There’s a lot of new music around at the moment, including a small number of bands that stand out from the crowd because of the beauty of their songs: Grizzly Bear is probably one of the best examples.

Above all things Natasha Khan is a great storyteller and a brave songwriter. Someone who isn’t afraid to wander into a Kate Bush-esque world of old-fashioned fairytales and exploration of weird and wonderful sounds. In an indie market saturated with guitar led stories of everyday mundanity it’s a welcome relief to hear someone delve into the mystical, magical world of their very own unique vision. Little surprise she’s become a favourite of fellow innovator Bjork. With such a confident, fully-formed sound under her belt it’s difficult to question the attention this newcomer has so quickly garnered.

Ever popular indie extravaganza Chalk is packing up for the summer, returning bigger, better and thankfully in a new location. The multi-levelled Scala never really worked as a Saturday night club venue, despite some fantastic line-ups over the past few months the place is rarely packed, leaving the large main rooms with a half-empty disco feel, seemingly endless stairwells giving the impression you’ve spent the whole night trudging around Brent Cross. No matter, tonight’s main acts were worth the walking.

Living in London isn’t all that bad. Back in my hometown a concert by A Hawk and a Hacksaw would probably never have happened and in case it did take place, there would just be a bunch of intellectuals judging the band from behind their heavy glasses. On the contrary, the amount of people living in this metropolis makes you expect this event to be sold out even in a fairly big venue. So, no surprise a queue of fans looking for a ticket awaited me at the Uxbridge Road entrance.

Walking into a quaint little pub described as ‘the asshole of Manchester’ was a strange experience. As the karaoke corner downstairs was being set-up, upstairs was where the young’uns were. Known to be one of the most popular nights in Manchester, it began to fill up and opening gun Bitterly Ironic set up his painfully expensive looking gear.

A string-based combination of banjo, guitar, mandolin and double bass: Endearingly tuneful this Americana-inspired quartet waltz through tracks, complimenting each other with their skilfully played instruments and delicately pitched voices. A duo-lead, Trevor and Hannah-Lou Moss alternated their solos, occasionally combining harmonic sounds to create some pretty little ditties; some melancholic, some eerily sweet; their rustic attire blending perfectly with their pagan-propelled spirits.

Thursday 10th May marked a first for Florence of new soulful double act Florence and the Machine; it was the first time she had ever performed alone after a curious event left her machinist Matthew Alchin bundled in a car bound for Bristol. Although admittedly daunted by the prospect of filling the mammoth Bar Music Hall with only her voice, Florence sauntered through her mystically bluesy set with ease. With an engaging presence and childlike innocence, Florence traverses through tales of passion, regret and revenge. With titles such as My Boy Builds Coffins and My Best Dress she presents herself as natural story-teller, her candid lyrics signify a vivid imagination second only to her startlingly powerful voice.

Swedish teen twins Miriam and Johanna Eriksson Berhans seem to posses a talent and knowingness beyond their years. At the basis of their act are their amazing voices. Layered and rich, swaying further towards folk than indie and full of raw emotion with the faintest hint of a rough edge. The music itself is beautiful and incredibly listenable but perhaps lacking a fully formed sound of its own, their debut EP suggesting this will inevitably come in time.

Anyone looking for an album that epitomises British Indie music post -2005 could do a lot worse than investigate the debut release from London quartet Good Shoes. Relentless trawls around the toilet circuit have garnered the band a loyal fanbase already and this has served to fuel feverish anticipation ahead of this long touted release. Thankfully the anticipation has not been without merit.

One thing is certain on listening to Swollen and Small; Viking Moses is utterly in love with Neutral Milk Hotel. He knows the songs inside out, upside down, and has grown up learning to play along with Jeff Mangum's melancholic ponderings on life, the universe and everything.

California holds proud its musical tradition of sun soaked, golden sugary pop. Los Angeles' The Little Ones showcase their efforts to uphold this tradition here on their Debut 7 Track EP Sing Song. Unsurprisingly then the Little Ones' sound is heavily reliant on the brilliant conceived vocal harmonies employed by The Beach Boys in their pomp - but thankfully, there are echoes of many other classic pop acts throughout this mildly enjoyable record that at no point do The Little Ones sound like a tribute act. There is tribute and there is homage - The Little Ones fall into the latter category. This is most definitely a good thing.

