Robbie, bless him, looked bloated, lethargic and tired, which is nothing new, but it was something he shared with the show. After its shaky eighties TV debut, the ‘Brits’ went from strength to strength in the nineties and into the new century. Oasis, Pulp, The Verve, The Manic Street Preachers, Blur, Supergrass, Radiohead and, later, the Kaiser Chiefs, The Libertines, Franz Ferdinand and the Arctic Monkeys, all did wonders in distracting us from the fact that Annie Lennox was a shoe-in for Best British Female (again). Even the pop wasn’t that bad - at least The Spice Girls, Take That, All Saints and Boyzone were exportable and representative of the UK pop music scene at that time.

If last night’s Brits were representative of the current scene, then we can conclude that, like Robbie, it is a little slower than it used to be, heavy around the middle and incapable or unwilling to hit the high notes it once prided itself on.

Peter Kay did a fair job as compere, if cast against type. His funny and, at times, damning narrative was the source of most of the high points. In stark contrast, sweet empty-headed Fearne ‘What-do-you-think-of-The-Saturdays-as-a-band?’ Cotton, yipped and bored her way through endless E! style stage interviews whilst looking truly awful.

I am sure that ‘2008 X Factor runners-up JLS’ are lovely lads and their brand of R’n'B is an inoffensive enough imitation of the original but are these boys really the best we have to offer? There was some class on show - Dizzee Rascal and Florence Welch are both impressively talented, even if their collaboration lacked chemistry, and Kasabian are a Proper British Band (with accompanying paradoxical limitations/endless possibilities).

The undoubtedly talented Lily Allen seems now to have permanently assumed the vacuous dead-eyed stare of a bored dairy cow and her performance was laughably poor. Grazia magazine reports today that Cheryl Cole ’stole the show’. Did she? Are you sure?? The Cheryl Cole I was watching appeared to be badly miming and half-heartedly stepping through a banal dance routine and costume change that did nothing to inject any quality.

The lack of much genuine British quality on the night should be a source of national embarrassment. Most damningly, the suave and cool all came from the Americans. No, really - hear me out.

Firstly, there was Lady Gaga and her bonkers outfit. She collected three awards, was surprisingly demure, humble, polite and professional, and proffered a well-placed dedication to the late Alexander (’Lee’) McQueen.

Empire State of Mind may be everywhere just now but both Jay-Z and Alicia Quays oozed effortless A-list celebrity cool in a way that no Brit came close to. What must they have been thinking as Liam Gallagher wanked on about God knows what like anyone ever gave a shit what he thinks. Jay-Z and Keys’ country gave us The Wire and The Sopranos and, in exchange, we cast them both in Network 7 (remember that?).

Jonathan Ross - usually a fairly safe bet when it comes to sartorial elegance - presented an award dressed like a chavvy twat which, at least, was his intention. It was deeply unfunny nad matters got worse for Ross when Tom Ford (another American) later took to the stage. Ford - much vaunted ’saviour’ of Gucci and debut director of A Single Man - was dressed immaculately and brought the event some desperately needed class, albeit all too briefly. Ross had missed an open goal.  

The great tragedy is that the Brit Awards should be so much better. We have a vibrant music scene - as broad and diverse and exciting as anywhere in the world - yet, somehow, last night’s show was a golden egg of utter crap.

After two hours celebrating all that is apparently good about the British music scene, three words came to mind: God bless America.

The primary aim had been to make the point that not everyone cares about The X Factor TV show and that the now annual claim to the UK Christmas number one single was not alone the preserve of Simon Cowell’s elective and commercially motivated whim.

Viewers and lovers of Cowell’s yearly popularity contest feel that it is an all-conquering force. Intellectual incendiary devices such as “So, what do you think about what Cheryl said to Dannii last night??” have replaced talk of the weather as the UK’s favourite watercooler tittle-tattle. And there’s nothing wrong with that since, for one thing, we don’t get to vote for the weather.

Yet even for its record-breaking finale last week, an admittedly impressive 19 million viewers tuning in still amounts to less than one-third of the nation. Two out of three people don’t watch it. Many more don’t than do, in fact.

