The sticker on the front of my promo of Superpitcher’s second album describes Aksel Schaufler as “Cologne’s melancholy techno-pop maestro”. It has been about six years since the first Superpitcher album, but Schaufler’s worldview doesn’t appear to have improved much. If Hot Chip’s Alexis Taylor sometimes comes across as an indie boy lost on the dancefloor, Schaufler’s persona is akin to a sociopath on the verge of a panic attack. “Walking down the street, all alone,” begins the first single, and degenerates from there, to a height of blank despair which involves “everybody’s always too drunk. To fuck.” Built around this, the music is quite magnificent: an ornate expansion of the Kompakt label’s microhouse/minimal techno aesthetic, which steps tentatively into new territories. So while the instrumental “Moon Fever” is a gorgeous trinket, very much in the style of the cosmic music box pieces found on the “Pop Ambient” comps, “Voodoo” and the title track of “Kilimanjaro” are odd, skanking beasts, digi-dub endeavours somewhere in the neighbourhood of another German production outfit, Rhythm & Sound. “Black Magic”, meanwhile, is a luxe, jet-trash-friendly iteration of minimal techno, still retaining the wounded romance of Superpitcher’s melodic default setting even amidst all the finely-tooled sonic giltwork. Svelte, lovely music throughout, then, but I’m sure Schaufler’s voice and his lyrics – nagging, repetitive, often so facile that, intoned again and again, they take on a kind of surrealist tinge – will prove to be a sticking point with people. There are moments when the wounded indie boy schtick becomes a distraction: on “Country Boy”, the way he drawls “Black sheep of the family” reminds me unaccountably of Luke Haines. But then, again, the whole thing can work wonderfully. “Kilimanjaro”’s stand-out track, at least after the first half-dozen listens, feels like “Friday Night”, a sleek and faintly menacing piece – echoes of Fever Ray, perhaps - that begins with Schaufler bleating, “It’s Friday night, and I’m not dancing.” This goes on for a bit, until he expands on his issues. “Sugar girl where are you now?” he ponders, before disconsolately concluding, “Probably smoking blow.” All the while, the fabulous music is building up momentum, so that by the time it starts peaking (about five minutes in), a chorus of bored girls have arrived to chant, “Lack of entertainment” over and over again. Pathetic, and very funny, and quite the best track I’ve heard in a while.

The first thing you would have noticed arriving in Hyde Park last Frday to see Pearl Jam is how many more people there appear to be than were here for last year’s Hard Rock Calling weekend, the size of the crowd, a hint of mob surliness and the press of people at the front of the stage something of a concern later for a visibly worried Eddie Vedder. It’s almost 10 years to the day, after all, since nine Pearl Jam fans were crushed to death during the band’s performance on June 30, 2000, at the Rosskilde festival, over there in Denmark. No wonder at one point he looks so rattled. For the moment, though, everyone is in good spirits, enjoying the good weather and The Gaslight Anthem, who’ve just appeared to a huge cheer. Brian Fallon is struggling with a heavy cold, a prohibitive hoarseness apparent even as the band kicks into “American Slang”. With a headlining show the next night at Brixton Academy, they may actually have been relieved to be playing such a relatively short set, although you couldn’t say they hold anything back, especially Fallon. You would have understood him perhaps trying to preserve his voice, nurse it through the next 30 minutes to make sure it’s in the best possible shape for Brixton. But as always he gives it everything he’s got. “American Slang” is the first of five songs from the new album that shares its name and is followed by first UK outings for “The Diamond Church Street Choir”, “Bring It On”, “Queen Of Lower Chelsea” and “Boxer”. The four songs they play from breakthrough album the ’59 Sound, which they toured almost to death following its 2008 release, are much reinvigorated for not having been played much for the best part of a year. “Old White Lincoln” has been funkily rearranged, while “The ’59 Sound” and “Great Expectations” are re-visited with a relish that was probably beginning to wane when they played their last UK show of 2009 at the Reading Festival. I’d been expecting them to close with “We Did It When We Were Young”, which brings down the curtain on American Slang. In the event, they roll out the dependable “Backseats”, to no complaints from anyone. By the time Pearl Jam come on at around 8.00 pm, the sun and too much to drink has had a worrying effect on some of the crowd and there’s an edgy mood. Bottles are flying and bouncing off people’s heads in scenes