(THIS LADY IS NOT RICK SENLEY. RICK SENLEY IS A MAN WITH A BEARD AND EVERYTHING.)

A police helicopter snarls overhead, some violent halfwit on the run; the imbecile offspring of microwaved dinners walks into me and a newspaper flogger offers me one.

‘Standard, free sir now, free.’

‘No thank you’ I retort, his proposal unnecessary, ‘I’ve already got one.’

‘Standard, free sir now, free.’

‘No thank you’ I retort, his proposal unnecessary, ‘I’ve already got one.’

‘Standard, free sir now, free.’

‘You can frig off and shove that right up your arse’ I retort, my proposal necessary.

It would appear that I am highly strung yet I am neither a businessman nor a pilot. I am not under pressure from my job because I haven’t got a job. My wife doesn’t harangue my mortgage payments because I am unmarried and my living quarters are rented. My children do not clamour for pocket money nor for tickles because I rarely reproduce, yet I still want to kick a dozen people a day in the knackers.

There is only one thing for it; remove all items of clothing and lie in warm water in pitch darkness for exactly an hour.

The people at Floatworks near London Bridge have heard of my well-intentioned misanthrophy and suggest some darkened nudity could assist the state of my mind. I’ve tried yoga but it makes me fall asleep. I’ve tried mediation but it makes me fall asleep. And the people there wear striped trousers. And have got awful little beards. And like eating biscuits. And drink herbal bastard fruit tea.

I remain quiet and assent. If floating with my trousers off can help me conquer this all-encompassing aggressive form of unwarranted stress, then I’ll give it a go. If spending half an hour in a lift with Ant and Dec would help, I’ll give it a go. Actually, no I wouldn’t – I’d probably kill myself and then kill them one by one with lift wires and electronic components. Or something like that.

A floatation tank (above) is like a pretty bath-tub with a roof and the experience is oddly pleasant, unsettling, unnerving and soporifically lovely, like a booming Father Christmas taking you onto his knee for a bit longer than expected in his underwater grotto.

This is complete sensory deprivation; the water’s deep salinity ensures I float, removing the pressure on my spine, skin, veins and arteries.

I lie gravity-free and the blood flows quicker, speeding up my oxygen supply and ditching the toxins, reducing the stress hormone Cortisol, the vessels no longer squashed between the skin and a chair. The water is heated to body temperature so I am unable to tell where my skin ends and the water starts and apart from the breath in my ears and the startled splash when I nod off, there is complete silence, complete, empty silence, something that is so hard to find in life but something we all intrinsically need, an utter void of distraction with nothing to do other than float and think, to drift off, snore, wonder about time (have I been here for five minutes or fifty-five minutes, it’s hard to tell), no television, no texting, no phone calls, no internet, food, nothing and it’s magical.

In the darkened silence, with no physical or sensory distraction, the brain drifts into a deep relaxed state, balancing its two sides – halting activity in the logical left and increasing creativity on the right and supposedly allowing us to access previously unavailable source of imagination, unhindered by the constraints of reason.

My mind flits in and out of a dream-like state, fully aware of being not fully awake, hesitant to let go and submit to this unknown level of relaxation, shocked by an hour of nothingness so I propel myself from one end to the other, pushing off with my feet for something to do, anything, so unused to this complete emptiness that it frightens me, the chance to be truly alone with just my mind for company.

And then before I know it – but actually it feels like hours – my time’s up. I get dressed, have a glass of water and head back into London. The tube’s broken down and I burn my mouth on some pastry chicken concoction and then I drop my keys in a puddle and a fellow burps on my back and, and, and….And I decide to go back for another float soon but it must have helped a bit though because I didn’t swear at anyone until the morning.

A one hour session costs £40 and Floatworks are open seven days a week from 10am-10pm.

www.i-sopod.com

www.floatworks.com

Louis CK turns Chris Lo into Chris LOL

Louis CK, Bloomsbury Theatre, November 13

Stand-up comedy might just be the ultimate popular American art form. I use the word ‘popular’ because that allows me to neatly sidestep jazz, which is definitely art, but certainly isn’t popular. Nobody actually likes jazz, do they? They just like the idea of liking jazz. Yeah, I went there. Suck it, Mingus.

It’s true that British stand-ups like Billy Connolly, Eddie Izzard and Lee Evans can stand tall in the weird, malformed line-up of legendary live comedians. But no other country has quite the same heritage as the US, from Lenny Bruce in the early ‘60s to Richard Pryor and George Carlin in the ‘70s to Bill Hicks to Chris Rock to Dave Chappelle to Sarah Silverman in a long, steadily-evolving line of funny. Maybe it’s North America’s isolation as a continent; maybe it’s that stereotype of American bullishness. Whatever the case, the Americans sure know how to stand up in a packed room and shout an audience to its knees.

Louis CK absolutely deserves his place in that pantheon of American stand-ups. He’s been touring the US comedy circuit for two decades, filling the gaps with writing and acting for TV and films. If you’ve seen him anywhere this year, you’ll have seen him in Ricky Gervais’ mostly underwhelming directorial debut The Invention of Lying. His acting career has been peppered with cancelled shows and movie flops, but maybe it’s better that way. CK clearly shines brightest from a stage with a mic in his hand.