Those that did chose to tune in to the final of The X Factor saw likeable 18-year-old Geordie Joe McElderry win the public vote. As is customary, Joe was then handed an inoffensive and unremarkable pop song to cover before less than five per cent of those viewers rushed out to buy it.

Cowell recently sent waves of horror across the nation when, whilst being inexplicably interviewed by Kirsty Wark on Newsnight, he suggested that he could use his format’s popular appeal to conduct informal referenda on polemical political issues (’If you want to see the death penalty restored, press the RED button now…’). In fairness to Simon Cowell, he rarely puts a stacked heel wrong but he confuses the public vote with public opinion.

When another BBC heavyweight current affairs vehicle, Question Time, invited BNP leader Nick Griffin onto the panel the outpouring was as widespread as it was unnecessarily worthy. Griffin, for all his reprehensible rhetoric, had been fairly elected via a public vote but opinion - from a lazy majority who, in their own words, couldn’t be arsed to vote - remained stacked against him and his party’s ideology.

Likewise young Joe McElderry. It went to a public vote, which he won, so the public must want to see him at number one, right? The public had other ideas.

Jon and Tracy Morter had organized a similar campaign twelve months earlier but the re-sales of Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up had barely bothered the top 100. In the post-Big Brother age, something more subversive - something uglier - was needed to prove that you don’t need to be a drunk-with-money fame-hungry music mogul to arbitarily select a song, seemingly at random, and make it number one at Christmas.

That the Morter’s chose Rage Against the Machine and ‘Killing in the Name’ is, on one hand, neither here nor there since the point being made was that ANY song can be plucked at random and sent to number one. Yet, RATM’s very name suggests sticking it to ‘da man’ and the repeat-to-fade flagship lyric - ‘Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me’ - makes a more simplistic and direct counterpoint to chief prefab scout Simon Cowell.

Cowell had assumed that so many people cared about The X Factor that he could get a song to number one every Christmas for the rest of time. That he may sell as many as half a million singles in doing so was an impressive aside. Except, this Christmas. This year, The X Factor caused the nation to buy a total of more than one million copies of the two main contenders songs.

Does Joe McElderry deserve a Christmas number one single? No. That Simon Cowell believes McElderry’s ‘hard work’ is justification enough to earn one of just 70 or so Christmas number one’s in Cowell’s lifetime shows just how little the mogul values the prize.

He was right about one thing though, we do care about The X Factor and much more than we thought. Just look at this week’s number one single if you want the proof.

If you disagree, press the RED button now.

Unless you’re Hunter S Thompson. And I am not. If you were hoping I might have been then you’ve made a catalogue of biblically stupid errors and should just stop reading now. And you should go to your room to think about what you’ve done.

If you’re still reading, I should remind you that I paid for my ticket since that’s my angle. I wasn’t on the guestlist as I sometimes am and there were no freebies from the PR company or label as I sometimes get. I went to see Shed Seven (on their Second Reunion Tour) as a fan. There were no plans to review.

I’d seen them once before in 2007, on their First Reunion Tour (although it wasn’t called that at the time). I wasn’t reviewing then either.

Back in the nineties, Shed Seven, led by the whirling, grinning, diminutive Rick Witter and his epic voice were written off as a bit of a joke. Which was harsh. Maybe it still is. If not a joke then, as something of a pastiche of their indie forebears.

A parody of themselves or of all that they sought to be, perhaps. In any case, they weren’t taken that seriously. Which seems unimaginable having just spent 100 minutes in their company at the Manchester Academy enjoying one of the finest collections of indie singalongs conceivable.

It’s not so much that Shed Seven were underrated; more overlooked. And history was particularly unkind to them. They were Tony Jarrett to Oasis’ and James’ Colin Jackson. Always the bridesmaid. And the (damned) fates conspired against them.

When England played Germany in the semi-final of Euro 96 at Wembley, the producers had two songs du jour lined up for the closing montage, whatever the outcome. One was Cast’s rather lovely if rather mournful Walk Away and the other (to be played in the event of a win) was Shed Seven’s Going For Gold.

