ROCK

From the Desk of: Kydee Wayne, Bernice St. Germain, Arthur S. Westdall, Bertis Smithers, Jean-Luc Marchand, And Bonie Caprese,

Only John Cale would write a jolly song about driving and then put a sound effect of a car crash in the middle. And only John Cale would set it in Italy, with bystanders chattering excitedly in Italian at the road side. Still, from the sound of it, no one is killed.

From the earliest days of the Velvet Underground through a distinguished and diverse career, he's always been a master at combining the melodic with the macabre. At the age of 60, his creative juices have been revitalized by new technology and computers, and working with one of the producers from Lemon Jelly. The results have been released on the excellent 5 Songs E.P. from earlier in the year, and now this full length album. Many of the tracks are more like sound sculptures than songs. And although there is plenty of ingenious and ear catching detail, too many of them share the same slow stately tempo (''Zen'', ''Caravan''). Sometimes it rambles, with lyrics that hover on the edge of pretentiousness. But there is some great stuff here. The aforementioned car crash ''Reading My Mind'', with its cheerful wolf howls and bouncy rhythm is a high point. So is the relaxed pop of ''Denver'', which is also radically remixed as ''Things X''. ''Magritte'', which seems to be about an art theft, really works. Its musical montage unfolds with a disturbing logic, and Cale sings in a cracked, ageing voice creating real drama. ''Over Her Head'' ends the album brilliantly, a sparse piano ballad which suddenly explodes into driving rock complete with groaning viola.

Cale fans will gobble this up. If you are a casual admirer you may find 60 minutes a bit indigestible. But you have to admire his ability, after forty years of making music, to reinvent his working methods and make it all sound fresh. For John Cale, it feels like there's still something at stake.- Nick Reynolds

Let's be unequivocable here. These two albums represent the most important re-releases of the year. Maybe even the decade. Strong words; but necessary in this world of pointless comparison. Yes, the Strokes sure do look like these paragons of New York, new wave cool, but soundwise; its time to listen up. NO ONE ever will or can come close to these recordings. Let's prove it...Guitars: it's impossible to review any Television release without discussing the boy's toys; and TV have two world-class exponents of the craft. Tom Verlaine could (and should) have a book written about his stinging sci-fi tone and dazzling Fender Jaguar explorations. He lies somewhere between Richard Thompson and John Coltrane. Less is said of Richard Lloyd, but anyone who's seen them live will attest to his skill. The first solo on Marquee Moon belongs to him (''See No Evil'') and it's a testament to melodic economy. Verlaine only exceeds him in terms of out-thereness. What, of course, is really important is how the two work together. Underpinned by Fred Smith's redoubtable bass and Billy Ficca's clattering toms, it's part psychedelia, part existentialist verse, part gritty rock 'n' roll voodoo, part sentimental bluster and wholly, radically new. Lumped in with the punk explosion of 77, Television were no three-chord heroes. What set them and their New York contemporaries apart was diversity and stronger links to the past. By the release of Marquee Moon Verlaine and Co. had been together for at least three years and owed as much to their love of Love, Moby Grape and Fairport Convention as to a desire to break the mould. What's more, they really could play. The rapture at finally being able to hear their 1975 debut single ''Little Johnny Jewel'' on CD is only matched by amazement at how weedy and technically faltering it sounds. By 1977 they could play this material in their sleep and were totally unafraid of being captured virtually live in the studio by Zeppelin's engineer, Andy Johns.

Marquee Moon thus burst, seemingly, out of nowhere: a fully-formed masterpiece of electric poetry. No other band at the time could have got away with a ten-minute title track (live, it stretched to nigh on half an hour!) had they not matched the dextrous instrumentation with Verlaine's sneeringly obtuse wordplay. His voice, always verging on the bleatingly awkward, is perfect in this setting. Listen to him spit out the line: 'I start to spin the tale. You complain of my DICtion...' ("Friction").

