A conversation last week about REM’s South By Southwest show resulted, yesterday afternoon, in me digging out my old copy of “Reckoning”. Apparently, they’d played “Second Guessing” (as well as “Auctioneer” from “Fables Of The Reconstruction”) at the show so, in preparation for the Albert Hall gig, I thought I’d revisit the album. Sorry to be a tease, but the rest of this review is over at my regular blog, Wild Mercury Sound.

A conversation last week about REM’s South By Southwest show resulted, yesterday afternoon, in me digging out my old copy of “Reckoning”. Apparently, they’d played “Second Guessing” (as well as “Auctioneer” from “Fables Of The Reconstruction”) at the show so, in preparation for the Albert Hall gig, I thought I’d revisit the album. It still sounded fantastic, as you’d imagine. But it also made me feel better about only awarding “Accelerate” three stars in the last issue of Uncut. Every other review I’ve seen of the new album has given it four, and while it’d be a mistake to get preoccupied with the decisions of other critics, I did wonder a little: was “Accelerate”, as I thought, merely a good record? Or was it, as some others were saying, right up there with REM’s finest work? One quick play of “Reckoning” made me think that I was right to be a little circumspect in my praise. And I have to say, last night’s gig confirmed it. I’ve been seeing REM live fairly regularly for the past 20 years, and the Royal Albert Hall last night was the show I’ve enjoyed least, by some distance. It’s weird, thinking that “Up” and “Reveal”-era shows could have been better than one predicated on a much better album. In a swift 75 minutes, REM bash through nine of “Accelerate”’s 11 tracks. But the problem is, they really do bash through them. “Living Well’s The Best Revenge” might make a fantastic helter-skelter opening to the album, but here it begins the show too quickly, too heavily and, thanks to the Albert Hall’s historically moody acoustics, too murkily. There’s a distinct sense that this is a band working very hard to appear revitalised, especially a trim and engaged Peter Buck flinging himself around the stage. As they charge through the songs, however, the idea that this is an exultant return to what they do best seems less noteworthy than the prevailing air of professionalism. Here are five men in suits preparing some good new songs for a summer in the planet’s stadiums and arenas; beefing them up, battering the quicksilver charm out of them. The chief culprit in all this, I think, is Bill Rieflin, whose steroidal drumming style was a distraction on that “REM Live” set from last year. Even on something as austere as “Houston”, his tricksy style makes me long for the stealth and economy of Joey Waronker, never mind the magisterial Bill Berry. It is Rieflin who seems to be pushing the tempo along at a rare clip, so that the dynamism of many of the new songs – the exhilarating rush of “Accelerate” is one of its chief assets – is overplayed. Some survive, of course: “Man Sized Wreath”’s jagged thrust is still powerful. The sneaky punch of “Hollow Man” is effective, not least because of the minuscule but marvellous Byrds break conducted by Buck and Scott McCaughey. And “Horse To Water” is breathlessly terrific, perhaps benefiting from the sound engineers having had 55 minutes to sort out the mix following the muffled “Living Well’s The Best Revenge”. That, more or less, is the new album sorted out. It pains me to get into a fannish rant about the selection of old songs, not least because I don’t want to be one of those clichéd old fans who listen to “Reckoning” before a gig and then drone on about how REM were much better in the ‘80s, before most people had the audacity to start liking them. But it seems that the band have backed themselves into a strange position here, having tacitly encouraged the “return to form” propaganda that surrounds “Accelerate”. Most reviews – mine included – placed the new record as being squarely – calculatedly, you might suspect – in the tradition of “Lifes Rich Pageant” and “Document”. Tonight, though, it seems as if REM have chosen to try and reassert the quality of their later work. The oldest song they play, in fact, is “Losing My Religion”, an admittedly wonderful version that involves Mike Mills going walkabout in the audience while Buck busies himself over his mandolin. Besides that, there’s “Drive” (with Michael Stipe yelping “Nobody tells you what to do,” disruptively), “Electrolite” (“Our Valentine to the 20th Century”, quicker than usual), “Final Straw” (quicker, again, and greeted with the sort of cheers that suggest at least some REM fans liked “Around The Sun”) and “The Great Beyond” (“This was a request – from me,” admits Stipe and, yeah, it’s a good song, but come on). One of my mild criticisms of “Accelerate” was that it seemed to me the album REM felt obliged to make, rather than the one they necessarily wanted to make, so at least this refusal to dust down those ‘80s songs is a good way to flaunt their awkwardness and pride. It’d be disingenuous to suggest I wasn’t frustrated, though, not least when the live feed to Radio 2 ends, and the band return for encores. “We’re off the radio now, so we can do whatever we want to,” announces Stipe, promisingly. “Second Guessing”? “Auctioneer”? No. What REM want to do is play a lead single off a recent album (“Imitation Of Life”), a track from the new album (the admittedly fine “Until The Day Is Done”, and the third one that Stipe has ostentatiously called “A beautiful song” tonight), talk for ten minutes about their experiences of the Albert Hall (Stipe discusses his beautiful suit and appears to be less contrived than usual, as if this season’s tour persona has yet to be fully formulated) and, finally, one of their biggest hits (“Man On The Moon”). It’s good, but it doesn’t feel quite good enough. And it all leaves me with the impression of a band who are anxious to exploit and redeploy the astonishing riches of their history, but who also seem oppressed by that burden. SETLIST 1 Living Well’s The Best Revenge 2 Accelerate 3 Drive 4 Man Sized Wreath 5 Electrolite 6 Houston 7 Hollow Man 8 Supernatural Superserious 9 Final Straw 10 Losing My Religion 11 The Great Beyond 12 I’m Gonna DJ 13 Horse To Water 14 Imitation Of Life 15 Until The Day Is Done 16 Man On The Moon