After more than two hours of football, German midfielder Andy Muller stepped up to take the fourteenth penalty of the shoot-out and - well, the rest is history. Cast, for all their success - not least the excellent album All Change - are not on their Second Reunion Tour. And they are not playing back-to-back sold out nights in Manchester, raising the roof with a 1,500-strong choir singing the bridge from Chasing Rainbows.

But Shed Seven are. Their set opens at pace with Dolphin and immediately arms are in the air and the hearts their fans are wearing on their sleeves are been sung out. It’s Friday night after a long week of schlepping up to Preston each day and I feel like Ian Beale looks. Two tracks in and my lungs are bursting to belt out the chorus of Where Have You Been Tonight? I don’t murder it but nor do I really do it justice. The thing is, I couldn’t care less.

For the euphoric masses - from teenagers to indie kids in their forties - the subsequent collection of songs is a library of memories from days in university or that gap year or sixth form or when we took our GCSEs or went to Big School or that time Rob ran over that car roof just for a laugh. To detail them in text can do them no real justice. So let’s get it other with - a quick list.

On Standby, High Hopes, Speakeasy, Mark, Going For Gold, Disco Down, It’s Getting Better, She Left Me On Friday, Ocean Pie, Heroes, Chasing Rainbows… I didn’t write the set down or tap it into my phone as I usually would so this isn’t a complete list… Feathers - there’s another. Oh, and a cover of the Rolling Stones’ Jumpin’ Jack Flash.

And Devil In You Shoes… (all together now): “You’ve got the devil in your shoes lately; and you’re walking all over the times when I’ve known you and smiled”.

So much is written about music and a lot of it by people with a great deal more talent than I have. Music is an art form and, yes, it should be critiqued and analysed if for no other reason than it merits that kind of scrutiny. But music is also about something else, something between, or about, fun and love. Something intangible and indescribable. Simon Cowell, who - for the record - can fuck off, would no doubt call it the X Factor. And maybe’s he’s onto something. He’s certainly very rich.

But good music is surely about pleasure and losing yourself and forgetting everything else that happens in the world. This is why music in the dark is such an immersive experience. It fills your senses and numbs the tiny pricks of modern life (insert your own Simon Cowell joke). And a night in the company of Shed Seven and 18 or 19 of their songs is as good as it gets.

Fashionable back then? No. Fashionable now? Not especially. But when were love and joy and shameless, guilt-free indulgence ever out of vogue? Overlooked and underrated, and probably overworked and underpaid; Shed Seven are still here and they still believe. Remarkable.

And I paid for my own ticket. I’m so glad that I did. Otherwise I’d have no idea just how much fun it is possible to have for £16.50. Plus parking.

As Simon Cowell was using Shayne Ward as a weapon of mass disruption in his unrelenting (and continuing) assault on the British music scene and as Carl went to Japan without Pete, Alex Turner’s collection of breathtakingly energetic and witty post-millennium missives on modern life seemed too good to be true.

Not since I Wanna Be Adored, She Bangs the Drums and Waterfall opened another great British album has a record been such a statement of intent. Whatever People Say I Am burst onto the music scene like machine gun fire and the rat-a-tat-tat of those 13 songs left the listener winded - each one a kitchen-sink drama, a tableau of life in 21^st century northern England.

Talk of fake tales, of fighting in taxi ranks, of belligerent bouncers and Top Shop princesses not only captured the zeitgeist but also set its own agenda. And for once, imitators simply could not keep up. Such was the quality and authenticity of the Arctic Monkeys’ debut record that their distinct and heavily accented voice remains unique.

Having burned tracks like Mardy Bum and A Certain Romance into the consciousness of a generation - a testament to life in noughties’ Britain like no other - 2006 brought moodier times and a darker sound from Turner and his Monkeys.

If the first record was like gunfire, follow-up Favourite Worst Nightmare was a time bomb. A darker, more mechanised sound characterised a record distinct from the first in many ways whilst remaining unmistakably Arctic Monkeys in nature. 2007 was another massive year for the band, headlining Glastonbury and playing to more than 100,000 fans over two days at Old Trafford and taking it all casually in their stride.