reminiscent of some ghastly by-gone Reading, and not far from where I’m standing there are a couple of fights, one guy – who turns out when I speak to him to be an Uncut reader – flattened by an oaf in an ale-soaked blue singlet and tattoos. There’s a huge surge towards the front of the stage that coincides with a triumphant opening salvo of “Given To Fly”, “Why Go?” and “Corduroy”, Vedder quick to ask the crowd to calm down, ease back, make room for each other. The seething mass in front of him seems to settle, and as instructed take three steps back, Eddie himself beginning to relax as they do as they’re told, swigging from a bottle of red wine and looking crisp and dapper – for the moment, anyway - in a Devo T-shirt, underneath a crisp black and white checked shirt. “I don’t mean to sound redundant,” he announces, repeating his message to the crowd to chill, “but your safety is more important than me being boring.” The band know what the vast rump of people have come to hear and duly oblige, six of the songs that follow taken from Ten, the album they will always be remembered for and which evidently means most to the many thousands here tonight, a staggeringly good “Once” a very early highlight. The set doesn’t, however, feel predictable for all the familiarity of what they play and is enhanced no end by some genuine surprises, like the cover of Joe Strummer’s “Arms Aloft In Aberdeen”, from the posthumously released Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros’ album, Streetcore. “Better Man” from Vitalogy is a good, but curiously underwhelming set-closer. But, hey, it’s only 9.30, and Pearl Jam aren’t due off-stage until the 10 o’clock curfew, so there’s a half hour left yet for encores, which come plentifully, “Alive” played at last, alongside a rousing “Black”, “Porch” and the equally venerable “Yellow Ledbetter”.

The last time we saw Paul McCartney on stage at Hyde Park was a year and a day ago. Then, he joined Neil Young for a coruscating version of “A Day In The Life”, sharing vocals with Neil and helping coax waves of feedback from Old Black. It was a major highlight during a tremendous run of shows last summer at Hyde Park that also included Bruce Springsteen and Blur. This year, of course, McCartney himself is now a headliner – on a day filled with more than it’s fair share of dramas. Yes, it is the hottest day of the year so far – just over 30 degrees – and McCartney’s support line-up is a suitably Uncut-friendly collection, including Elvis Costello and CSN. But – and I hate to remind you of this – it’s also the day we lost to Germany in a major international sporting event. The crowd, then, seem in restless spirits; “I hope he plays better than England…” mutters one glum-looking man to his friend. While screens scroll through footage of McCartney stretching back to the Cavern days, and jaunty girl group cover versions of Beatles songs clatter from the speaks, the audience picks up the “Na-na na na” refrain from “Hey Jude” as a kind of terrace chant. But, you know, there’s nothing like the sight of a former Beatle arriving on stage with thumbs aloft to lift the spirits. Arguably, “Venus And Mars/Rock Show” might not be the ideal opener – it lacks an immediate recognition value, I suppose. But, hey, “Jet” and “All My Loving” follow close behind; the greatest song-book ever written is now open and any mention of Sepp Blatter, disallowed goals or England’s shambolic defence are a bad memory best forgotten. After all, you’re not exactly going to complain about “Got To Get You Into My Life”, are you? All the same, there are admittedly some strange moments. An outing early on for “Highway”, from his 2008 Fireman album, is met with confused glances. As Band On The Run’s “Let Me Roll It” finishes, he launches into “Foxy Lady” before whipping out a story about Hendrix and Clapton that’s – shockingly – a bit of a non-starter (Macca! Clapton! Hendrix! – how can you possibly go wrong there..?!). At one point, there appears to be a minor mishap – I’m not clear what – and McCartney and his band end up playing, rather surreally, “Tequila”. And, yes, even the most ardent McCartney fan might find it hard not to cringe at the cod-Jamaican patter that peppers his between-song banter. But if we were to judge musicians on their sense of humour, rather than the music, I suspect we’d have all given up and gone home long ago. What’s important here are “Two Of Us”, “Blackbird”, “Eleanor Rigby”, “Band On The Run”, “Day Tripper” and a half dozen more songs of impeccable pedigree. For “Paperback Writer”, he even brings on stage the actual Rickenbacker he wrote it on, which in itself raises a large cheer of approval. “Blackbird” and “Yesterday”, both played solo acoustic, are delivered to an entirely silent and respectful crowd. And, for all the cheesy pointing and