We're changing venues tonight – instead of the Pressure Point Uncut have moved to the beautiful Spiegeltent, kind of a cross between a circus tent and a mirrored boudoir. Aside from the creaking wooden floors, it's perfect. It should hardly be surprising after Thursday's performance, but Bon Iver draws the biggest crowd, perhaps of Uncut's weekend. People are really going for it too, with one guy punching the air to every lyric as if he's at a Journey gig. I'm not sure I've seen this kind of devotion since Brian Wilson toured 'Smile' in 2004 – although it would have to be pretty extreme to match the fervour of that gig. Justin Vernon turns out a solid set, once again getting the crowd to sing along on 'The Wolves' and ending some tracks in a hail of feedback. The skeletal album closer 'Re: Stacks' is delivered by Vernon without his two band mates, once again to hushed silence. I'm not sure I quite share the total appreciation of the crowd, but Vernon certainly pulled off a flawless performance, complete with his usual Wisconsin charm. Next up is Pennsylvanian Dawn Kinnard. Compared in the past to Dusty Springfield, the tall, thin singer is more like a female Bill Callahan after a few listens to John Lennon's early solo work. Joined by a pianist, Kinnard hisses out her mostly melancholic lyrics in a wavering, coquettish smoker's voice, lightly strumming her guitar and tapping the side of it inbetween (just to keep time, mind you, not in that horrendous Newton Faulkner style). She cuts quite an imposing figure, dressed in a smart red skirt and side-buttoned top like an air hostess, and everyone in the Spiegeltent is pretty rapt – if only to hear what she whispers in the quieter moments of her songs. The tent is fairly quiet, however, especially when compared to Bon Iver's set, who seems to have it unfairly sewn up in that respect. Highlights of Kinnard's set include single 'The Devil's Flame', the unstable 'Bicycle' and the closing Americana of 'Lean To The Glass', which Kinnard performs alone. However, it's hard to shake a slight feeling that her songwriting isn't yet fully developed. She's certainly worth a listen, however. Rachel Unthank And The Winterset have been one of the most talked-about folk groups recently and, as a consequence, I was partly expecting one of those anodyne and purist Radio 2 Folk Award acts, but no – Rachel Unthank And The Winterset are phenomenally good. The two Unthank sisters, Rachel and Becky, have a real engaging charm onstage, and their voices sound better than what I've heard from them on record, Rachel's having a typical cut-glass folk edge, with Becky's huskier and softer – both of them sing in the natural Northumbrian accent, of course. The music they, along with Stef Conner on piano and vocals and Niopha Keegan on fiddle, accordion and voice, create is the real key to their appeal, however. Traditional tracks are simultaneously brought back to their roots and modernised, with one of the accordion-led pieces in particular sounding not unlike a skeletal piece from Nico's avant-drone masterpieces 'The Marble Index' or 'Desertshore'. Conner's piano playing likewise mixes up music hall blowsiness with classical cadences and avant-garde sections, while Keegan's subtle violin brings in more of an Irish feel to many of the songs. Most of the ballads they perform are from the Tyneside folk tradition, including one that appears to be in ancient Geordie dialect. Rachel still gets the crowd joining in on a couple of songs, though, including 'Blue's Gaen Oot O'the Fashion', although she, of course, makes us sing in a Geordie accent. Pretty much all the songs they perform are gloriously sad, as most folk songs are, even if they explore mundane topics like the opening 'On A Monday Morning'. The group also make a habit of covering more recent songs, including Robert Wyatt's timeless 'Sea Song' which, sung by Becky and featuring four-part harmonies at its conclusion, is a fitting tribute, and one which Wyatt apparently appreciates. Finishing with a song about 'Hexham Shire', the group are called back by the devoted crowd to perform an encore (perhaps, following Yeasayer yesterday, the second in the history of The Great Escape?). After performing an a cappella track, once again underpinned by a drone, they are allowed to leave the stage to riotous applause. Uncut's time at The Great Escape couldn't really have ended any better; after that stunning performance, it's time to leave Brighton once and for all. Check out our review of Broken Records and Yeasayer, and our report on the first night featuring Bon Iver, Wild Beasts and No Age.