Tonight, the Bloomsbury’s filled to bursting with fans (including Steve Merchant – glad he wasn’t sitting in front of me) expecting a dose of CK’s winning blend of traditional observational comedy and foul-mouthed commentary. If the man is exhausted from his schedule (or the first gig he played at the Bloomsbury just before our late set), he doesn’t show it. The audience is firmly in stitches for the duration.

Content-wise, there’s nothing new here, CK visiting such well-cropped comedy pastures as air travel, fatherhood and dating. But what makes him such a compelling performer is his ability to take these comedy tropes and rejuvenate them, either with sly subversion or some deft wordplay. His descriptions, like that of the middle-class urbanite who doesn’t speak but somehow “secretes words out of his head”, are dead-on. Just as the audience is lulled into a sense of familiarity with a bit about CK volunteering to help supervise lunch at his daughter’s elementary school, he provokes shocked hysterics by calmly noting that in the event of a fire he’d happily trample other children to save his own.

The benign glint in CK’s eye ensures that this isn’t a Frankie Boyle-esque aggressive comedy barrage. He’s toying with the audience’s expectations, tempering pessimism with playfulness while still giving the material enough edge to draw gasps now and then. The word that springs to mind when watching Louis CK is ‘craftsman’. He’s had 20 years to hone his craft, and he’s seen enough audiences to be able to read us like a book. After all, as any comedy craftsman knows, it’s not about the material. It’s about the delivery.

Louis CK’s stand-up DVD, Chewed Up, is available now

Peering down from my window seat as the plane descended into New York’s Kennedy Airport, it was as if we were being transported into a steel-coated, glass-fronted, CGI-inspired kingdom. Exciting stuff, but I still had my reservations.

One iconic yellow taxi ride later and I arrive in Times Square, one of the most beguiling sights in New York’s landscape. There’s no escaping the Square’s infectious buzz and much like Piccadilly Circus, there’s a heavy presence of theatres and restaurants, sitting alongside well-known stores and tacky tourist shops. But that’s where the comparison ends.

Times Square is awash with brash advertising and gigantic fascias. Prepare to be dazzled by vivid colours from flickering and interchanging LED screens. Every brand you could ever think of bears a presence on this stretch of street and the neon glow from this eco-nightmare lights up the hazy night sky. Our little Tdk/Sanyo billboard looks considerably paltry in comparison. One-nil to New York.

Iconic rock venue, CBGB (Country, Blue Grass and Blues), originally played host to artists from these musical genres when it first opened its doors back in 1973. But CBGB became the birthplace of punk and new wave, where bands like the Ramones, Blondie and Talking Heads cut their musical teeth. CBGB’s closure in 2006 left a huge void in New York’s musical scene and the nearby Bowery Ballroom is looking to recapture the lost magic. Discreetly situated on Delancey Street, in the hip Soho district, this relatively small venue holds up to 550 people and recent acts have included the Cribs and electro-pop mistress, Little Boots.

But London’s reputation for being a hot-bed for up-and-coming artistic talent has earned us plaudits from all over the world. From our art schools to art-house cinemas, the forward-thinking folk have left an indelible mark on our creative capital city. And with music, fashion and art being intrinsically linked, the capital’s music venues have welcomed some seminal bands and the most influential artists in music history; from Prince to Patti Smith, Nirvana to New Order and from Leonard Cohen to Led Zepplin.

London wins, just on nostalgia.

But when it comes to transport, New York wins hands down. While London boasts the Oyster card, the bendy bus and the Northern Line, New York is miles ahead in the transport lane. New Yorkers can just about forgive their grubby subway, but wouldn’t trade it for the London Underground, not for love nor money. Subway bosses introduced air conditioning on all trains and what’s evident is that New York’s subway system was well thought out. Local, stopping service lines run alongside an express service track, which means if you’ve got to go uptown in a hurry, just swipe your Metro Card and arrive at your destination within minutes. And it runs 24 hours a day, which is a major plus. There are no ghetto night buses here, no sir-ee.

Whilst wandering around Tribeca, Soho and Sunnyside, you get a real feel for New York’s cosmopolitan credentials; different races and ethnicities stand shoulder-to-shoulder and create the colourful patchwork that is New York’s diverse neighbourhoods. The history, the festivals, the food…it’s all thrown into one big cultural melting pot and everyone’s given a spoon. But soaring rents and microscopic apartment space has forced many New Yorkers uproot from Manhattan and settle in the outer boroughs. Over in Brooklyn, the Williamsburg neighbourhood has become the destination du jour for the artistic, hipster gang.

Taking the L train to Williamsburg, this former industrial area is reminiscent of our very ownLadbroke Grove. Affectionately known as ‘Billlyburg’, elegant brownstone buildings sit alongside vast warehouses which house artistic space and galleries. The main action happens along Bedford Avenue, where a cluster of chic cafés, off-beat thrift stores and trendy bars welcome the Mac-clutching, coffee-drinking, Nylon-reading crowd.

Stumbling into Vincent’s Pizzeria for a slice of chicken and broccoli pizza, cashier Pete tries to sell me the Williamsburg experience: “If you look at Brooklyn as a whole, the area is relatively safe. And as for Billyburg, it’s a real cool place to be. The young people balance the old and it’s so much more chilled than living in Manhattan.

