Prinzhorn Dance School (self titled)

Nomadic duo Prinzhorn Dance School’s eponymous debut is one of the rawest efforts you’re likely to hear this year, its primitive rhythm-driven aura resurrecting the most unrefined facets of the post-punk era. However, its one that remains almost constantly alluring, with nods to cult legends the Fall and Wire, and a strong DIY ethos amidst the simple bass-driven melodies.

Toby Prinz and Suzi Horn share vocal and drum duties, with the latter providing that driving bass and the former the few chords of wiry guitar that are thrown into the mix, coming across like a half-speed Futureheads. The pair remain reclusive and shadowy, as in their formative days, when they would pick and choose where to send their handful of demos, before a chance sighting of a flier saw one winging its way to the world-famous EMI subsidiary, New York’s DFA. A contract followed, and their first album was recorded in cottages and barns across the English countryside, the DFA influence inevitably meaning it has been expertly produced.

Their press release rambles on about provincial demigods like Ray Davies and Morrissey, but although Prinzhorn Dance School also conjure up a picture of an England that only England knows (dilapidated leisure centres, Travelodges and rubbish libraries), its again done in a minimalist, pragmatic fashion, the simple (if lazy) comparison to Mark E Smith and the Fall again carrying more weight than those to any Kinks or Smiths song.

Prinzhorn Dance School still have enough ideas of their own to render the album worth a listen though, although whether there’s enough to stretch over sixteen tracks is open to debate. There’s less anger than in a E Smith vocal, a more vacant, eerie style preferred on top of the running-on-empty tunes.

One other important differentiation from the Fall is that the duo are very much that, a duo. Whilst the oft-egotistical Smith has hired and fired dozens of band members over the past thirty or so years, usually to the detriment of the group, the Dance School ethic is focussed very much upon a co-operative effort, something that is demonstrated in the tight collaboration of the two main instruments and the mutual vocals. These taut soundscapes, coupled with the observational lyricism, can create a bleak picture of 21^st Century Britain, closer to Blade Runner than any green and pleasant land, but nevertheless its one that draws you in, and manages to entertain you with its stripped-down pessimism.

Leeds festival 2007

Thursday

Hands blistering from our ridiculously heavy bags, the last two of us finally discover our mates, who set up camp yesterday, near the rave-in-disguise that is the Duracell tent. It’s been a pain in the arse so far, with queues for shuttle buses snaking half way around Yorkshire, festival staff giving useless directions, and the decision to put the tent where you actually get your festival wristband in a baffling location miles away from the stupidly small entrance.

Putting our gripes aside, and with our tent precariously fastened to a fence in the seeming absence of its pegs, we set about our Clear Spirit (apparently, Tolstoy isn’t actually vodka) and I eventually end up drink driving (in a dodgem, I’m not that daft).

Friday

A combination of whiplash from last night, and a load more alcohol, means that I’m carried back to our tent shortly after Jamie T’s energetic set. I can remember that Sheila goes out with her mate Stella, and that I quite enjoyed myself, but that’s about it. If you were around the NME Tent today, I was the one trying to walk at a 45 degree angle.

I also saw the Sunshine Underground, or so I’m told.

Saturday

Attempting to make up for yesterday’s lack of music, I’m at the main stage for 12 for the Pipettes. Glorious summer music will always work better in glorious summer, and thankfully that’s what we’ve got, as the do-wop trio, all hand claps and polka dots, coyly work the crowd. With perfect tunes, fashions and live voices (though their dancing becomes disjointed), it’s unfathomable why they aren’t massive.

Equally glamourous is the Long Blonde’s Kate Jackson, and they’re next up for me, again on the main stage. A few surprising omissions (there’s no Separated by Motorways or Giddy Stratospheres) don’t detract from a solid set. They’re a band that always seems better than the sum of their parts, as Jackson’s image and Dorian Cox’s guitars and worldly lyrics combine to overcome weaknesses in the rhythm section.

A few pints, then its time for Maximo Park, who appear somewhat workmanlike in a disappointing set, which is also let down by poor sound quality. All of the hits are there, and Paul Smith is his usual star-jumping self, but something’s missing (not his bowler hat though, obviously).

It's sweltering by now, but Interpol are way too cool for any of this sunburn lark, a typically gloomy set played impeccably, their stage presence derived from the fact they barely bother to move at all, bassist Carlos D underlining his status as the coolest man in rock. Its dark, brooding stuff, and you couldn’t have it any other way.

Kings of Leon are more forthcoming, and are simply stunning. Tighter than their famed jeans, they tear through one of the longest sets of the festival with barely a pause. Proving their worth as musicians whilst still managing to entertain a massed crowd, they are one of the weekend’s undoubted highlights.