By Adventure, luxury proved their downfall. Often dismissed as a pale companion to Marquee Moon, it only really suffers from over-attention. New songs seemed to merit a more meticulous production - it took 9 times longer to record - and the edginess was lost. However, material like ''Ain't That Nothin''', ''The Dream's Dream'' and ''Glory'' easily match earlier efforts: the first featuring some of their greatest guitar moments and the second actually benefiting from the extra care involved - all subtle shading and delicate filigree; stately as a saraband. Unfortunately indifference dealt the final blow and the band weren't seen again until 1991: the Orson Welleses of rock. Yet they still gig, and age, indeed, has not withered them one jot. One only wishes for new material. However, if you'd recorded an album as flawless as Marquee Moon wouldn't you be a mite daunted? Rhino are to be applauded. Their re-mastering actually does make these diamonds shine a little harder while extras like the alternative ''Friction'' (more 50's b-movie in its feel) and the actual title track of Adventure make them must-haves for fans. But let's face it: they're just plain simple must-haves. This case is closed.- Chris Jones

Marvin Gaye's most sensual release gets a reappraisal with this special edition of his 1976 album I Want You. This extended version includes previously unreleased takes, alternate and instrumental mixes and snippets of the sensual love songs that were becoming Gaye's forte in the latter half of the Seventies.Many of the tracks on the original release had already been recorded and released by label-mate Leon Ware. Motown boss Berry Gordy offered them up to Gaye, thinking they offered a suitable vehicle for his singular vocal talents.

And make the material his own he surely did. The very real target of his affections was his then wife Jan, whom he conspicuously refers to on the record. It's near the knuckle, personal stuff; no surprise, Marvin was never one to shy away from baring his soul. What delights the most is the chance to hear familiar anthems from brand new perspectives; the stripped down a cappella version of "I Want You" makes the already suggestive grooves even more sensual. Marvin, along with fellow love god Barry White (and the frequent power cuts of the decade), has been blamed for the 1970's pronounced spikes in birth rates. Listening to this you can hear why. The oft quoted myth of Marvin recording most of these vocals laid out on a studio sofa gains further credence from the alternative version of "I Wanna Be Where You Are." It features different lyrics from the original, and is delivered in such a laid back & fragile manner that the great man sounds on the verge of a very deep sleep. One criticism of this 'deluxe' release is that the instrumental versions of some of the tracks, lacking Marvin's expressive voice, verge on the mildly bland easy-listening. But, taken as a whole, this collection is a real treat for aficionados and newcomers alike. It gives us a chance to see Marvin's complex and contradictory character in even more detail than before.- Greg Boraman

English youth has always had a soft spot for ska. From mods to skate punks, via skinheads and crusties - it has never quite gone away. Nor should it; its raucous simplicity is the stuff of life.

This 2 CD compilation looks at both the original Jamaican music and the English Two-Tone revival of the late 1970s and early 80s. Although many of the tracks are familiar to anyone with even a passing interest in this style it's still a refreshing and informative listen. The opening CD is also guaranteed to get any party swinging. (Whether the average age is 6 or 65.) This first disc pulls together some of the more obvious classics that originally boomed out of Jamaican sound systems. The pedant might point out that a lot of the tracks are not ska, a better title might 'Great Jamaican Music from the 60s.' Whatever, it's all good; from the Maytalls' stomping "Monkey Man" to the Paragons' soulful "The Tide is High." Listened to as a whole you can clearly hear a music moving away from its origins in American soul and R 'n' B, to the fully formed reggae style of the 70s. CD-2 explores the ska revival kicked off by Jerry Dammers' Two-Tone record label. This retro movement, tinged with a new wave sensibility, briefly saw British teenagers swept into a world of monochrome clothing and frenetic dance crazes. Some of the finest moments come from the hard bitten and cynical sounds of the The Specials and The Selector, the former's "Ghost Town" is still one of the best pop songs of the Thatcher era. It wasn't all doom and gloom though; Madness & Bad Manners' quirky and humorous approach can still raise a smile. The inclusion of The Lambrettas' "Poison Ivy" and The Piranhas' "Tom Hark" prove that all musical fads are prone to some fairly cynical opportunism. But overall this collection is upbeat, still sounding remarkably fresh; evocative of a time when the 7 inch single was still the most treasured currency of British youth.- Greg Boraman

Duran Duran were given a rapturous reception at their first UK gig for 18 years, which featured the band's original line-up.

Photo: Duran Duran's John Taylor (left) and Simon Le Bon in action at their UK comeback concert

Reunions often sound good in theory, but don't always live up to high expectations. But as a loyal Duranie, I had high hopes that my pop heroes from 1983 could pull it off in 2003 - as did the other 1,999 people at north London's Forum on Tuesday night. Despite rave reviews of their recent comeback shows in Japan and the US, the UK would be the acid test.