“Why would you want to live anywhere else?”

Hmmm. There’s no denying Williamsburg’s allure, but it comes across as a little stuffy and pretentious whilst masquerading as one of Brooklyn’s most priciest postcodes. Much like Shoreditch, Williamsburg achingly cool status has earned them the dreaded ‘bohemian’ cliché. But London wins on its multi-ethnic make-up; the nearby Bangladeshi, Turkish and Afro Caribbean communities bear a prominent presence and contribute to the East End’s iconic identity.

London…we’re back in the game.

The Verdict?

Sure, New York’s got monumental skyscrapers, colourful communities and they’re the purveyors of possibly the finest pizza in the world but everything seems a little too polished. London, the diamond in the rough, is unashamedly different.

The night buses may be ghetto and Brick Lane will always be rammed, but London’s charm lies in the fact that it’s overt but not offensive, attractive but sometimes aggressive and so blatant yet so blasé …and that’s why we Londoners love it so much.

Until November 22, acclaimed musicians from across the globe will descend on London’s finest concert halls and intimate jazz clubs to scat, bebop and inject some razzamatazz into the capital’s chilly evenings.

For those whose knowledge of jazz is limited to names like Jimmy Smith and Count Basie and images of Blue Notes and smoky jazz clubs, the London Jazz Festival is the place to discover some new jives.

And while featuring older and more established acts, like the legendary jazz doyenne Cleo Laine (picture above), the London Jazz Festival hopes to introduce new and emerging talent to younger audiences.

American jazz bassist, Esparenza Spalding, is set to play premier jazz venue Ronnie Scott’s on November 21 where she’ll fuse her quirky jazz styles with blues, funk and Brazilian and Afro Cuban arrangements.

This year’s festival is bigger than ever before, with over 250 events, of which a quarter a free, so whether you live in Dalston or Deptford, or are about in Soho or the Southbank, you can still get involved.

So whether you want to discover the evolution of jazz or see how leftfield strands weave their way around the festival, check out the listings quick, as there’s bound to be a whole lot of trumpet-toting and coronet-crooning dazzling music fans this week.

For all the info VISIT THE WEBSITE.

The brothers lured the gangster to a basement flat, and Ronnie pinned down the screaming man while his psychotic brother stabbed him to death. And on Saturday, 76 years after the twins were born in the East End which they would end up ruling with terror, their old friends and enemies will get together for a reunion.

Hundreds of devotees of these vicious gangsters will gather in London to celebrate the Krays and raise money for Leukaemia Research.

Gangland legends such as ex bank robber and bare knuckle boxer Roy Shaw, the twins’ driver Billie Frost, henchman Chris Lambrianou (whose great nephew has been diagnosed with Leukaemia), Firm member Eric Mason and former enemy Charlie Richardson will bury the hatchet for charity.

Jewel thief Lenny Hamilton – once branded with a red hot poker by Ronnie Kray – will also be at the event, along with the Krays’ cousin Carol Fitzgerald and underworld figures from the younger generation such as former football hooligans Carlton Leech, Jason Marriner and Cass Pennant.

The Krays, who ran a protection empire across London and a string of West End nightclubs became iconic figures in the 1960s, mixing with celebrities such as David Bailey, Frank Sinatra and Judy Garland.

But they were also ruthless criminals. Ronnie Kray gunned down George Cornell in a Whitechapel pub for calling him a ‘fat poof’, and they tortured their victims.

Reggie Kray died in October 2000 after 31 years in jail, five years after the death of Ronnie.

Tickets are available for £20 from playersinc@hotmail.com or 0795 018 0922. The event is being held at the Worship Bar, Triton Court, Finsbury Square, London.

While boasting a music policy covering bassline, D&B, Latin, garage and house, the most devout of clubbers flock to Mass for a truly religious experience. The ground-breaking dupstep night, DMZ, takes place at this Brixton Hill venue every other month and sees the creative force behind DMZ records showcasing the best talent from the genre.

And alongside Mass, a number of smart hang suites, relaxing pubs and rocking venues create the pulsating party vein which runs through the area. Brixton’s night life is stealing the thunder from its fashionable east London cousin and is becoming a noted nocturnal destination for the most party-hungry punter.

South London resident, Seth Singh Jennings likes Brixton for its neighbourly atmosphere and cites the White Horse on Brixton Hill as a noted drinking den. He said: “Brixton’s got a real community feel. Maybe it’s because I know the area quite well, but it’s really unpretentious. It’s like everyone’s on the same page.”

The SW9 postcode used to be a well-kept secret among clubbers; but its unique selling point is that behind its gritty urban glamour, it offers an alternative to the commerciality of the east London super clubs. The original club-in-a-pub, The Dogstar, boasts an impressive musical prowess over its three floors. Live bands and DJs rock this sophisticated space seven days a week and what’s more, it’s open until 4am on the weekends. Perfect.

Jamm on Brixton Road regularly hosts after-parties for the big-name acts who play at the o2 Academy Brixton, and the perennially-popular Fridge Bar still packs a punch with banging beats and a cosmopolitan crowd.

