London

Well-read Northerners – and recent Lady Gaga remixers – Wild Beasts get their two-night stand at SBE underway beneath bars of flame-grill lighting. Nearing the end of a year that's seen them once more bask in the critical limelight (as well as scale new commercial heights), they're here to air their stylish songs of searing lust, which perfectly capture the dark melancholy that so often accompanies the ecstasies of carnal obsession. They are four Cumbrians, as they remind us on early single 'The Devil’s Crayon', from The Lake District’s Kendal hub. Their recent third LP of assured baroque pop, Smother, may be a somewhat more restrained affair than 2008’s Limbo, Panto and '09’s Mercury Prize-nominated Two Dancers, but that hasn't stopped some commenters from dubbing it one of "indie rock’s great humping albums".

The band set up with dual synthesizers facing each other, neatly bisecting the stage - a tactic which, while perhaps unusual, possibly serves to dilute their in-situ charisma. Frontman Hayden Thorpe nevertheless does his literate, ribald tales justice on crowd-pleasers like ‘We Still Got The Taste Dancin' on Our Tongues’, his right leg constantly circling behind him, almost as though he’s wearing a skate and is stood over a tiny patch of ice. The singer's bass lines, meanwhile, pump in the foreground like lead guitar - just as Peter Hook’s used to in Joy Division. His vocal style recalls the fervid lyricism of Jeff Buckley cut with the falsetto of The Associates’ Billy Mackenzie.

Guitarist and keyboard player Tom Fleming assumes lead singing duties on the title track from the group's aforementioned second album, following the song’s atmospheric opening. His voice is a Scott Walker-reminiscent baritone - something that makes his more recent vocal turn on Smother cut ‘Deeper’ almost literally appropriate. And his own dancing – a kind of hop that gives the (presumably misleading!) impression of someone desperate to siphon the python – contrasts with Thorpe’s more stately presence. Elsewhere, ‘Albatross’ sees both vocalists facing each other at the keyboards to share the lead.

As this writer has previously found, you need to give WB's grandeur time to work its spell: indeed, when encountering the band for the first time (especially in a live setting), their songs have an unfortunate tendency to bleed into one another. Perhaps as a result of this, and in spite of the obvious cupidity of their material, the overall feel tonight is slightly studious; it's all just a bit stilted at times, and never quite erupts into the banquet of raw excitement that might have been hoped for. Nonetheless, the sterling likes of 'Hooting & Howling' and 'The Fun Powder Plot' do eventually get the crowd bringing their hands together in time with Chris Talbot’s stomping bass drum.

The best is primarily left until last, with the chirpy pop rhythms of Smother highlight 'Reach A Bit Further', followed by an encore of crowd favourite 'Lion’s Share' alongside 'All The King's Men' (their "song about virginity"), making for a strong finish. Thorpe and co. then depart the stage to the strains of their now-customary send-off, 'End Come Too Soon', with its playfully elongated instrumental passage, not to mention a whole lot of 'hooting and howling' from the assembled masses.

Opening act BRAIDS, on the other hand, had earlier performed under lights that moved about like idly twirling parasols - which, oddly enough, was more or less how this hack felt whilst watching them. While there were some intermittent signs of melodic richness and interesting drum patterns, the Canadian outfit's performance – made up, for the most part, of songs from this year's Native Speaker LP – lacked any real variation. Most of their art rock-infused numbers had a raga-like quality, steadily building in intensity to a climax. In fairness to the band, some of their inherent lushness was sadly lost thanks to The Empire's less-than-perfect acoustics, which resulted in a noticeably removed and distracted audience, and much thumb-twiddling from yours truly. To be blunt about it, the ethereal singing of Raphaelle Standell-Preston sounded like the periodic far-off cries of a child in a school playground, as the frontwoman struggled in vain to be heard above the instruments.

Photo courtesy of Richard Gray. Go here to view a full gallery of his shots from the gig.

The Siskiyou Mountains sit on California’s northern border with Oregon, enveloping the sleepy county seat and former mining town of Yreka. Just as so many shattered dreams ultimately sprang from the California Gold Rush, the music of folkish Canadian outfit Siskiyou is suffused with a bittersweet sense of melancholia.

'Funeral Song' this evening opens the band’s first ever live set on this side of The Atlantic, as it does their self-titled debut album from last year; "We will laugh / Haha, haha!", sings founding member and frontman Colin Huebert in a distinctive, mournful voice that he funnels through the right side of his mouth, giving it the shape of a cracked leaf.