The atmosphere was electric inside the venue - this was our chance to see the real thing, the five of them back together on one stage. The venue filled up with groups of nostalgic 30-somethings eagerly flicking through shiny silver programs, and several had already put on their newly acquired tour T-shirts. When the band finally came on stage, it was just as I imagined it would be - helped since they have aged gracefully and kept all their hair. Simon Le Bon was in nostalgic mode too, kitted out in a white jacket and shoes, while Roger Taylor seemed to be wearing the same style of short-sleeved white top I remember from 20 years ago After the odd shaky moment early on - Le Bon was almost drowned out by the rest of the band on a few songs - it all clicked into place and the Duran magic of old was very much in evidence.

During the second half, which included Notorious, Wild Boys, Careless Memories and Rio - each song greeted with wild cheers - the boys were on a roll, to the crowd's delight. At the end, the band beamed at each other as they took a bow. Le Bon seemed overwhelmed as he held his hand to his chest, before waving to the audience one last time. Even the most hardened critic would have to admit that although they may never have been a fan of Duran's music, this was nonetheless a triumphant return.

Marvin Gaye's most sensual release gets a reappraisal with this special edition of his 1976 album I Want You. This extended version includes previously unreleased takes, alternate and instrumental mixes and snippets of the sensual love songs that were becoming Gaye's forte in the latter half of the Seventies.Many of the tracks on the original release had already been recorded and released by label-mate Leon Ware. Motown boss Berry Gordy offered them up to Gaye, thinking they offered a suitable vehicle for his singular vocal talents.

The music industry hates me," chuckles Carina Round, during a lull between songs. It gets a big laugh from an audience liberally sprinkled with music industry types, some of whom look as if they can't quite believe their eyes. Rather than a figure to despise, Round may well be precisely what they have been looking for. Ever since David Gray's multi-platinum success proved there was life in the singer-songwriter genre, major record labels have been looking for some kind of female equivalent. In the past couple of years, they have thrown money at a vast army of bambi-eyed songbirds, to no avail. Each one singularly failed to set the charts alight.

Wolverhampton-born Carina Round seemed to slip through the net, despite being young, beautiful, possessed of a remarkable voice and an intriguing line in emotionally raw songwriting. Instead, she has been quietly releasing her own albums and gaining celebrity endorsements. When she supported Ryan Adams, the alt-country star apparently burst into her dressing room and demanded they write a song together.

Round is far removed from the stereotypical image of the female singer-songwriter as lank-haired, Joni Mitchell-inspired, mellifluous but slightly drippy. Songs such as the current single Into My Blood are both strikingly visceral and strikingly original. The melodies twist and turn unexpectedly, the backing bursts into noisy crescendos, her voice swoops from a gentle bluesy slink into a howl with which you could strip wallpaper. In addition, her onstage persona is so unpackaged, so devoid of spin, as to seem faintly disconcerting. She has a line in inscrutable banter - "I'm sorry you've had to look at my ass all night," she announces at one point. Her finale involves a bizarre cover of The Stooges' I Wanna Be Your Dog, during which Round wildly flaps her arms about and unleashes a series of terrifying screams, actions that somewhat undercut the song's aura of sleazy hedonism. She staggers off stage right, walks straight into one of her backing musicians and ends up bashing her head against a guitar. There's a moment of stunned silence, then a yell of approval from the audience. Tonight at least, the music industry loves her.

Photo: Still flashy after all these years: the reunited original lineup of Duran Duran

An intriguing question hangs over the reformation of Duran Duran's original line-up. Why? What is motivating this unexpected reunion? Are the quintet back to milk the nostalgia market? Or are they trying to prove their musical credibility, long forgotten amid the videos and yachting disasters? At the original quintet's first UK gig since 1984, even Duran Duran seem unsure. Their 1986 hit Notorious mutates into a cover of Sister Sledge's hen-night favorite We Are Family. And they play lots of album tracks, providing a timely, if unwitting reminder that even in the pre-Simon Cowell era, pop bands' album tracks were rarely much cop.