The Hootenanny on Effra Road has a varied music policy, and despite the odd name, this pub regularly hosts live ska and revival bands, as well as folk and world music acts. Up-coming events include sets by R&B mainstay Geno Washington and dancehall reggae legend, Frankie Paul, dubbed ‘the Jamaican Stevie Wonder’. Roots and reggae weaved its way into Brixton’s rich tapestry when many of the first waves of West Indian immigrants arrived on these shores in the 1950s and settled in the area. And now the area’s musical diversity spans from dancehall to disco, break beat to bashment and hip-hop to hardcore.

So charge up your oyster card, take note from Eddy Grant and rock down to Electric Avenue because if God is a DJ, he’s going to be behind some decks around here.

A tattooed hooligan slouches in a wheelchair, shirtless, his blue and green arms bright against the doughy paleness of his English skin, Chelsea and England drawings on his chest, his stomach, shoulders.

Menacingly he points a gun at a terrified woman on a bed, her blouse lying on the floor, her blonde hair tousled, her eyes still with fear. But she’s going nowhere because she’s disabled, thrown out of her wheelchair and raped by the hooligan, raped in her own house by this sneering intruder and then shot, left bleeding her short life away, a bullet through the neck in quiet suburbia.

Another day on the set of Killer Bitch, the tabloids’ vilified favourite, an unheard of film with a nasty cast and a sweet-natured crew, a budget flick aiming straight for DVD until the arrival of cage-fighter Alex Reid, the latest amiable simpleton to fall into the ruthless talons of the big-knockeredly vulgar and pointless Jordan.

Since the papers first saw secret snaps of the ‘rape in the woods’, the red tops have gone wild, the middle-England titles are united in disgust and all on set are left in the dark as to what’s going on. Rumour feeds rumour, secret cameras and a mole in the dark. Who trusts who, as made up quotes roll off the page as soon as the cameras stop rolling. This is media nonsense at its best, back biting and back stabbing, lies and new lies, tabloid fever bankrolling the film. Questions, answers, fears, whisper, whisper.

Will Alex be back? Will the film keep going? Will we all become Hollywood stars now? Can Alex act? Does it really matter? Did he keep his pants on? Why was he wearing my pants? Are your pants recording? Have you just raped me? Can I have a bath with Jordan if there’s time? Is there a microphone in the ham roll? What about the cheese roll? Who’s bugged the Pringles? Will someone sneak a live round into a pistol to really get the papers going? How about a paedophile cannibal scene? A naked pensioner, topless children, real blood, real deaths, snuff film time? Don’t you think bestiality should made a come back too?

Rick Senley on the set of Killer Bitch:

At 9.00pm on the 13th September 1991 they both died.

At 8.00pm on the 13th September 1991 Paul argued with his mother.

‘This is bullshit!’

‘Don’t talk to me like that Paul.’

‘I’m taking it. I need it.’

‘That’s my car Paul. If you take it, I’ll call the police.’

‘I wanna see my Dad on my birthday. Why can’t you let me do that?’

‘Your Dad? When has he ever been your Dad?’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘No, you’re drunk!’

17 year old Paul left his mother’s house with a wallop of the front door. He jiggled the keys in the 11 year old Pinto lock and slid on to the driver’s seat. He wiped the tears from his face and banged his white fists against the steering wheel. His face scrunched tight as he tried to stop the sobs and his head pounded hard. He reversed out of the drive, knocking the green dustbins into the road. He drove fast and was convinced he was in control.

Christopher bounced baby Ben on his lap while they waited for Jackie. Jackie was working late again and Chris had come to pick her up from work. Jackie appeared in the foyer.

‘I’m sorry Chris. Hi baby, how’s my beautiful baby?’ Jackie lifted Ben out of Christopher’s arms and presented him proudly to the receptionist, who cooed appropriately.

‘I can’t leave now baby,’ she was still addressing baby Ben.

‘What, why? It’s 8.30 Jackie, you said you’d be finished by now.’ Cigarette smoke lingered in the air between them.

‘Jackie, have you been smoking again?’

‘Christopher, take Ben home, put him to bed. It’s too late for him to be up.’

‘You said you wanted to see him.’

‘Chris I don’t want to argue, take him home, don’t worry I’ll get a taxi.’

‘I hate it when you get taxis home from here alone. You don’t know it’s safe.’

‘Chris,’ she kissed him tenderly on the cheek and this time he smelled her signature perfume which never failed to turn him on.

‘I’ll be fine.’ Jackie reassured Chris with a half smile.

‘Make sure they have a licence, in the front of the cab… Jackie?’ Chris persisted. Jackie bent over and kissed their baby and turned on her ‘Girl Friday’ heels.

Paul’s Dad had gone out. He wasn’t home, but his new bit of salt had been.

‘He’s up the pub.’

‘We were supposed to meet up tonight.’

‘Sorry babe. Not tonight. You can come in and wait, but he didn’t come in till three am last time.’

What a fool he had been. He swigged from a green bottle of Hooch. His mate had bought him three crates for his birthday. He’d already consumed ten sugary alco-pops on an empty stomach. Much to his surprise he felt pretty sober. Disappointment has that sobering effect. He didn’t know where he was going. He had passed his driving test three weeks ago, but he wasn’t yet familiar with where his Dad lived – ‘a place to hide’ as his mum kept telling him. Paul decided to re-join the M3.

