I've been promising to write about this Robert Wyatt album for quite a while now, I'm aware. But it's been hard to blog about this one. Not because of any problems with the music - it's wonderful, actually. The problem I'm finding is that listening to "Comicopera" is a kind of immersive experience, so much so that it's hard to come out of it with a critical angle. You know those photos of jazz musicians from the '50s and '60s? Blue Note sleeves, Herman Leonard portraits, the ones where the musician looks away from the lens, absorbed, while a coil of cigarette smoke is caught in low lights? That's what "Comicopera" reminds me of. There's always been a jazz element to Wyatt's music, of course, but "Comicopera" goes beyond that, so that it seems imbued with a particular, romantic jazz atmosphere: a somnambulent fug, maybe. Following the pattern of "Cuckooland" from a few years back, Wyatt (I assume it's him, anyway: I have no credits right now) is playing more and more trumpet, allowing his horn to pick up the high notes that he can no longer quite reach. One of the many charms of "Comicopera" is how his trumpet and voice seep into one another, both gracefully disintegrated instruments. On the title track and in many other places, Wyatt hums wordlessly over a crepuscular ambient hum, and it can be hard to tell when he's playing and when he's singing. This is the prevailing vibe. Drums are brushed indolently, and some earlyish Miles Davis sides have clearly been worn out over the years. "Do Us A Favour" feels like a primitive, Anglicised response to "So What?", with the perpetually puzzled Wyatt expressing a certain envy for those who have religious faith. "Just As You Are", meanwhile, is an extraordinarily tender duet (with a singer I can't place, sorry, though she sounds like a warm Nico, if you can imagine that) about enduring love, clearly intended for Alfreda Benge. Or possibly written by her, come to think of it. I'll fill in some of these gaps when the credits turn up, I promise. Occasionally, there's a break in this enveloping atmosphere. "Beautiful Peace" begins with Wyatt exclaiming, "Oh look, there's a dead rabbit; all flat!", then becomes a warm, ambling strumalong, much more simple and direct than his usual meticulously layered sound. "Something Unbelievable" is dense and cloudy, but edgier and more dissonant than usual, built around a series of escalating, jolting organ stabs. By the end, Wyatt pretty much abandons English, with a string of Spanish songs. "Pastafari" is a lovely and curious piece on, I think, vibes, and finally, "Hasta Siempre" suggests Wyatt is belatedly auditioning for one of those many empty spots in the Buena Vista Social Club. He'd be a great recruit, of course: how many other British singers have continued such a sympathetic, long and open-minded love affair with the possibilities of song, and can summon up melancholy and enduring passion with such mature guile? This is a beautiful album, and I should listen to it some more.

I was talking recently to fellow Uncut Bob fanatic Damien Love, ostensibly about a feature we are working on together for Uncut’s looming 10th anniversary issue. Pretty soon, however, the conversation had drifted somewhat in the direction of Dylan bootlegs – the alternative Bob universe, if you like – and what might be the best of them. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7i1rG610fWU

I just noticed this morning that Jack White has two albums coming out on June 18. There's the White Stripes' "Icky Thump", and then there's "Hentch-Forth.Five" by The Hentchmen. I have a few Hentchmen records somewhere at home, and they're full-blooded, uncomplicated garage rock, typical of all those Detroit records I bought around 2001. This one eluded my grasp, though, with good reason. "Hentch-Forth" originally came out in 1998, limited to 1,000 vinyl copies. I wonder how much those vinyl discs are worth now? Because it transpires that, for this album, The Hentchmen were augmented by Jack White. There he is on the back cover. The three Hentchmen are posing stiffly in thrift shop jumpers, trying very hard to look like they sound - ie like a geeky/deranged high school band from 1965. A boyish Jack, meanwhile, is stood a few paces away. He is dressed in black, with a sort of short back and sides cut, cigarette by his side. He is glaring at his bandmates, evidently keen that people realise that while he's happy to play with these dorks, he's not actually one of them. It's a great picture, and the record's not bad either - though whether I'd ever choose to play most of it ahead of, say, "Nuggets" is doubtful. The Hentchmen are a guitar/organ/drums combo, and Jack mainly adds bass, ironically, to these punchy ramalams. Listen out for him on a bash through the Yardbirds' "Psycho Daisies", though. Just as the White Stripes are beginning their career, here's White on guitar, already playing those shrill, spluttery leads - a kind of ecstatic punctuation - which would become his trademark. Also in the post today was the new EP by Joanna Newsom. Newsom has never really struck me as a fan of puns, but this one is called "Joanna Newsom & The Ys Street Band". It's making the point that, unlike "Ys" itself, this EP features her touring band instead of the full Van Dyke Parks-and-orchestra trip. "Cosmia" from "Ys" is here, in its stripped-back, live form - proof that there's substance to these marvellous songs beyond the opulent instrumental packaging. Most interesting, though, is a new song called "Colleen", which she played on her UK tour in January. It's a frenzied Celtic jig where her resemblance to Kate Bush is more pronounced than ever. Unlike "Ys", this music feels more immediate, for all its complexity ("Colleen" is a bit shorter than most "Ys" songs, but it still gallops through a bunch of radically different passages, still evades corny old verse-chorus-verse) it doesn't sound like Newsom has spent two years fretting over every note. That perfectionism was one of the glories of "Ys", but "Colleen" proves that something approaching spontaneity works for her, too. Amazing stuff.

