Finding a place for Bob Dylan's 34th studio album in one of recorded music’s greatest solo catalogues is a perilous business. From its first rattle of sleighbells, “Christmas In The Heart” demands to be compared not with this year’s “Together Through Life”, but, perhaps, with “The Twelve Songs Of Christmas”, by Jim Reeves. “Christmas In The Heart” is a collection of 15 traditional Christmas songs, played in glimmeringly traditional style, pushed into leftfield by a pretty off-the-wall choice of lead vocalist. Dylan’s purposes are uncharacteristically clear: all the proceeds from the album are being channelled in perpetuity towards charities – Feeding America in the States, the World Food Programme and Crisis UK in Britain - with the avowed intention to bring "food security to people in need." His artistic motivations, however, are harder than ever to divine. “Christmas In The Heart” exists squarely in Middle America; a perpetual, disingenuously cosy 1950s of pipes, slippers and hygienic country swing. Dylan has been tackling this milieu on his records since “Love And Theft”, but on those earlier records, whitebread culture was always satisfyingly adulterated by the blues – something which only really surfaces on the agreeably slouchy “Christmas Blues”, with Dylan preferring to attack “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” and “O Little Town Of Bethlehem” instead. For even the most dogged defender of late-period Dylan, these vocals make for a challenging listen. Removed from the comfort of his own musical constructions, they often sound like a collection of rasps, croaks and burrs optimistically corralled into what just might be words; Latin has never sounded more like a dead language than when Dylan sings in it, hilariously, at the start of “O Come All Ye Faithful”. At which point the project, aesthetically at least, starts looking like one more perverse, gnomic Dylan joke. But then again, there’s a palpable affection for the material running through the whole, bizarre endeavour; as if Dylan, always working away at the definition of Americana, had compiled a Theme Time Radio Hour playlist on Christmas, then decided to have a go at it himself. Generally, though, it’s a paradox: a Dylan album which fails because it’s not enough like a Dylan album; and a Christmas album which fails because, confoundingly, it’s sung by Bob Dylan. (By the way, a much, much longer version of this piece will appear in the next issue of Uncut, on sale October 27)

“This is great, you don’t have to cheer for that,” deadpans Josh Tillman as a smattering of whistles and applause greet his arrival on stage. “It was pretty lazy of me. But I thank you for your faith.” Tillman, a tall, commendably hirsute figure, has a fine line in flint-dry humour, which he seems more than happy to indulge himself in many times during his 90+ minute set. After a slow, sedentary “Firstborn”, for instance, he stares out into the crowd and drawls, “This is no Vampire Weekend show, for sure.” In every respect, Tillman’s set differs from Sondre Lerche’s. Lerche has a kind of cheery enthusiasm that borders on the puppyish. A skinny and fresh-faced 26 year-old from Norway, Lerche looks like he could pass for, say, John Cusack’s younger, hipster brother in an indie rom-com. His set is heart-warming, skittering between folk and punky riffing, the songs brimming with melodic zest. A surprise highlight is his cover of Scritti Politti’s “Word Girl”, with Lerche strumming almost abstractly on his guitar. “I don’t care about the rain,” he says. “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s finish with a song about Australian actor George Lazenby.” And he does. You might think"Like Lazenby", in which he compares his romantic travails to the man who failed to make the grade as James Bond, might appear strange, if not glib. But it’s hard not to find something touching in lines like “Endless opportunities I squandered on the way to this event/Just like Lazenby/Can I do it over? Don’t I get a second try?”. On record, Tillman (a solo artist for nearly five years before joining Fleet Foxes as drummer in Summer last year) favours a sparse, acoustic sound. His songs are subdued and melancholic – mostly, it’s just his vocals and guitar, with the occasional addition of a mandolin, piano or perhaps drums. So it comes as some surprise tonight when he appears on stage accompanied by a full band – fellow Seattlites drummer Jason Merculief, brother Zach Tillman on bass, guitarist Colin Wolberg and pedal steel player Bill Patton. Things start off simple enough – a song like “No Occasion”, from this year’s Vacilando Territory Blues, is close enough to its recorded version, just fleshed out comfortably by the extra instrumentation, and Tillman’s voice, with gentle levels of reverb, is comfortably foregrounded in the mix. “Laborless Land” features some beautiful pedal steel playing from Patton that even silences the chattering back at the bar. About 40 minutes later, though, the stage of the Garage is transformed, with Tillman down on his knees, hair flailing, leading the band in a heavily psychedelicised version of “Crosswinds”. In fact, reviewing Vacilando Territory Blues for UNCUT earlier this year, Luke Torn cited Neil Young’s On The Beach as one of several touchstones for Tillman’s album. And, indeed, live you sense Tillman is equally in touch with his inner Crazy Horse – the delicate dulcimer intro to “Crosswinds” is morphed into a churning riff, like something Young might have blasted out from the stage at the Fillmore in the early 70s. It’s this Tillman who I find most impressive. I guess I’m so used to the hushed intimacy of his solo albums, or the baroque harmonies of Fleet Foxes, that I’m surprised and impressed by this sudden detour into heavier territory. Certainly, a song like "There Is No Good In Me", where Tillman sings of “rendering families from their home,” that he “may lay claim to their young,” assumes a darker, gnarled form in this meaty version. A 10-minute "Though I Wronged You" segueing into "Barter Blues" builds from a simple, haunting melody into an extended jam that reminds me of Young’s “Cortez The Killer", driven by a squalling pedal steel solo from Patton. He breaks curfew, but who cares? J Tillman set list: All U C Castration Blues No Occasion Firstborn Big Ol' Betty Laborless Land Vessels Jammin' The Night Away Crosswinds Though I Have Wronged You/Barter Blues Terror Lives Forever Pt. 2 Occurrence At The River Jordan There Is No Good In Me New Imperial Grand Blues Wild Honey Tastes Good James Boffington Blues