Christopher quietly fumed as he tried to secure Ben into the car. Damn baby seat. Ben looked at him with wet eyes. He hadn’t stopped crying since they’d left Jackie in the foyer of the Amdahl building. Screaming Ben was attracting attention from other smarmy execs leaving work late. Damn it! That will do. He slammed the door a little too hard and squeezed in behind the steering wheel. He was really pissed off. Pissed off with Jackie, pissed off at being made redundant and pissed off with himself for being a thoughtless bastard with his baby.

‘Sorry Ben. Daddy’s sorry.’ He yelled to his 9 month old son above the impressively high decibel scream. As if he had been waiting for the apology all that time, baby Ben stopped screaming, began to sniff, and then got the hiccups. Chris laughed. Like all fathers, Chris reckoned Ben was the best baby that had ever been conceived.

‘Thanks Ben.’ He was looking at his baby in the rear view mirror when he was blinded by flashing headlights flooding in through the windscreen. Oh God he’s coming at me…

Realising his mistake too late, Paul landed both his feet on the brakes with full force as the bottle of Hooch slipped out of his hand. He slid powerlessly into the head on collision.

Christopher and baby Ben Collins both died on 13th September 1991.
Paul Strava survived the incident, and spent the next five years in prison.

Still, the year has yielded a bumper crop of great summer songs. Allow us to present to you the tracks that have been sprinkling a little heat into our mostly grey days. Then we can put them all together and have a classic summer barbecue. In our minds.

1/ Artist: A Scholar and a Physician
Track: ‘She’s a Witch’ (Brainlove)

Sell it to me: It’s POPTASTIC! No, stay with me. Srsly. It’s lo-fi fun pop played on made-up instruments by two geeky boys and a girl so cool she’s clearly been drafted in. It has WOOSHES and shouty bits and what sounds like a Casio demo track playing in the background. It will make you want to jump around. Promise.

It’s lyrically AMAZING! “She wears fantastic belts, when she gets wet she melts” (something about flying monkeys, something, something else, cut to chorus), “She’s a witch, she’s a witch, she’s so good at quidditch…She’s in league with Satan”. We’ve all thought it. These boys just said it. They dared to say it.

The VIDEO! It looks like it was made by a hyperactive five year old who’s been left alone with the Kia-Ora, and is therefore top skills. Stick that up your Strawberry Swing, Coldplay.

The STYLING! There clearly isn’t any, apart from sweetly matching, knitted jumpers. This is 4 real, yeah? And we bloody love it.

Georgina Terry

Where can I hear this? You can buy it from iTunes and Amazon.

Okay, I’m in. What now? They’re an elusive lot, but keep your eyes on their MySpace for details of gigs.

2/ Artist: Lime-Headed Dog
Track: ‘Lorenzo’ (Volcano Attack)

Sell it to me: Championed by underground darling-of-the-moment Micachu, Lime-Headed Dog sound like an android bull rampaging through Mark E. Smith’s made-of-china record shop.

It’s a vast departure for maestro Joel Cox, the onetime bassist of indie-pop sweethearts Good Shoes. Out go the jangly guitars and chart-chasing choruses and in come break-beats, electro squalls and some dark, demented lyrics.

Live it’s a violent cacophony of samples, steel drums, violins, flutes and Cox’s acrobatic vocals. But on record, the abrasive experimentalism falls away and Lime-Headed Dog’s ear for a stellar hook shines through their avant-garde exterior.

‘Lorenzo’ here shows that they can be as wonderful as they can be weird.

Gerald Lynch

Where can I hear this? Check out Lime-Headed Dog’s MySpace to stream ‘Lorenzo’, as well as a selection of the aforementioned live mentalism.

Okay, I’m in. What now? New album Kfum & Kfuk is out now – you can only buy it from www.limeheadeddog.blogspot.com, so you’ll feel proper special if you do. You can catch them live, if you’re quick, playing at Shunt in London Bridge on September 4.

3/Artist: BBU
Track: ‘Chi Don’t Dance’ (Self-released)

Sell it to me: Chicago has always punched well above its weight in producing massive breakout hip hop stars over the last decade. Chi Town upstarts BBU (aka Bin Laden Blowin’ Up, aka Black, Brown and Ugly) aren’t likely to follow Kanye and Lupe into the stratosphere any time soon, however. Too much fire for the mainstream. Too much politicking for the party scene. What they are doing is carving themselves a solid niche in astute wordplay set to fluid beats. And whilst Dead Prez-style global issues are at the forefront, BBU’s thoughts rarely stray too far from their hometown, with frequent shout-outs to local neighbourhoods (side note: BBU = epic twitterers. Sample tweet: “YOU – An Undeniable Asshole/ Us – A rap group on a mission to save rap!!!”).

‘Chi Don’t Dance’ sees the trio let their hair down a little; at least enough to craft a true club banger, just in time for the sun to come out and warm up our dancing feet. The central beat is elegant and supple; thoughtful enough for the indie shoegazers and rhythmic enough for the dance-heads. And it all coalesces into a communal shout-along that must sound truly epic when heard reverberating around Chicago’s clubs, magnified by choirs of hundreds. So maybe we won’t be hearing BBU blaring out on Radio 1 over breakfast of a morn, and maybe it’s better that way. The future’s local, and every city should have a BBU; people from your neighbourhood who understand you, and know how to make you dance. Or juke, or percolate, or whatever works for you.