Nearly three years further on and the Arctic Monkeys’ place in history is about to be cemented. Oasis’ third album, Be Here Now, had been a lazy mess (Magic Pie anyone?) with Noel Gallagher’s best work (by far) going into Definitely Maybe and to a certain extent, follow-up What’s The Story (Morning Glory)?

The Libertines could barely manage a second album, let alone a third; similarly The Stone Roses. Would Sheffield’s finest (sorry Jarvis) be able to maintain their own high standards?

Humbug was released in August and the first single, Crying Lightning, was warmly received. But Humbug is not a summer album. It is brooding and heavy, dark and shadowy. As the fragile Indian summer of October 2009 was being crippled by chills from the north, the album lurched into life.

As the days shorten and we reach for the scarves and dark drinks, Humbug becomes the devil on your shoulder - whispering, chiding, beguiling and irresistible.

November 16 sees the release of the second single from Humbug, Cornerstone. And how apt a title. Whilst it has all the film noir sophistication of Humbug it is also a timely reminder of the genius of Alex Turner; a young man who effortlessly speaks for a generation.

Cornerstone is a story in four short parts, each charting a brief encounter with a girl mistaken for a lost love. Naming a place (like a pub) in a song is a risky business as it can alter the context of the narrative in a heartbeat but Turner’s four vignettes each takes place in named nightspots and each, of course, is brilliantly titled.

After increasingly less discerning flirtations in the Battleship, The Rusty Hook and then The Parrot’s Beak, it is in the Cornerstone we meet our lost love’s sister. Contrary to the case of heartbreaking mistaken identity in the Battleship, the Cornerstone and the sister are more than enough to force a change of heart and a quickening of the pulse.

Quite what this says about love, or Love, is unclear. That it is transitory and transferable perhaps, that a loving embrace is just that from whomever it is received. Or, that in the end, sometimes it is best just to cut your losses and move on. It doesn’t really matter.

What does matter is that in Cornerstone, the Arctic Monkeys have reminded all of us just why they are so very special. Why they are the exception to the rule. And why they remain simply too good to be true. 

It is a bit much to suggest that Alex Turner alone somehow rescued the mainstream British music scene. But he really did. Long may he reign.

As it is every Saturday afternoon in the basement club at Manchester’s Ruby Lounge, Xfm linchpin and Inspiral Carpet Clint Boon is hosting another family tea and cake affair. Tables are laid with chequered table cloths, candles and china tea cups (with saucers). Thanks to the efforts of Mrs Charlie Boon, a spectacular array of homemade cake swamps the corner of the bar - the carrot cake is particularly memorable.

The cake has real competition though. The Boons have sought to create something special and succeeded in ways they probably never dreamed of. A guestlist system is now in operation to avoid overcrowding, even though headline acts (like Franz Ferdinand) are never advertised in advance. The cake is, as they say, to DIE for and the tea remains free (this is a founding and incontrovertible principle for Mr and Mrs Boon).

Kapranos and McCarthy may be a little bemused by the crowd of kids sat at their feet but the assembled toddlers know nothing of fear and meet the Scots’ contemplative gaze with unforgiving, unflinching, whites-of-the-eyes expectation. The cross-legged kids are an unfazed focus group - if they disapprove (or if one of them needs a wee), they will stand up in front of the Brit and Mercury Award winning group and walk off. They don’t.

Tea party goers had already seen local ska-punk heroes Sonic Boom Six perform a wonderful and charming stripped-down set when host Boon announced that Franz Ferdinand would be next on the small stage. By the time Sonic Boom Six had finished their set on a playful and gorgeous cover of Boney M’s Rasputin Mums, Dads and toddlers alike were already high on tea and cake.

In the city ahead of their sold-out date at the 3,500-capacity Apollo theatre, Franz Ferdinand’s Alex and Nick treated the 150-strong crowd to an acoustic ‘greatest hits’ set that included breakthrough tracks Take Me Out and The Dark of the Matinée alongside instant classics like Ulysses and Walk Away.

Kapranos, whose band won the 2004 Mercury Music Prize, is more used to seeing crowd surfing and fans on each other’s shoulders but if at first he seemed taken aback by the sight of the young children gathered at his feet it didn’t affect a dazzling performance.

