for no other reason than that you don’t really understand what’s happening, feel free. I’m off on holiday, so I won’t hear you anyway …