Chris Lo

Where can I hear this? Listen to ‘Chi Don’t Dance’ and others at the BBU MySpace.

Okay, I’m in. What now? Who knows? Keep an ear to the grindstone and pray for a full-length to make its way to these rainy shores.

4/Artist: Jay Reatard
Track: ‘It Ain’t Gonna Save Me’ (Matador)

Sell it to me: In a recent interview, a somewhat clueless French interviewer put it to Jay Reatard (aka Jay Lindsey) that he was very angry when up on stage. At this suggestion he rubbed his brow and, shrugging off his growing irritation, replied that no, he is very happy when on stage. This exchange typifies a widespread misunderstanding about the nature of punk music. Sure it’s loud and aggressive and the subject matter usually revolves around things that are lame and piss you off, but these are songs to make you feel good! At the core of every great punk song lie all the elements that make a great pop song too.

Jay’s new single ‘It Ain’t Gonna Save Me’, (the first off of his debut album for Matador, Watch Me Fall) is a masterclass in how to craft a catchy and energetic punk song, immediately bursting from the speakers on a jangle-pop guitar line, hand-clap rhythm and summerific vocal melody. The lyrics might be about getting sucked into a lonely abyss of negativity, but just try and stop yourself smiling whilst humming along to the ‘All is lost/ there is no hope for me’ refrain as you trip on down a sunny street. I dare you. Flush Blink-182 out of your ears forever; this is the true face of pop punk!

Tim Hobbs

Where can I hear this? Listen to the song and watch the totally awesome massive-free-for-all-at-a-kids-birthday-bash video (not a metaphor) at Jay’s MySpace page.

Okay, I’m in. What now? Well, Watch Me Fall has just come out, but make sure you check out Jay’s consistently brilliant back catalogue, both pre- and post-major label signing. Blood Visions or either of his singles compilations will drastically improve the sweetness of any summer party, or your money back. Also, catch Mr Reatard exploding the Camden Underworld on November 13.

5/ Artist: Mew
Track: ‘Beach’ (Sony BMG)

Sell it to me: Another summer in London, a swelter here, a downpour there and a dozen good-willed Time Outs unread on my floor as September crawls in with shame on its face, just as Danish pop/prog-rockers Mew come bounding along with one more chance for hope. The jaunty ‘Beach’ from their ludicrously lengthily titled new album is a lovely, ethereal, summeringly haunting piece of Scandinavian frozen fairy pop, a glove-handed bass line that lures you in like a lascivious uncle with a spittled leer, jingly burstingly happy guitars and breathy vocals, synths and harmonies from heaven, clattering beats as Brian Wilson fiddles with the Cocteau Twins. I wonder if summer in Copenhagen is this nice? Probably not, I was refused entrance to a whorehouse when I was there.

Rick Senley

Where can I hear this? On MySpace, clearly; a page which also affords you the opportunity to read the full title of Mew’s new album. It’s long, and it might make you sad.

Okay, I’m in. What now? Buy new album; hear new album played live into your ears and face at Shepherd’s Bush Empire on November 10.

6/ Artist: Invasion
Track: ‘Behind the Black Gate’ (Run For Your Life/This Is Music)

Sell it to me: Invasion make music as intriguingly familiar as it is excitingly new. Fusing elements of stoner, psych and good old-fashioned heavy metal, the trio are a breath of fresh air in a metal scene too reliant on latching onto sub-genres and flogging them to death. New track ‘Behind the Black Gate’ is as good an example of their revitalising take on traditional metal as anything they have produced thus far. Even ‘Three Gold Dragons’, the highlight from the terrific Moongazer EP, is at risk of losing its throne as the classic Invasion anthem. It is even more impressive that ‘Behind the Black Gate’ is a B-side, the band clearly confident enough in their highly anticipated debut album to tack such a blinding track onto a single. The thrashing 80s opening builds up to a head-banging psychedelic rock out. Vocalist Chan’s unique voice is drenched in delay and by the time the doom rears it ugly head, Invasion have in under three minutes raced through multiple forms of equally arresting genres, stitched convincingly together thanks to the tight interplay between guitar and drums. A thrilling collision of decades-spanning influence, tweaked to perfection.

Dan Morgan

Where can I hear this? On Invasion’s MySpace. You can also decide whether you prefer ‘Six Red Wizards’ or ‘Three Gold Dragons’. Numerically, the wizards seem to have it, but don’t count the dragons out just yet…

Okay, I’m in. What now? Invasion’s debut album The Master Alchemist is due out on October 5. The band play London a lot so you’ve no excuse to miss them! Visit the band’s MySpace to keep tabs on their touring schedule.

7/ Artist: Neon Indian
Track: ‘Deadbeat Summer’ (Lefse)

Fi, it seems, is out of fashion. The less fi you have, the cooler you are. Lo-fi is cool. No-fi is cool beans. Music made in a studio, after all, implies a level of effort that makes 2009’s trendsetters twitchy and uncomfortable. When has effort ever been cool? What self-respecting scenester would want to spend all that time cramming fi into their music when they can just turn up the fuzz on the amp in their bedroom and add rhythm by recording the muffled thump of their head smacking against the wall?