This one arrived a couple of days ago and it’s been hard to stop playing ever since. It’s the debut solo album of a French guy previously known as half of the Zombie Zombie duo, who I vaguely recall as being Krautrockish, but not as interesting as they were made out to be. I need to check them out again, I think. Because “Night Music” is a giant cosmic electronic throb which works pretty tremendously, all told. The opening 20-minute track, “For Falling Asleep”, sets out Etienne Jaumet’s stall rather brilliantly, placing him deep in the territory of Manuel Gottsching, Klaus Schulze and, more recently, Lindstrøm circa “Where You Go I Go Too” (Lindstrøm has a new one coming, with a singer, Christabelle, that I should be getting next week, by the way). If Lindstrøm powers his kosmische fantasias with disco beats, however, Jaumet seems to favour gliding Detroit techno as his motor, and in this he’s assisted by Carl Craig, credited here as producer (According to the credits, “Mix directed and imagined by Carl Craig,” which I assume means production). The last album I can recall working this way was Delia Gonzalez & Gavin Russom’s “Days Of Mars” on DFA, though I think Russom’s latest incarnation as Black Meteoric Star is this way inclined, too (I need to hear that album out, too). Jaumet is less minimalist, mind, and keeps piling on the good stuff: great banks of slow timelag saxophone that very obviously connect with the Terry Riley of “Poppy Nogood” or “Happy Ending”; vigorous ululations from Emmanuelle Parrenin, who also contributes some Alan Stivell-ish harp to the final comedown minutes of “For Falling Asleep”. “For Falling Asleep”, in fact, sets a terrifying standard for the following four tracks, but they’re still fairly excellent. As “Mental Vortex” (for God’s sake…) moves into, well, “Entropy”, there’s a sense Jaumet is progressing towards more orthodox, modernish electronica; well, late ‘80s/early ‘90s as opposed to ‘70s. On “Through The Strata”, you can just make out Parrenin’s ecstatic groans beneath the thudding beats, sundry cosmic ephemera, and a quavering drone melody that sounds like a synthetic equivalent of bagpipes; Breton ones, maybe, which when combined with Parrenin’s presence, suggests Jaumet has a taste for the French equivalent of psych-folk. If anyone has any leads and recommendations with regard to Parrenin, please let me know – a brief Google makes her look fascinating. Finally, the Terry Riley saxes come back with a vengeance in “At The Crack Of Dawn”, for the requisite levitational closer. “Entropy” is playing at Etienne Jaumet’s Myspace, along with some other stuff.

Just in case you haven’t come across it yet, the first song to surface from Vampire Weekend’s forthcoming “Contra” album (due early January, I believe) turned up on their website yesterday. You can download “Horchata” for free here, without even bothering to register, and it’s well worth it. When I wrote about Vampire Weekend’s debut album last year, I mentioned the insidious quality of their songs, the nagging way Ezra Koenig’s vocal lines tend to wedge themselves into your memory. “Horchata” is very much like that, though the skinniness of the debut’s sound has been replaced by a fuller, though no less eccentric sound (and, judging by the fleeting sneak preview I’ve had of “Contra”, it’s typical of the whole album in that respect). The wiry guitars are nowhere to be seen: the closest relative to “Horchata” on “Vampire Weekend” is “M79”, especially when the lush synthesised chamber strings arrive in the latter half of the song. Three things dominate “Horchata”, though. The brilliant tune, that continually seems to be twisting away from the expected, but remains aggressively memorable. Koenig’s lyrics; eccentric snippets from a lost and vivid text about Mexican winter breaks? Or endearingly aphoristic nonsense? I’m not sure, but this morning, “In December, drinking Horchata/I look psychotic in a balaclava,” seems a preposterously, dorkishly excellent opening couplet. And a new, enhanced production, that privileges a lively arsenal of electronic percussion: great barrages of drums that recall those big Brazilian samba drum ensembles; clicking, glockenspiel-like effects. Most of all, with the tinny reverb on some of the beats and the sprung, clackety resonance of a recurring sound that resembles thumb-pianos, it suggests that their artful appropriation of African music has now moved on to Congo, and Konono No 1. Have a listen, and let me know what you think.