Wandering round Brighton on my way to see our Uncut night at The Great Escape Festival, it was surprising to see that the humble Pressure Point, our home for the next few days, seemed to have the biggest queue of any venue at that time. No doubt this was because of the opening act, a certain Justin Vernon, aka Bon Iver. Maybe not on Vampire Weekend levels of hype just yet, Bon Iver has certainly been one of the most talked about artists this year. Uncut gave his album, 'For Emma, Forever Ago', top marks but, personally, I haven't been totally convinced. It's a good record, but the relentless uniformity of the sound throughout, including Vernon's multi-tracked falsetto, is a bit too unrelenting. Live, though, I can see what his worshippers are on about – and incidentally, there were certainly many there, including, if I'm not mistaken, excellent dreamy psych-pop duo Beach House standing just in front of me. Coming on to a literally packed house, Vernon began with his debut's opening track 'Flume', complete with sparkly guitar feedback and polite percussion from the two musicians joining him. The uniformity of the record is pretty much overturned live: Vernon uses an electric guitar for much of the set and most tracks end in a fuzzy jam of the kind Thurston Moore wheeled out on his recent shows supporting his 'Trees Outside The Academy' album. 'Creature Fear' and 'The Wolves' are other highlights of the set, during which the crowd are so quiet you can literally hear two people whispering at the back of the room. Ending in the middle of the room with an un-amplified sing-along version of 'Skinny Love', Vernon's off into the night – as, unfortunately, are almost all the audience. As Wild Beasts take the stage next it's clear that tonight was turning into quite a falsetto-fest. Dressed like early '60s dockers (possibly), these Lake District lads play flamboyant, trebly indie topped with untamed screeching falsetto – basically, Mansun performing 'Les Miserables', as horrible/amazing as that sounds. The first few times I heard their forthcoming 'Limbo, Panto' album it was pretty irritating to say the least, but I now seem to have reached that point with difficult records where irritation spills into amazement. Songs like forthcoming single 'The Devil's Crayon' and my personal favourite 'There's Life In The Old Dog Yet' seem to exist in a parallel universe, where Van der Graaf Generator did the soundtrack for 'Saturday Night Fever' and Nico took the lead in 'The Sound Of Music'. For someone just stumbling upon them for the first I imagine it would be a little disturbing, especially as Hayden and bassist Tom's voices tremor and trill over their Orange Juice guitar rattles on the brilliantly-titled 'Brave Bulging Buoyant Clairvoyants'. Even so, they go down pretty well and the rejuvenated crowd seem to enjoy it, but probably not as much as we do. In another eclectic U-turn, LA noise-punks No Age close the night to a crowd nearly as stoked as Bon Iver's. The duo, on guitar and drums/vocals, punctuate their thrashy and trashy songs with looped feedback and ambient samples, so they sound not unlike a Husker Du/Brian Eno mash-up. No Age don't do ballads (surprise, surprise) and every song is pretty much the same – ambient feedback intro/short punk song/ambient feedback outro – but hey, who cares, at least it's a good song. Guitarist Randy also manages to fill out the sound enough with his boxes of tricks so you don't notice the lack of a bass guitar. Highlights include the noisy, shouty 'My Life's All Right Without You' and the, um, noisy and shouty 'Eraser' – when you're as tight a live band as this, with so many visceral thrills to offer a crowd, variety doesn't really matter. Plus, they were selling some pretty cool and pretty cheap No Age t-shirts and sunglasses after the show – what more do you need? The Uncut nights continue at The Great Escape with sets from 'the new Arcade Fire' Broken Records and Brooklyn world-psychers Yeasayer. Check out our blog tomorrow for more on that.

This gig is being recorded for BBC Four and, as with this kind of thing, there’s something slightly odd about tonight’s proceedings. We’re in the splendid hall of a restored 18th century church, sitting around tables, mindful of the cameras and lengths of cables snaking across the floor, practising clapping for the Assistant Stage Manager. If “live” is a spontaneous celebration of the power of rock’n’roll, then we’re a long way from Kansas, Toto. It is, arguably, a somewhat incongruous environment to see Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds play, anyway. They arrive on stage looking like a bunch of bounty hunters from a Cormac McCarthy novel, dragged out of the desert and smartened up for the night. There is a lot of facial hair on display, some of it – particularly in the case of Cave’s General-Adjutant Warren Ellis – impressively wild and straggly. Quite what the original parishioners of St Luke’s would have made of them is anyone’s guess, but you could safely assume there’d be a stampede for the Holy Water. In fact, despite their rather feral demeanour, there’s something incredibly engaging about the band and Cave particularly, whose patter is more stand-up comic than rock star. After asking the 200-strong audience for requests, someone shouts out for “The Carny”. “No, no,” says Cave, shaking his head. “I mean – sure, I can sing it, but these guys…” his voice tails off and he points behind him, shrugging, as if to say ‘You see what I’m lumbered with..?’ Later, apparently bored with Cave’s windly introduction to a song, Ellis mischievously starts coaxing wails of feedback from his guitar, forcing him to start his intro again, twice. And to the songs themselves? We’re treated to a fantastic, career-spanning set, stretching as far back as 1985’s “Tupelo” and framed by "Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!” and “More News From Nowhere”, from the new album. It’s a glorious celebration of Cave’s astonishing body of work with the Bad Seeds, of which a sustained level of quality is key. So we get piano ballads – “Into Your Arms”, “The Ship Song” – hellfire hits “Stagger Lee” and “Deanna” as well as “The Mercy Seat”, “Let Love In”, “God Is In The House”, “We Call Upon The Author” and “Red Right Hand”. No fat, in other words. Cave issues only one stage direction all night – he turns to drummer Jim Sclavunos at the start of “Into Your Arms” and says “Fairly brisk”. Such is the rapport between band members. And they do make for a fairly interesting spectacle; whether it be bassist Martyn P Casey, standing motionless on some kind of plinth all night, or Ellis, gleefully going at his large collection of mandocasters (a 5 string guitar which is tuned in 5ths and has the scale of a violin/mandolin, according to Google). During an almighty version of “Stagger Lee” Ellis dispenses with instruments altogether, opting instead to roll around on the floor bashing away at his effects pedals. Cave, dressed in faintly ridiculous purple striped trousers, throws himself around the stage, leaning in to stab at his keyboards, attack his guitar, or serenade a member of the audience. He’s a brilliant showman, of course, and there comes a point where, perhaps, he realizes the inherent ludicrousness of men of a certain age playing rock music, but never baulks from immersing himself totally in the moment. And then, suddenly, they’re gone, the lights are up, no encore. That being, quite emphatically, the end of that. SET LIST: Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! Red Right Hand Tupelo Midnight Man Let Love In  Deanna God Is In The House Into My Arms Today's Lesson Get Ready For Love Lyre Of Orpheus The Ship Song Moonland The Mercy Seat Call Upon The Author Hard On For Love Stagger Lee More News From Nowhere

It begins looking more or less, as Jack White has argued ad nauseam, like a democracy. White, Brendan Benson and Little Jack Lawrence are clustered around Patrick Keeler’s drum riser, smartly waistcoated, backs to the audience, flexing their metaphorical rock muscles. They’re playing the title track from “Consolers Of The Lonely”, and the way the song switches back and forth between White and Benson, the way their vocals are tracked by harmonies from Lawrence and Mark Watrous, the new keyboards and fiddle player, the power-packed tightness of it all is overwhelming. You can read the full review over at my Wild Mercury Sound blog. Thanks.