Problem is, it takes a hell of a lot of work to make lo-fi sound that effortless. Neon Indian’s ‘Deadbeat Summer’ lazily evokes the sun-streaked haze of a stoned adolescence. Beaches, boards and the hesitant first contact of teenage fingers and lips roll off that delicious confection of a guitar line as naturally as a warm breeze. The synths bend and crackle like they’re being transmitted via an old, sun-warped cassette, coiling languidly around the fuzzed-out drumbeat. Effortless. So effortless in fact, that the listener suspects a thoroughly uncool amount of hard graft went into this.

Chris Lo

Where can I hear this? Neon Indian’s MySpace page has most of the tracks that have hit the webs so far.

Okay, I’m in. What now? According to MySpace, we’ll have a debut LP on October 13.

Elizabeth dug her stiff little fingers into the pockets of her anorak. The wind was beating her about the head. ‘I want to go home.’ Her mother put a gloved hand on her daughter’s shoulder and tried to pull her in close. ‘Get off. I’m not a baby.’ She shrugged off her mother’s hand and folded her arms over her chest. It was a miserable afternoon. In fact it had been a miserable day. ‘Fat Mandy’ had called her a boy in front of her whole class and she had cried. Elizabeth marched on ahead of her mother, stomping only in the deepest puddles. ‘ Elizabeth… Elizabeth wait.’ She rubbed her chin on the zip of the anorak and squished her top lip up to her nose to catch the drips. Her hair rustled noisily under the hood so she swiped it away.

‘Stupid coat. I hate wearing this stupid coat.’ She stopped, unfolded her arms and waited for her mother to catch up. ‘Why do you make me wear it all the time?’

‘ Elizabeth, you can’t talk to me like that. It’s very rude.’

‘It’s rude to make me wear this horrible jacket all the time.’ Elizabeth felt the rain soaking her bare neck.

‘Elizabeth, don’t be so ridiculous. I only make you wear it when it rains and that’s so you don’t get wet. Look I know you’re still upset about the haircut, but there was nothing else we could do.’

‘How could you let her cut it all off?’ Elizabeth wanted to cry, but didn’t in protest.

‘If you hadn’t stolen your father’s chewing gum, and got it stuck in your hair, we wouldn’t have needed to cut it all off. But you were silly and now you have to pay the consequences.’ Elizabeth was furious. Her little hands curled up into tight fists and she yelled, ‘I hate you.’ With a final boot of her pink wellie she sloshed puddle water at her mother and ran towards the Art gallery.

Elizabeth usually enjoyed the art gallery, but today she was in the foulest mood. ‘Hello Sweetheart. Nice to see you again. It’s awfully wet outside isn’t it?’ Elizabeth forced a smile at the friendly receptionist. Elizabeth did not want to miss out on the chewy caramel which Wendy always gave her when she left the gallery; even if she was in a bad mood.

‘That’s a lovely coat you have on-’

‘No it isn’t. It’s a horrible, nasty coat.’ Elizabeth snapped at smiley Wendy.

‘Well I know I wore a jacket just like that when I was your age. Did your mother buy it for you?’ Elizabeth nodded, not wanting to snap again at the chewy caramel, provider.

‘Is that a new haircut too? Did you go to the hairdressers with Mum yesterday? Where is Mum anyway? Have you left her to wash away out there?” She tried desperately not to cry, but she couldn’t bear the the uncomfortable sadness building up inside her.

‘I hate my jacket, I hate my hair and I hate my Mum.’ She ran away from reception and began to climb the marble steps which led to the rest of the gallery.

The rain slid off her jacket and on to the polished floor. Her footsteps were louder without her mother’s to accompany them and she felt very alone. Her boots squeaked in a different tune to her jacket and she felt very silly. Ghoulish faces glared out of the large paintings and their tiny eyes met hers. They sneered at her horrible jacket and laughed at her boyish hair cut. ‘I don’t want to look like a boy. I’m a girl and I want to be pretty again.’ She cried heartily. Her hot tears streamed down her face and she began to get a headache. She pulled off her jacket and threw it on the floor.

She stopped sobbing in order to catch her breath and became aware that her arms no longer squeaked against her ribs and the wet cuffs no longer itched her wrists. She felt liberated; jacketless and motherless. She stomped on the anorak as if were the deepest of murky puddles, relishing in her victory. ‘Nasty blue jacket. Horrible wet jacket. You are dead.’ She finally kicked it to one side and began to run zig zag up the room, making sure she looked at every painting before she left the little people and their prying eyes.

After tiring herself out with all the running, hopping, skipping, marching and stomping, Elizabeth slowed to an amble. These were her favourite paintings and she didn’t want to zip past them too quickly. There were miniature farms and toy pigs, stick labourers and their stick wives dancing with their children. There were ladies all sat together playing with each other’s hair. They lay spread out in pastures, staring into blue skies, drinking wine and eating apples the size of marbles. School boys who wore sailor hats played with ponies and clapped hands with school girls in puffy dresses.