The lead singer clearly enjoyed himself though and stayed on to sign autographs and pose for photographs with fans, commenting: “I loved it, what a fantastic atmosphere.”

Clint Boon, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Sex, Cake and Rock’n'Roll’, was equally impressed, saying afterwards: “When Charlie and I became parents we realized there was nowhere we could take the kids to see live music. We just wanted to create something safe and kid-friendly where families could come and enjoy rock’n'roll. It was exactly so people could savour brilliant performances like that.”

Images courtesy of Stephen Campbell: http://www.stephencampbellphotography.co.uk/

But there’s nothing coy about Sonic Boom Six. This year sees the ska-punk outfit celebrate their seventh birthday with the release of their third studio album, City of Thieves. Making three studio albums is as much as most bands dare aspire to but this particular milestone is no simple tick in the box for the Manchester group.

Released on the band’s own label, Rebel Alliance Recordings, Back 2 Skool is the second single taken from City of Thieves following July’s The Concrete We’re Trapped Within. Sandwiched between the two single releases have been European tour dates and the small matter of opening the main stage at Leeds and Reading festivals.

In so many ways, 2009 is a proving to be landmark year for Sonic Boom Six as the band continues to grow in both stature and pedigree. The sound of City of Thieves balances the anti-establishment adolescent angst of punk with a depth that only seven years on the road and two prior albums can bring and the Back 2 Skool release reflects this musical maturity.

The lead track is a masterclass in urban sassiness - a gritty 21st century counterpart to Madness’s schoolyard classic Baggy Trousers and containing all of Sonic Boom Six’s trademark energy. Guitars rhyme and bounce and fight with the percussion for playground bragging rights whilst Laila K’s unmistakable voice crowns the heady mix. Second track, The Dangers of Rock’n'Roll, is classic SB6; a casual marriage of ska influences and punk rock sensibilities bursting with life, flavour and urban knowhow. 

The third song on the CD is an acoustic offering and it is a gem. Floating Away is neatly constructed, effortlessly delivered and is also the final track of City of Thieves. It joins Back 2 Skool and the Dangers of Rock’n'Roll in around ten minutes of music which eloquently illustrates the depth and skill embodied in Sonic Boom Six. 

In these ten minutes, there is light and dark, love and hate, crashing breakers and still waters. All the colours of the rainbow are here and the band’s legendary appetite for hard work and harder partying seems to be paying off with music of resonance and consequence.

Sonic Boom Six have outlived so many contemporaries, in Manchester and far beyond, and signs are there’s yet better to come. My, how they’ve grown.

With the ink barely dry on the album artwork and with only three singles having been released, how can it be then that, on the third day of a far from sunny Leeds festival and four places down the bill on the second stage, a crowd of more than 15,000 has forced itself into the NME/Radio 1 tent in order to worship at the six-inch heels of one Florence Welch, just 22.

Florence’s Story

Welch was born on 28 August 1987, the day before Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up began its seemingly endless stay at number one in the UK charts and as the nation continued to reel in the wake of the Hungerford massacre which had burst onto the front pages just nine days earlier. Growing up in and around south London, Florence attended Thomas’s Battersea School and then Alleyn’s in Dulwich. She was at Alleyn’s at the same time as Jack Peñate, who preceded her on the Leeds and Reading bills.

She liked to sing. Halfway into a course at the Camberwell College of Arts, Welch’s own art finally took complete possession of her and she earned a slot on an open club night having cornered the DJ and promoter Mairead Nash in the toilets. And singing to her, drunk.

The bathroom audition (which ultimately led to Nash becoming Florence’s manager), pulling off the ensuing club gig with no backing tapes and an unfamiliar house band (with whom she’d rehearsed for only an hour), a 2009 Brit Award (Critic’s Choice) – these are the things of fairytale. Certainly a very modern fairytale and one aided by internet word-of-mouth but nonetheless a pretty far-fetched story by any measure. At times, and by her own admission, things moved faster than Welch could cope with.