Having been split up from everyone else during KOL, I pop in on Brand New in one of the tents. After two songs they appear to me as they are on record; equal parts visceral energy and introspective shoegazing. The latter bores me horribly after the highs of the Followill lads, so our tents and the remainder of tonight’s Carling seem a better option for now.

Johnny Borrell’s Ego is headlining, so we’re off to wander aimlessly around camp sites instead.

Sunday

Crystal Castles are first today in the Dance Tent, their entertaining electro brushing away the hangovers, their frontwoman scaring us witless in the process.

Brakes’ variation of pop-punk, country, indie-rock and the tune-and-a-half that is All Night Disco Party is enjoyable enough to begin with, but when its coupled with the world’s shortest and bluntest protest song (“Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, STOP BEING SUCH A DICK!”) and some pineapples, it becomes the hidden gem of my weekend.

Criticised in the past for lacking presence in smaller venues, I’m apprehensive as to how the Shins will transfer to the vast open spaces of the main stage. I need not have worried, as they produce a stellar performance, helped by the continuing sunshine. Its about this time that we began to think we may actually melt.

Bloc Party are a massive letdown; dull in the extreme. Fans blame the sound set-up, but their insipid 45-minutes is soulless and tuneless, and an awful way to prepare for what many say should be the headliners.

The best band in the world.

Arcade Fire.

As mental and multi-instrumental as we’ve come to expect, Win and Reg busting guts with their vocals as every member scampers about the stage with abandon, their myriad equipment used to full effect. The sun sets as they rise, with even weaker album tracks becoming central parts of the set, and closing track Wake Up (apt for the assembled Chili Pepper fans trying to look disinterested) is an out-of-body experience. Sell your granny to see them live.

The furious, frenetic Chk Chk Chk are our last band of the weekend, and there are far worse ways to bow out as they ensure there’s no way we’re about to tire at this late stage. Mixing their shorter, more punkish singles from last release Myth Takes with more sprawling efforts, they tear the dance tent up in a way that would put many rock bands to shame.

Once that’s over, and after more have spilled out from RHCP’s mammoth two-hour slot, the traditional/inevitable carnage ensues. Tents are torched, fences are trashed, and I start to count down the days until I next see Arcade Fire.

M.I.A. - Kala

If you name your first album after your militant father, pepper it with references to the PLO and the Tamil Tigers, and throw a thinly-veiled accusation of paedophilia towards R Kelly while you’re at it, you can’t fail to cause a stir.

Fortunately, M.I.A.’s 2005 effort Arular wasn’t just all talk. Whilst unmistakably part of grime’s short-lived excursion into the mainstream, its Asian influences, political awareness and dry humour, along with the usual urban references, marked it out as something special.

Two years on, Mathangi Arulpragasam, the British born US resident of Sri Lankan descent, returns with Kala, irked to be seen as just another project for sometime cohort Diplo. Despite the constant attribution to the Miami DJ, production duties are shared between a number of collaborators, with M.I.A. herself taking on much of the burden. Unsurprisingly, this does mean that the ever tiresome Timbaland turns up, though fortunately this lone dip in quality , Come Around, is left until last; sadly taking the edge off the stunning precursor, Paper Planes.

Few people are as entitled to sample the Clash as M.I.A., her constant two fingers to the establishment embodying the spirit of punk in a way that will surely have the always eclectic Joe Strummer looking down in admiration, and hanging said track on Straight to Hell (from the aptly titled Combat Rock) works perfectly. So too does the use of lyrics from Pixies’ Where is My Mind on $20, which takes on an even more haunting role than normal after initially pulling the rug from under your feet.

Opener Bamboo Banger is relentless, setting the pace for the rest of the album, rarely letting up through the likes of Down River or XR2. Lead single Boyz sounds as fresh as ever, and the rest of the record lives up to the hype created when it originally landed sometime in April. However, its follow up Jimmy which could attract the most attention. A Bollywood cover version with an unashamed 80s pop feel, it’s a track which brims with confidence and kitsch sub-continental charm.

Its not just M.I.A.’s Sri Lankan heritage and South London upbringing which is evident in the beats though; African tribal rhythms, Brazilian baille funk and even hints of Aboriginal wood sections all appear, forming a multicultural melting point befitting her diverse roots.

Her lyrics also again swing from the political and subversive (“I put people on the map that never seen a map”, “The war in me makes a warrior”) to the comic and peculiar, (“I like fish and mango pickle”) via an intriguing mix of both (“I’m an illegal / I don’t pay tax tax / EMA? / Yes, I’m claiming that that”), ensuring that her undoubtedly opinionated style never becomes too trite or sanctimonious.

Difficulties at Customs due to her occasionally dubious beliefs may create too much controversy for daytime radio acceptance, but when major label money is continually shunted behind the wanton homophobia and sexism of may rap ‘stars’, surely there’s room for M.I.A.?

After all, a finer album you’d be hard pressed to find this year.