There were so many different worlds, so many different stories. ‘How do you do, how do you do, how do you do?’ Elizabeth held out her giant hand and acquainted herself once again with the perfect little people. She called these ‘the happy paintings’. Her mother always made her look at other rooms before she was allowed into this one. ‘You’ll get bored of these ones soon’ her mother would tell her. She didn’t believe it. She could look at these paintings for hours. But there was one painting in particular that she felt she could look at for longer than any of the others. Her mother had told her it was a painting of a lady called ‘Venus’. She didn’t like that name, so she called her ‘Sophia’. Sophia was a pretty name for a pretty lady.

Elizabeth wondered whether her mother was looking for her. She hoped that her mother would forget she had a daughter and disappear forever. ‘One day you’ll look at this picture for so long, you’ll fall into it’ her mother would warn. Elizabeth longed to fall into it, fall into the picture world and meet Sophia, the pretty lady.

Sophia was a honey haired woman, who wore a beautiful yellow dress. It billowed all around her in an autumn landscape. Small birds hovered around her bare feet and the flowers appeared to be watching her, reflecting the same tawny yellow of the dress. Elizabeth held her arms in the same pose as the tall lady in the painting. She twizzled on one pink boot and closed her eyes. She sprung from one foot to the other, trying to point her feet, as she had been taught in her ballet classes, but the boots were too stiff. She pulled them off shaking mud all around her before she continued to dance in front of the painting.

She caught sight of the shadow she cast on the floor of the gallery and stopped abruptly. ‘I do look like a boy. I want my hair back. I want my long hair back.’ She didn’t care if there was chewing gum in it. She pulled at the tufts around her face and whispered, ‘I want to look like you.’ She pressed her hands to the frame – like she knew she was not allowed to do – and knelt her head against the lady’s dress.

As she closed her eyes, she realised how cold she was without her anorak. She shuddered a little, opened her eyes and hugged her skinny arms around herself. She looked up at the painting to find that Sophia was gone. ‘Where did you go?’ Elizabeth whispered. She rubbed her arms and stepped away from the painting to look for her, but she had to shield her eyes from the light emanating from the painting. Cool wind whistled through her hair and leaves landed at her feet. ‘The painting is alive everyone,’ she told the miniature people, but the other paintings remained motionless.

She stepped closer to the painting, that was no longer a painting. It looked real now. She reached out tentatively and rubbed the bark of a tree. ‘It’s real, it’s really real.’ She gripped onto the bottom of the frame and tried to pull herself up. Her fingernails dug into crusty soil and she could smell grass. Once she’d looped one of her feet on to the frame, she used it to swing the rest of her body up. She rolled into the painting and knelt up on the hard ground to take a better look. ‘Wow. I’m here. Where are you Sophia? Where did you go? I won’t tell them you’re real,’ she lied. She would tell ‘Fat Mandy’ at school that art is fun, and it does come to life when you want it to. She would run down to reception and tell Wendy, who might give her lots of chewy caramels for being so clever.

As she stood up she unsettled pieces of crunchy bracken and felt the grass tickle her feet. She basked in the hazy sunshine and no longer felt cold. It was exactly how she had imagined it would be. It was like the dream she’d had; about Sophia and the painting. She did hope that this wasn’t a dream though. She thought it would be a horrible shame if none of it was real. ‘Birds.’ She jabbed a finger at the busy birds beating their wings against the breeze, and folds of yellow fabric swished over her hand.

She wasn’t wearing her school jumper any more. ‘I’m wearing her dress.’ She swayed it about like a real lady. She adjusted the silky ribbon in her hair as she felt it slip and twisted a soft tendril around her fingers squealing with joy, ‘I have hair. My hair is back. I am pretty again.’ She pulled up the bottom of the dress to reveal her pink toes scrunching the grass and bent down to pick up one of the peeping flowers. The sun’s rays made everything look rusty or slightly tarnished, just like in the painting, not like the real world at all.

Birds began to congregate at her feet. From the outside, they had always looked quite plump and fluffy, but up close their feathers were greasy and their eyes were beady. ‘Hello. Do you know where the lady has gone?’ Elizabeth wasn’t so sure she wanted to cradle one in her hand like she had done in her dream. They grew closer, clawing the ground with their twiggy feet. ‘Not so close. I’m afraid.’ But they crept closer and began to peck at her ankles. ‘Ouch, Ouch. That hurts. Get off. There is no food for you there’, she told them, trying to pull her feet away from their sharp beaks. But she couldn’t. ‘Why can’t I move Sophia? Sophia?’ She wriggled her toes but she could not pick either of her feet up.

The clouds thickened and the sun began to fade. She gathered the reams of wispy material around her in attempt to keep warm, but the material was uselessly thin. ‘If I could just fetch my jacket…Where are you pretty lady? I don’t know where I am. I think I’m lost.’ She tried to run away, kick the birds away, but some invisible force was sucking her feet to the soil. ‘Sophia, is this a dream? Am I dreaming…Elizabeth wake up, Elizabeth wake up.’ She screwed her eyes up and repeated the words to herself.

Her feet were so numb with cold that she barely noticed the blood which began to trickle from her white ankles. The bottom of her dress was torn, black with mud and blood. She began to cry into her small white hands. ‘Nasty birds leave me alone! I want to go home. I want to see my Mum.’ Elizabeth began to suspect that she was paying more of those horrible consequences.