It begins looking more or less, as Jack White has argued ad nauseam, like a democracy. White, Brendan Benson and Little Jack Lawrence are clustered around Patrick Keeler’s drum riser, smartly waistcoated, backs to the audience, flexing their metaphorical rock muscles. They’re playing the title track from “Consolers Of The Lonely”, and the way the song switches back and forth between White and Benson, the way their vocals are tracked by harmonies from Lawrence and Mark Watrous, the new keyboards and fiddle player, the power-packed tightness of it all is overwhelming. As this staggeringly good gig progresses, however, something significant and, perhaps, fairly inevitable seems to happen: The Raconteurs are revealed not just as a genuinely great band, but also, emphatically, Jack’s band. The last time I saw them was their first British gig, I think, just before the release of “Broken Boy Soldiers”. They were excellent, of course, but one of the fascinating things was Jack White’s studied discretion. The grand rock theatrics we’d come to expect from years of White Stripes gigs had been toned right down, the better to emphasise that, here, he was just one of the guys. Not any more. I don’t mean to take anything away from Brendan Benson, who’s definitely in fine form here: his showcases, “The Switch And The Spur” and “Many Shades Of Black”, are quite marvellous, for a start. But even then, I find myself irresistibly drawn to White: at the centre of it all; subtly directing affairs with the odd cursory nod of the head towards Keeler; taking all the solos. I could be getting this wrong, but I seem to remember Benson taking the lead vocal on “Steady, As She Goes” originally. Tonight, it becomes White’s song, with a new edge and anger roughing up the mellifluous powerpop. It’s a transformation in keeping with the shift from “Broken Boy Soldiers” to “Consolers Of The Lonely”, of course, as The Raconteurs have so keenly embraced the possibilities of being a grandiose rock band. Even the racey little punk songs like “Hold Up” and “Salute Your Solution”, so notionally close in spirit to old White Stripes, have a pomp and complexity that could be seen as self-indulgent, but actually comes across as totally bracing. What’s apparent, after the mild controversy around the Raconteurs’ press-spurning release scam, is that the songs on “Consolers Of The Lonely” are among the best that White has been involved in. White’s first lead comes with “You Don’t Understand Me”, a fervid expansion on those wounded, indignant piano ballads he’s been finessing over the years in the company of Meg. This time, though, without the vigorous constrictions of The White Stripes, his penchant for florid melodrama can really flourish. On “Top Yourself” and the final encore, the mighty Dylanish “Carolina Drama”, his acoustic strumming is so intense as to be intimidatory, tracked by Benson’s attentive slide. His solos are brittle and explosive, tapping into the electric blues tradition as much as he’s ever done before: there’s even a suitably priapic version of “Little Red Rooster” in the encores. And then there’s “Your Blue Veins”, the last song of the main set, and one which has grown into the Raconteurs’ own “Dazed And Confused”. I’ve seen countless White Stripes shows in the past seven years or so, but I’ve rarely seen White play a more precise and free, high and wild solo as good as this one. His takeover of The Raconteurs, at least in terms of taking the spotlight, is now necessary and complete. On the way out, I hear two guys talking about the show, and one of them saying, in the least hyperbolic terms imaginable, how no-one has played guitar like that since Hendrix. It’s a big claim, and one which I imagine Jimmy Page might have issues with, for a start. But then I can’t remember, in just over two decades of going to gigs, any guitarist I’ve seen regularly who has taken the rudiments of blues playing (I’m excluding people like Thurston Moore and Kevin Shields here; “The Coral Sea” has finally arrived and is playing incongruously as I write, incidentally. More about that next week) and refreshed it so utterly, made the great tradition seem so exhilarating. Anyone else there?