The audience offers the first sighting in two decades of the Duranies, once pop's most fearsome fans. Their middles may have thickened, but their enthusiasm is undimmed. They scream when the band takes the stage and don't let up until Simon Le Bon makes a little speech. It is the little speech that no one at a reunion gig wants to hear, the one that goes: "We're going to play some new material." At most nostalgia shows, that announcement has the audience stampeding to the exits. It's testament to the Duranies' fortitude that most of them stay put. Nevertheless, the new stuff is a slog. More surprisingly, some of the old stuff is a slog, too. Notorious and Is There Something I Should Know? prove that, despite the exotic video locations and dalliances with supermodels, Duran Duran never quite transcended their Brummie roots. Ugly, clumsy and monolithic, their attempts at funk had something of the Bullring about them. Still, the smart pop of Girls on Film and Ordinary World sounds appropriately ageless. And it's hard not to admire the chutzpah that enables Le Bon, now 45, to sing their more recherché lyrics - the deathless "you're about as easy as a nuclear war" and the thought-provoking "don't monkey with my business" - with no hint of a raised eyebrow.

Similarly impressive is the obstinacy that makes the encore Grandmaster Flash's White Lines, a cover so ill-judged it killed their early 1990s comeback stone dead. Not for the first time tonight, you find yourself asking: why?

Big Brovaz are the six hip-poppers from Brixton whose yearning for "Bentleys, Gucci dresses and drop-top Kompressors" was all over the radio recently, in the guise of a rewritten version of My Favouite Things from The Sound of Music. The number-two hit put paid to the Brovaz' claims of urban coolness - not because of the materialism, obviously, but the use of a Julie Andrews song - but put them on the kid-pop map.

And that is where this onetime street-rap collective is likely to remain, love-objects of logo-happy tweenies who lust after the three burly brovaz and admire the three sleek sistaz. How they found themselves closing a week of under-advertised charity shows for Amnesty at a near-empty ICA is a mystery. But whatever they think about performing a glorified PA with no band or DJ they keep to themselves. One stage must look very like another, and by now they can probably walk through this perfunctory set - four singles plus one or two album tracks - in their sleep.

The labor is evenly divided between the boys, who rap, and the girls, who sing. This sparks a lively tension on OK, with the rappers prowling hungrily behind the indulgently smiling singers. During the jittery Nu-Flow, the tension spills over into a full-fledged courtship dance, which would have planted a few ideas in pre-pubescent minds, had any been present. On Favourite Things, lead vocals are shared, providing a showcase for Cherise Roberts's gravel-pit croon and Nadia Shepherd's operatic high notes. This renders the song as quite a little testimony to the joys of avarice. But what's this sheepish postscript from MC Flawless? "Just because you hear us singing about diamonds and rubies in that song, don't think when we were recording the album we had any of that fancy stuff," he says. Hmm - a bit late for Big Brovaz to be chasing credibility, but a not-terrible 30 minutes regardless.

Libertines/ Fiery Furnaces

Rating:

Neighbourhood, London

By Alexis Petridis

There is something disconcerting about the notion of celebrating indie label Rough Trade's 25th anniversary. After all, it was set up amid the iconoclastic ferment of punk rock, intended as a spittle-flecked two fingers to the music industry's institutions. It is probably fair to say that no one who saw the label's first release - a single by an obscure French punk band called Metal Urbain - ever expected Rough Trade to become a venerable institution itself.

But that is precisely what Rough Trade has become. Wildly catholic, never less than fascinating, it has provided a home for everyone from the Smiths and the Strokes, to Scots eccentric Ivor Cutler and drum'n'bass act Spring Heel Jack.

The evening's celebrations comprise sets from four artists signed to the label. The music of the Hidden Cameras wafts delicately around the room. New York singer-songwriter Adam Green is best known as one half of the implausibly irritating "anti-folk" duo the Moldy Peaches, but his solo set evinces a new-found maturity, its songs rooted not in faux-naive rambling but epic late 1960s pop. The Libertines' closing set is rapturously received, but it is chaotic even by their standards - there are vast, uncomfortable gaps between the songs, the sound is ragged and their performances of The Boys in the Band and What a Waster sound as if they could collapse into clattering noise at any moment. But it barely matters. The presence of singer and guitarist Pete Doherty somewhere behind a wall of nervous-looking bouncers, released from prison barely a week ago, lends it a genuine sense of joyous celebration, somewhere between the Sex Pistols at the 100 Club and an end-of-term gig in the school hall. For all their shortcomings tonight - Doherty later calls the set a "ramshackle debacle" - it is impossible not to be swept along in the emotion of the moment.