On vinyl and download the group’s sound has the freshness of crisp mountain air; their arrangements are delicately textured and make interesting use of space and dynamics. Their roots lie in folk, no question, and Huebert tonight sports a stylish pair of boots for the foot-stomping that does occur. But Siskiyou are no strumming hillbillies - former Great Lake Swimmer Huebert is an urban creature at heart, whose relocation from Vancouver in recent times led to him finding work on an organic farm, and it's perhaps this fusion that gives his new band their unique sensibility.

Both Siskiyou and its just-issued follow-up Keep Away The Dead (to be given an official UK release next February) were recorded largely without studio time - the former on rooftops and beaches, as well as in hotel rooms, a community hall and, most notably, a stairwell with apparently wondrous acoustics at four in the morning. A keen intelligence is at work in the rich songcraft, and here the four-piece band do a good job of translating this ornamentation and haunting ambience to their live show. Keep Away...'s title track, in particular, is a wonderfully terrifying number boasting a musical refrain that's akin to a mournful steamship coming in.

What's most unexpected and startling about their performance, however – particularly given the delicate restraint of their recorded output – is seeing all hell being let loose in the guise of Shaunn Watt. The sticksman's pounding drums and almost delinquent stage presence blitzkrieg a number of the band's melodies, while at the end of one song he repeatedly cries "I am nobody’s friend". This writer must confess that at first he probably wasn’t one of his; a bit like the character who suddenly strides into the cosy, contented milieu of a play, he unsettles the nest and seems to have stolen the protagonist away from his friends. But there is a palpable chemistry between Watt and Huebert, and on 'Fiery Death' they alternate vocal duties to startling effect. Although the collective never quite manage to establish a solid rapport with the audience, the raw excitement injected by Watt’s energetic display is crowd-pleasing enough in itself.

The other half of the band (namely Erik Arnesen and Peter Carruthers) deftly go about their business on the banjo, bass, wind piano and – on 'Never Ever Ever Ever Again' – the saw. The highlight of the night, though, is 'Big Sur', on which Arnesen's banjo marks time with the subterranean echo of water droplets falling from the ceiling of a cave.

Some of the group's songs admittedly lack development, and as a result can feel frustratingly like distant glimpses of something miraculous that doesn’t quite remain in view for long enough. No doubt this sense of transititoriness in the music is entirely deliberate, as Huebert’s desolate, despairing musings more often than not reveal a preoccupation with mortality. Perhaps, then, it’s fitting that several album tracks are somewhat fleeting, while onstage tonight they’re fleshed out with raucous chorusing from Watt and Huebert. The set proper culminates with a brave cover of Neil Young’s infamous murder ballad 'Revolution Blues', before we’re given the rousing 'Everything I Have' by way of an encore, which once more prominently features Watt’s hot rods. Rather than send us off into the night on the crest of a wave, however, the band choose to depart with the defiantly mordant 'Dead Right Now'. No matter: Yreka! Siskiyou are certainly ones to watch.

Earlier on, Irish songsmith Eoin O’Ruainigh (aka Oh Ruin, a play on his surname) informed us all that Steven Seagal has the biggest hands in New Orleans, and that he harbours hopes of one day being able to emulate the actor's 'tickling' of the fretboard. On tonight's evidence, there's already plenty to admire in O'Ruainigh's own bluesy folk offerings. The singer is at times John Martynesque, and never less than powerful, in his delivery, as he conjures rich resonance from his electrified acoustic.

He apologised at the outset for being "a little shaky.....‘cause you know what happens at the weekend". Oh ruin, indeed. RW now also knows what happens during the week: Eoin is a luthier at his workshop in Hackney, making replica Gibson guitars. He’s already played in support acts for, among others, some fella called Morrissey. Once again, watch this space.

To view a gallery of Richard Gray's photos from the Lexington show, click here.

As Jens Lekman strolls out onto the Heaven stage, the instant adulation afforded to the Swede is enough to warm the fingers of all who have escaped London’s chilly October night. Having gained a stellar reputation for crafting frequently bewildering, but almost always unashamedly poppy, indie gems – both independently and for the likes of Gothenburg's Service Records – over the course of a decade, Lekman has never been afraid to throw a few surprises at his fans. And tonight proves no different.

Introducing his close friend Addison Rogers as "the drummer for the night", he quickly eases the crowd in by launching into brand new tune ‘Every Little Hair Knows Your Name’. It’s both subtle and subdued, not to mention intensely, immediately likeable. His delicate strumming provides the perfect foil for his welcoming voice, and the room swoons.

From that introductory masterclass onwards, the audience hangs on everything the singer says or does. This evening's pared-back setup – almost entirely devoid of the flare and grandeur of previous tours – emphasises another, perhaps better and deeper side to his music. A case in point is the tragi-comic ‘Waiting for Kirsten’, from recent self-released EP An Argument with Myself: on first listen, the song presents itself as little more than a self-deprecating laugh at Lekman's stalkerish obsession with the actress Kirsten Dunst, culminating in a doomed attempt to meet her in Gothenburg; and yet, tonight it seems to offer something more. The accompanying sermon is laced with themes of humility, self-respect and a rejection of celebrity culture, while at the same time promoting the notions of having a good time with your friends and being comfortable with yourself. Now who can really argue with that?