winking at fellow band members and people in the crowd, he looks great, wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat, bustling around, springing to the piano, strapping on a ukelele, just being A Beatle. There are semi-anecdotes/dedications to fallen friends – Linda (her photographs are being displayed on site), John (“Here Today”) and George (“Something”). Before “Back In The USSR” he tells a sweet little story about meeting Russians who learned English from listening to Beatles’ records; one exchange with a Russian fan was simply “Hello, Goodbye”. It ends fantastically, too, with a tremendous run through of mostly late period Beatles material including “Lady Madonna”, “Get Back” and a ferocious version of “Helter Skelter”. Good work, indeed. Set list Venus and Mars/Rockshow Jet All My Loving Letting Go Got To Get You Into My Life Highway Let Me Roll It Long And Winding Road 1985 Let ‘Em In My Love I'm Looking Through You Two Of Us Blackbird Here Today Dance Tonight Mrs Vandebilt Eleanor Rigby Ram On Something Sing The Changes Band On The Run Obla Di Obla Da Back In The USSR I Gotta Feeling Paperback Writer A Day In The Life Let It Be Live And Let Die Hey Jude Day Tripper Lady Madonna Get Back Yesterday Helter Skelter Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band The End

When Ryan Sambol, who frankly looks like he hasn’t slept since beds were invented, asks if we want to hear another new song the only people in a packed Borderline who perhaps aren’t sure they do at this particular point are his band, Austin’s The Strange Boys. This may have more than something to do with the fact that when Ryan asks the question, the band are actually still playing “Heard You Want To Beat Me Up”, Ryan’s hilariously effervescent vamp from debut album The Strange Boys And Girls Club about making out with another guy’s girlfriend and the bitter consequences of such recklessness, which they now quickly bring to a halt even as Ryan starts playing, as promised, the evidently new “Hidden Meanings Soul Graffiti”, which is already going down a storm when the band join in. What’s going on right now seems not untypical of the way things might regularly happen around Sambol. The band, you imagine, have long-since learned to live on their wits in his unpredictable company, in anticipation of his digressive whims and unexpected changes of what at some point may have been an agreed course from here to there. They look well-practised in the art of anticipation. Sambol’s conspicuous restlessness, a kind of fidgety need to keep things moving, people left behind if they can’t keep up, is meanwhile reflected in his songs, which only on a few occasions breach the three minute mark, the majority of them barely coming in above two minutes, and several even less than that (they get through 18 tonight and are still offstage in about an hour). The first time you come across The Strange Boys on record, you might therefore think they’re making not much more than a scrappy racket. Tracks come and go at a fair old clip, songs starting and finishing before you’ve properly settled into them, a fitful blur of twanging rockabilly, 60s R&B, garage rock, country, slovenly blues, pre-Beatles American teen pop, Tex-Mex rave-ups, scuzzy rock’n’roll. After not too many more plays of . . .And Girls Club and the more recent Be Brave, however, songs that initially seemed to be not quite there are suddenly hard to get out of your head, which is when you realise there’s a lot more to them than mere ramshackle charm and an endearing waywardness. And it’s uncanny how they remind you of so many people without actually sounding like them. Sambol’s enervated squawk, for instance, doesn’t really sound like early Dylan, but you can understand, listening more closely to the way he sings, why people often make the comparison. Similarly, tonight you can hear echoes of The 13th Floor Elevators, early Love, the Velvets and The Yardbirds. They’re clearly in thrall, too, to the Stones when Brian Jones was as much of a musical driving force in the band as Keith Richards. Thursday night’s highlights at Club Uncut came as they say thick and fast, the swooning harmonies on the wilfully provocative “Should Have Shot Paul”, the woozy Exile On Main St lurch of “Da Da”, the Bo Diddley wallop of “Who Needs Who More”, the joyous whoop of “Be Brave”, the voyeuristic rumble of “Laugh At Sex, Not Her” (“My friends are having sex in the other room/Being quite as they can. . .”), the Beat Boom bomp of “Poem Party”, the off-kilter clatter of “Woe Is You And Me”. It all ends marvellously, too, with, of all things, a version of Dusty Springfield’s “Son Of A Preacher Man”, a skewed, sultry groove, as remarkable as it is unexpected, which is The Strange Boys all over. See you back here on August 16, for the terrific Fool’s Gold.