Overwhelmed, there were tears backstage after receiving her Brit award and then there was the band name, hastily coined en route to a gig as Florence hadn’t given much prior thought as to how to package herself - it was purely about the music. Whether performances were on a wing and a prayer or with the benefit of studious preparation, Welch gave it everything each time she took to the stage, showing self-belief, guts and gall. Fans tend to go for that sort of thing.

The Sound

Intentionally or otherwise, and perhaps influenced by a declared interest in Renaissance artwork, Florence’s performances have echoes of the religious - a central, almost messianic figure, arms outstretched, disciples gathered below. Of course, Welch’s art differs significantly from any Renaissance masterpiece though, much like a great painting, the album is indeed carefully and beautifully constructed so as to stand close scrutiny and, perhaps, resist the unforgiving and attritional sands of time.

The music itself is seemingly born of a desire to be honest and brave – as showcased in those earliest performances - and this boldness is most effectively exhibited in a live show. Amongst others, Kate Bush and The Smiths and the grungy punk of Nirvana and Green Day are cited as inspiring the young Welch yet this only goes so far in explaining the Florence + the Machine sound; it is eclectic in both influence and nature.

With rare exception, the percussion, piano and epic lead vocal are all to the front, lending some tracks a sound not dissimilar to the Italian-style nineties house music of Welch’s earliest years. The backing vocals frequently exhibit a choral quality creating depth and reasonance, and hinting further at the euphoric uplifting house music of yesteryear. Album opener, Dogs Days Are Over, is one such gem; at times a breathless, soulful dash; at others, the calming eye of the storm.

Elsewhere on Lungs lurk indie-rock (Kiss With A Fist) and folky, chill-out (Girl With One Eye). It’s rock and disco and punk and electronic and dance and folk; Florence Welch has her own genre - eclectronica. Expect impersonators; false idols. Yet, by her own admission, Welch sees herself more as a live artist than one who does her best work in the studio.

Leeds

Leeds 2009 and, having completed just 8,036 days on this earth, Florence has drawn a vast crowd to a soggy tent in Yorkshire. The pre-show buzz is at fever pitch. When she takes the stage just a minute after the advertised stage time, Welch cuts a statuesque figure in her killer heels, black dress and mane of copper-red hair, arms raised, head back. The heels alone draw gasps of awe from the expectant masses when highlighted on the big screens. The mic stand is adorned with flowers. The scene is set.

Such is the majesty of the performance that, when the rain comes to Leeds, one cannot help but wonder if Florence made it happen. The downfall is so biblically fierce that, in places, rain penetrates the awning overhead, showering the drummer. But for Florence + the Machine there are no histrionics - just playing out the track before the hasty addition of a hooded sweatshirt. They embrace the adversity, and there is a sense that it is almost welcome – an opportunity to be different, to give the crowd something unique. When the rain starts hitting the front of the stage, Florence literally embraces it, gamely joking about electrocution.

But the Leeds performance loses crucial minutes to these rain delays and the set runs out of time. The spectacular re-telling of Candi Staton’s You’ve Got the Love proves to be the last offering, instead of the already customary Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up). In Rabbit Heart, Welch sings of becoming a ‘lion-hearted girl’.

For her worshippers, the notion of Florence Welch as lion-hearted - as their Boudicca – is key to her appeal; at once mystical and warrior-like and yet one of their own. She braves the rain (not all would), she jokes about being electrocuted, she brandishes a badly gashed hand that has been gaffer taped-up so as not to detract from her outfit. And though she looks striking – tall, pretty and immaculately presented - Welch clearly cares mostly if not only for the music, for the performance. She gives everything; she breathlessly chats and smiles and charms and loves and wears her lion heart on her short, sequined sleeve.

Quite where Florence + the Machine will go next is unclear. There’s the first major headline tour of the UK and Europe which commences this autumn. No doubt, there’ll be a hasty graduation to ever bigger venues - certainly the performances are grand enough for even the largest of arenas. At least then, more people will get to see one of this generation’s most inspirational live performers before something ruins it, as is surely, sadly, destined to happen.

So, if you do nothing else in the next 12 months, get a ticket. Beg one, steal one. And if you cannot get hold of a ticket to see Welch work her magic, then you should pray for divine intervention.

With Florence, you never know.