That the vast majority of Lekman’s wryly literate songcraft focuses overtly on his own experiences, putting him centre stage in stories of love, lust and everything that surrounds them, is no bad thing. It's abundantly clear throughout tonight's performance that these songs act as living, breathing vessels for his naturally jovial personality; he smiles so often onstage, and always with a feeling of genuine honesty, that it's nigh on impossible not to warm to him. And besides, the guy is genuinely hilarious: the aforementioned EP's sprightly title track packs a lyrical punch that tonight brings the house down. And it's far from the only time that the audience is reduced to a sea of giggles.

On reflection, the Swede's true genius lies in pulling all this off without ever seeming to be trying too hard. Never overstated, never desperately groping for laughs, it's a talent that seems to come almost effortlessly to him - and it's one that most songwriters would give their right arm to have at their disposal.

Photo courtesy of Tim Ferguson

Opinion has been, as they say, 'divided' on Iron & Wine’s recent work. Not so much on the quality of Sam Beam’s still-earthy songwriting, however; or even the ever-progressing content of his recorded output. It's more a case of early-uptake fans growing more and more to dislike – despise, even – his increasingly loud, jam-based, '70s-Californian-funk hybrid sound in the live arena. In that context, this show can perhaps be viewed as a little sop to those fans and their rather limited worldview, offering as it does the prospect of seeing Mr. Beam unplugged, de-funked, and maybe a bit more like it would have been if you’d caught him back when his CV still read full-time geography teacher/part-time muscian.

First, though, we're left to properly absorb the beauty of this stunning, rarely-utilized venue, with the generally banal but occasionally semi-quirky work of support act Markéta Irglová for company. The former Oscar-winner is one of Beam’s honey-voiced backing singers these days, and tonight she's chosen to leave the day job aside for half an hour.

At the risk of being blunt, while the setup of twin vocalists with piano, bass and a fascinating tambourine/drum thingy that sounds like paper skimming waves is intrinsically interesting, the Czech's ethereal-by-numbers material sadly is not. Following a lengthy, hippyish between-song sermon about how love is good and other things might be less so, we’re treated to the low point of the set: a number that genuinely sounds like it could be a Whitney Houston ballad with the tune removed. Harsh as this might sound, the songs quite simply aren't up to scratch. Pretty, sure. But also pretty poor.

To show he’s not completely capitulating to those old-school purists, Sam Beam shuffles onstage with a five-piece backing band in tow. Where many inside The Empire this evening will have been anticipating the pared-down greatness of just the man and his guitar, we’re actually being given a full-band experience - albeit one that's markedly quieter.

This is no complaint, though; the gentle reimaginings of newer tracks like ‘Tree by The River’ and ‘Godless Brother In Love’ are greeted reverently, and rightly so. There’s a sense of grace and care here that has a tendency to absent itself in favour of gnarled bombast when the band is in full-on rock-out mode, and the songs soar because of it: pared down to its dread-inducing, sex-filled core, ‘Black Candle’ is here transformed into a devilish, folky nightmare; elsewhere, ‘Naked As We Came’ becomes a transcendent trip into the deep, soft woods of the soul, its cascading melody cutting beautifully through the spare stabs of piano.

The hush of the audience (a lamentably rare occurrence at a gig in the capital) is remarked upon with a wry grin by Beam: "I thought you guys liked to riot!", he comments, before apologising for his poor taste. During another aside, he jokes about his Roundhouse show earlier this year: "I had a cold... It was terrible. But I got your money - that’s the important thing!". His humour proves every bit as dry as his subsequent rendition of ‘Weary Memory’ is heartfelt and, indeed, heartrending. While many will still balk, meanwhile, at his sporadic use of sax and synth of late, few fans would surely argue with this evening's rearranged ‘Me & Lazarus’: a gentle meander of loose beats and soft strokes, it clearly benefits from having kinder attention paid to its sweet harmonies.

Seemingly ending on a wonderful (if to-be-expected) version of ‘He Lays In The Reins’, we're then left to play what the singer teasingly calls "the encore game", and a portion of the audience finally get to behold what they've been longing for all night: Beam and his guitar, alone, centre stage. He plays ‘The Trapeze Swinger’ like a musical and emotional hurricane, and it’s little short of breathtaking. The silence between phrases is perceptible almost as a sound itself.