However, the biggest surprise of the evening turns out to be the opening act. Gallowsbird's Bark, the debut album from the Chicago brother and sister the Fiery Furnaces, is one of 2003's unexpected treats. It is a bizarre, esoteric mix of warped, bluesy garage, off-kilter piano ballads and noisy pop. Live, however, they are a different matter. Singer Eleanor is revealed as a wild-eyed and utterly compelling performer, while the album's quirkiness is transformed into thrilling avant-garde garage rock. Songs tumble into each other, bubblegum melodies fight for space with imponderable lyrics and wildly distorted guitars. It sounds, not inappropriately, like someone playing Rough Trade's entire back catalogue at once.

When REM played in Brixton last June, I went home feeling mildly underwhelmed. But all the reviews were ecstatic, so obviously it was just me (with a little help from the indifferent sound mix, the eccentric choice of material and the funereal vibe of Brixton Academy). Back in town for this 45-minute lunchtime show, however, the band seemed focused and energized.

Opening with a ferociously punky Bad Day, one of two new pieces on the album, they blasted through a 10-song set as if they had suddenly rediscovered a forgotten pocket of the chaotic vigor that fired them up back in the early 1980s, when packed and sweaty clubs like this one were their habitat.

Michael Stipe has long since abandoned the mystical Appalachian-style moaning with which he used to mangle his lyrics, and he has also mastered the fine art of controlling a performance. He urged the crowd to give his croaky throat a helping hand on the high notes of Imitation of Life, so they obliged by bawling out the "C'mon, c'mon" bits. During a plaintive and shimmering treatment of Man on the Moon, Stipe extended a healing hand over the front rows to conduct them through the "Yeah, yeahs". A brief anecdote about oversleeping prefaced an invigorating charge through Get Up. Having a catalogue stretching back 20-odd years means they have plenty of rabbits to pull out of the hat, and the nicest surprise here was a perfectly paced reappraisal of World Leader Pretend ("We love this song," Stipe explained). But equally gratifying was the other new song, Animal, a powerful drone of sound riding on Peter Buck's Ticket to Ride-style guitar figure. Short sets at lunchtime with plentiful supplies of beer? Why did nobody think of this before?

Bonnie Prince Billy

Rating:

Cecil Sharp House, London

By Sylvie Simmons

Songs of God, murder, love, death, incest and cunnilingus. Those last two aside, you can see why Johnny Cash covered Will Oldham's song I See a Darkness. The version that Oldham - alias Bonnie Prince Billy - sings shortly before the end of an almost two-hour solo set is given a new arrangement. It is serene, almost sweet, with the most pure and elegant vocals and the most muted and minimal guitar. But then the Louisville, Kentucky singer-songwriter always could do warm and tender. It only made his sparse, perverse, sombre hillbilly blues all the more spooky by contrast.

Cecil Sharp House is the home of the English Folk Dance and Song Society, but Oldham's is a decidedly scarier brand of folk than the domestic variety: this is what happened when English pastoral got dragged across the Atlantic and deep into the Appalachians. As for the dancing, Oldham obliges with eccentric Pythonesque leg-lifts and shuffles. Making up the set list as he goes along, he asks the audience for requests and questions, all the while stroking the autoharp (a sort of zither) with which he accompanies the first eight songs of the show. The instrument is a relatively new addition - Oldham started playing it a few months back while opening for Björk, and seems taken with its simplicity and sparkle. When someone in the crowd asks what it is, he shoots back: "It's an extension of my right rib cage. My father was a piano, it's all I have left of him. I have my mother's eyes." He also has a forehead higher than a tower block and copious whiskers, although the huge Deliverance beard has been reduced to a rather obscene tuft.

Occasionally he will stop and explain a lyric ("hosing", mentioned in a song about the life-enhancing qualities of death, we are told "means making love"), or break into a whistle or howl, dividing up the starker material with twisted folk singalongs like Just to See My Holly Home and the fine A King at Night. Oldham's live performances can be unpredictable, but here, on this unassuming stage, in a place so quiet you can hear a bottle drop, he is clearly enjoying himself. The result is magical.