It ends, pretty much, with fireworks and Sinatra, somewhat appropriate, you would think, for a film series that privileges Vegas cool over substance like the Oceans movies do. And that's not a criticism, not by any means. Regular readers of this blog might have picked up recently on my gripes directed at this year's batch of blockbusters -- particularly Spiderman 3 and Pirates Of The Caribbean 3. The red mist has risen somewhat at the filmmakers' risible attempts to bring gravitas and mythic stature to what, essentially, are 4-colour comic book characters or theme park rides. Stephen Soderbergh's Oceans movies, thankfully, have never attempted to be anything other than gossamer-light brain candy: cool people in expensive clothes doing wonderful things in beautiful locations. Chin, chin, and pass the olives. There's something incredibly refreshing about watching George Clooney and Brad Pitt, dressed to the hilt in retro-lounge wear, swanning round Vegas as they plan to rip-off Al Pacino's nasty casino owner. They're clearly having a hoot, and at no point does anyone dwell on anything more profound than working out where the next Martini is coming from. There's a great scene in an earlier Oceans movie that finds George and Brad watching an episode of Happy Days dubbed into a foreign language. In what appears to be a natty bit of improvisation, they start to dissect the cultural relevance of dubbed Seventies' sitcoms. You could, frankly, watch them do this kind of thing all day, such is the charming, easy-going cameraderie that passes between them. In fact, it would make a brilliant TV show in its own right: each week, George and Brad watch an episode of a classic sitcom in real time and their thoughts and observations are beamed into homes around the world. I'd watch it. Beats Orlando Bloom's rather bloodless attempts at swashing a buckle in Pirates any day. There's a comparable scene in Ocean's Thirteen, where Brad walks into George's hotel room to find him wiping a tear from his eye. Turns out, he's watching Oprah on TV, and soon the two men -- icons of contemporary cinematic cool, no less -- are blubbing like babies as a particularly heartwrenching tale of human tragedy unfolds before their eyes on the television screen. It's these moments that make the Oceans movies. Sure there's a plot, but I'm damned if I can remember a thing about it. It's all about watching these people have fun, with a warmth that brings you into their orbit. If Ocean's Twelve lacked the polish and wit of its predecessor, this is a return to the freewheeling fun of Soderbergh's original. Pacino finds himself in one scene opposite both Andy Garcia, his Godfather 3 co-star and Ellen Barkin, who he played opposite in Sea Of Love. It's a nice little movie joke touch, and one of the many things that adds to the warmth and humour of this movie. Ocean's Thirteen opens this Friday in the UK

To Cargo in East London last night, for the long-awaited UK debut (by me, at least) of Oakley Hall. If you've not come across them before, Oakley Hall are a six-piece from Brooklyn who play a kind of driving, euphoric country psych. The two albums they released last year indicated that they were probably a pretty roistering live band. And fortunately, they are. They begin with a pounding motorik beat, two needling guitars running rings round each other, a leaping fiddle, and some very Gram'n'Emmylou harmonies. The song is "Volume Rambler" from the "Second Guessing" album, if memory serves, and as usual at this point, I'd be quite keen for it to go on for another 20 minutes. Oakley Hall have a bunch of songs like this - "Hiway", "If I Was In El Dorado" - but they're also getting better at ballads, too. There's a great one they play which will apparently be on the new album, out in August in the States. We've been championing the band for a year and a half now, and have placed a couple of songs on our free CDs. They haven't got a UK deal for the new album yet, though things seem to be happening in the States. The new one is coming out on Merge, home to The Arcade Fire and Lambchop, and frontman Pat Sullivan tells me that they've just come off a big tour supporting Bright Eyes and the wonderful Gillian Welch. Conor Oberst, he says, would spend three minutes each night telling the audience that Oakley Hall were his favourite band. And frankly, you can see his point. Sullivan reckons they'll be back in the autumn, when hopefully the album will be out over here. Oh yeah, I just remembered my shit pun: Neu! Riders Of The Purple Sage. I'll go now.