While there would be a ton of fun to be had the following evening at Iron & Wine's full-band electric show across town in Shepherd's Bush, this is a reminder of I&W as was - a smart, likeable guy with a huge raw talent playing his tender folk songs for anyone willing to listen. Overall, a resounding triumph of a back-to-basics show.

As mentioned above, Sam Beam was joined by a full band the night after his Hackney Empire acoustic show for a fully-electric performance at the O2 Shepherd's Bush Empire. Go here to view a gallery of Anni Timms' photos from that gig.

Thanks to ItIsRebecca for posting the following video from the Hackney show:

Arriving at Ally Pally for tonight's triple-header of modern classic album performances, credit must go to promoters ATP, who have made every effort to convert one of London’s least accessible and unloveliest ‘prestige’ venues into a reasonable place in which to stage such events. This being said, however, the art displays, listening circles, masseurs and a selection of ceiling-strung bouncing balloons – however well intentioned – can’t quite make up for a hall that generally offers poor sightlines, erratic sound and a seemingly inbuilt cold atmosphere.

Deerhoof do their best to jerk and freak their way above the deadened vibe with a brazen run-through of their 2004 Milk Man LP. It’s abrasive, sometimes alienating stuff; no question, but the smallish crowd who’ve managed to get here for the band's terribly early 7pm start get a kick out of seeing these ultra-underground heroes hammer through (a term particularly applicable to whirlwind drummer Greg Saunier) their seminal concept work. Quieter moments like ‘Desapareceré’ may get a little lost in the mix, but the Californians provide an interesting and volatile antidote to the dullness of the room.

Dinosaur Jr are here to blast through their not-so-modern classic third album, Bug, which originally closed the first chapter in the band's career by precipitating Lou Barlow's late-eighties departure. So there's a certain degree of irony in seeing the original lineup restored and kicking off a set with ‘Freak Scene’ before thundering all the way to a close with ‘Don’t’. Alt. rock anti-hero J Mascis still cuts as iconic a figure as ever: a mane of long, grey hair in his face; foot permanently resting on one distortion pedal or another; pained, strained vocals barely escaping his lips – all of which contrasts brilliantly with the furious, dynamic bass ‘playing’ of the mighty Barlow. The odd couple's respective strangeness of approach is beautifully reigned in by watertight drumming from Murph, and these vintage songs – while certainly not sounding ‘as fresh as the day they were recorded’ (as it’s de rigeur to remark in reviews of this sort of thing) – really do retain a cacophonous power that’s undeniable. A good set, then, from a (still) great band.

The hall has finally filled to near-capacity by the time The Flaming Lips take the stage. If anyone can overcome the staid setting and a London crowd traditionally predisposed to cynicism, it’s the Oklahoma oddballs, continuing their everlasting quest to bring joy and a little bit of third-eye squeegeeing to every corner of the known musical world.

In keeping with this reputation, tonight’s set is an enormous party right from the get-go. Streamers are fired, confetti is cannoned into the audience, and psych-guru Wayne Coyne emerges in his hamster ball and goes rolling through the crowd. Arguably the most impressive aspect of this most impressive of live shows is how the band manage to maintain the rush of gladness and positivity throughout. While a complex light show, brain-frying video imagery and Wizard of Oz-themed dancers might easily descend into the realm of naff gimmickry in lesser hands, The Lips manage to make each one of these elements a part of the music, a part of what the band is all about – the perfect visual embodiment of the kind of positive, semi-spiritual message they are constantly trying to convey.

Sure, Coyne’s regular and lengthy sermons – during which, among other things, he talks about his own insecurities as a singer, how madness shared isn’t really madness at all and how an experience like tonight's gig can and should be a hugely important part of the life and growth of all involved – may drag for some. This evening, however, it's safe to say these people are in both the minority and the wrong. The singer's quasi-cult leader's approach to live performance speaks to the true, pure love of music all fans have inside them; it’s an approach that breaks down barriers of politeness and reserve, and goes straight for the soul.

While there will be some pedantic nitpicking over whether their game-changing The Soft Bulletin LP really is played in its entirety this evening (some debate exists over differing versions of the album's running order), it pays to look beyond such trivialities and embrace the whole. By the time Coyne and co. return for their one-song encore of ‘Do You Realize??’, the thronged masses are in a state of borderline hysteria – there are people crying, screaming and stood in jaw-agape stunned silence everywhere.

It’s amazing that a band can continue to inspire responses like this in a musical climate where genuine emotions are snarkily scoffed at and talk of love, life and hope is all too quickly dismissed as trad and outdated. That The Flaming Lips are the best live act in recent memory is not in dispute. On tonight's evidence, they just may also be the most inspiring, vitally important band you’ll ever see.

Photo courtesy of Anni Timms. Go here to view a full gallery of her shots from the gig.