First nights are never what they’re cracked up to be, right? You’re always worrying what’s going to go wrong, and if enough people will turn up – after all, it’s the night before Good Friday. We needn't have worried, though. When we entered the Borderline last night, just off London’s Tottenham Court Road, there was already a healthy crowd waiting for Liz Green to kick off the inaugural Club Uncut. With her steady classical guitar playing at times conjuring up an Appalachian flavour, Green was free to weave tales with her warbling, unusual voice, reminiscent of late New York legend Karen Dalton. The crowd were perhaps quite awestruck by the intimacy of Green’s performance, not least when she put down her guitar, stepped off the stage and walked around the venue, continuing a song a capella and flailing her arms like an extra from ‘The Wicker Man’. For her finale, she again untangled herself from her classical and microphone and disappeared up the stairs to the exit, singing as she went. Stealth may also be one of her talents, as we never saw her return. Swede Peter Von Poehl’s performance was a distinct change from Liz Green’s. Where her songs are earthy, solid chunks of sound, Von Poehl’s creations are lighter, flightier and dreamier, owing more to textured musicians like Air, and the more plaintive chanson-laced pop songs of Francoise Hardy and Michel Polnareff. Performing on a variety of stringed instruments and backed by a drummer and organist, Von Poehl was captivating. ‘The Story Of The Impossible’ was performed solo, with the singer on acoustic guitar, while the title track of his debut album, ‘Going To Where The Tea-Trees Are’, was given a lusher treatment, complete with reverbed waves of organ and some kind of baritone ukulele. Even better was the metronomic, harmonica-led ‘Little Creatures’, which sounded nearly as complex as it does on record. Hidden behind drapes of blonde hair and barely muttering a word between songs surely didn’t hinder the air of mystery about Von Poehl either. It was a pleasure to see him live, to see him finally put emotional meat on the slicker bones of his album. By the time our headliner Dawn Landes took the stage, the Borderline was packed. Accompanied by a skilled but subtle drummer with a glorious mountain-man beard, Landes, whose stock has been rising in Americana and folk scenes over the last year, began with a haunting cover of Tom Waits’ death ballad ‘Green Grass’, then proceeded to turn her hand to her own material – aside from a sweet cover of Francoise Hardy’s ‘Tous Les Garconnes Et Les Filles’, that is. Sporting a red woolly hat (has it really been that cold in London?) matching her bright red top, Landes cut a striking figure. Her voice is a lilting and mercurial one, strong and deeply professional, without being stilted or mannered. When she sang lines in rapid-fire succession she sounded like a grand old dame of country, while slowing her delivery brought her tone closer to Chan Marshall or Feist. The latter’s chirpier songs are a fitting reference point for Landes’ more energetic tracks, where she straps on an electric guitar and seemingly attempts to take on The Black Keys and The White Stripes at their own game with her stomping blues. Her backwoods accompanist added backing vocals to the twinkling ‘Twilight’ when Landes returned to acoustic guitar, ending her set to great applause. A glamorous, but still edgy, talent – particularly live, where she really shines – Landes was a perfect end to the night. So what of first night hiccups? Well, surprisingly, there weren’t any, with the Borderline packed to the rafters with appreciative fans looking for some Easter entertainment and three fantastic, very unique acts. Roll on next month.

I didn’t plan to blog today, fancying a computer-free Easter weekend and all, but this morning I felt compelled to write about Dawn Landes’ show at our first Club Uncut last night. A few days ago, I think I described her as being some kind of cross between Chan Marshall and Laura Veirs. Well, I got that completely wrong. Landes’ recent album, “Fireproof”, seemed pretty enough to me, if a little prim. But her live show is something else. In the current pantheon of vaguely rootsy, vaguely alternative female singers, I guess the best comparison would be with Jenny Lewis, or, at a push, Neko Case: Landes certainly works in this bracket, with an exuberance and forthright tone rather than po-faced discretion. Consequently, there’s never a hint of the preciousness or earnestness that can sometimes afflict alt-country, and a real swing that really comes to the fore when she swaps her acoustic for an electric. Landes is accompanied by a drummer with a threatening beard and, occasionally, a harmonica and music box, and the combination of his hearty thump with her fuzzy, racing guitar often reminds me of something like The Black Keys: the best song from “Fireproof”, “Bodyguard”, is now a faintly bluesy prowl rather than a pensive groove. It’s a fantastic transformation, and the heaviness is so well deployed that it never smothers the songs or overwhelms Landes’ notably powerful voice. At one point, there’s even a vague affinity with Neil Young circa “Tonight’s The Night”, with that strangely vivid, ragged plod. Oh, and she does neat covers of Tom Waits and Taj Mahal, and skips the whimsical bluegrass cover of Peter, Bjorn & John’s “Young Folks” which initially made her name. Got to say, I didn’t miss it. Thanks to everyone who came down to the Borderline, anyway – it was a pretty busy night, and Liz Green played a nice set, too. And while I don’t want to change the blog into some kind of Club Uncut advertorial, I have a really interesting night lined up for April – more news about that next week, I promise.