I had a bad feeling about tonight. When a band is booked to play a large venue outside their main fan base, it usually ends in disaster. The idiosyncrasies of Deerhoof’s sound, no wave rock ‘n’ roll with a harrowing simplicity both lyrically and aurally, just isn’t suited to the cavernous blood red walls of a venue like Camden’s Koko.

Chan Marshall is a confusing character, you hope for her to be brilliant live but there’s always the niggling feeling that it might just go pear-shaped. She’s always been a little fragile; undoubtedly it’s part of her charm. However as soon a she skips onto stage you realise that tonight’s performance is going to be different.

Tim Noble and Sue Webster holding hands across the table in Butlins Burger King neatly sums up the vibe at this years first ATP. Now located way out west at the flagship Butlins in Minehead in Devon ATP has grown into a monster. There is none of the cute intimacy of the old venue, Pontins in Camber Sands. Instead we have rows and rows of shabby chalets surrounding the ridiculous tented pavillion that features in the Butlins adverts, the huge outline of which blights the whole of Minehead.

Moshi Moshi's Best Fwends sure know how to kick things off with style. Deciding an early wardrobe change was in order they introduce themselves to the confused crowd by crouching on the floor and giving us five mins of full-on topless sweaty-boy action. Happy with their new outfits (1970s short-shorts/ill-fitting tees), the DJ cued up a rather nice old dub tune and, presumably by means of a warm-up, the Texan duo did their best school disco via Jamaican Dancehall moves, setting the tone for an evening of very silly boys playing even sillier music.

Troubles! That’s exactly what the Concretes got into during the last year. One of the three founding members and nonetheless the lead vocalist of the band decided to quit to start her solo project Taken by Trees. If that was not enough the destiny decided to punish them furthermore and as a result they had all their equipment stolen during the U.S. tour. Quite a difficult time for a band, isn’t it? However, The Concretes decided to look ahead and continue their career as a seven piece band, giving Maria Erikkson the difficult task to substitute the charismatic and easily recognisable voice of Victoria Bergsman.

Five albums in, and with only mild commercial success to date, it would be a reasonable assessment to describe Rufus Wainwright's dramatic, theatrical pop as something of an acquired taste. For many, he over eggs the pudding , and then some. But whilst bold ambition may be a deterrent to some, his loyal fans will rejoice at this offering. This is classic Rufus, and whilst it wont be winning him many new fans, this simply doesn’t matter. This is a record to admire, it may even be his most satisfying work to date.

This Melbourne trio is clearly inspired by late 70s post punk, No Wave, and experimental noise. Unlike their predecessors, Monika (drums), Antonia (bass), and Luke (guitar) craft songs that are accessible, and not abstract nor impenetrable. This is due to their use of contrasts: disjointed yet organized; atonal but emotive; angular yet fluid; controlled vs. restless.

There can be no more than 15 people scattered around tonight’s venue to witness a performance of much promise from London’s Strange Idols. Taking the stage in a rather unassuming manner, the 5 piece promptly belt out Berlin– its breezy pop tones serving as a nice pipe opener, before the introduction of newbie Over and Over. Showcasing ambition as well as pop sensibilities, it’s all swooning choruses and chiming guitars, and it's allowed to run its course. So far so good.

We’d missed the support band, but turns out according to a girl sat by the bar, they were crap anyway. It’s annoying when there is such a massive gap between bands, all there is to do is sit tight to your spot you picked for the last half hour, drink what’s cheap and people watch. The Forum was packed, so there was much to observe. The balcony seemed pretty unsteady from all the kids getting overexcited and stamping about, probably because they were tired from waiting. Yes, the crowd were quite obviously a lot younger and more energetic than me! At least there was a whirlpool of chaos to watch down below. Some guys were getting a little too lively, so of course, they HAD to start a fight. Amusing at least until Jamie T came on.

Those of you who’ve seen Fame (you know the one, “Remember my name (FAME!)/I’m gonna live forever” and all that jazz) may remember the relatively small but significant character called Bruno. He hated playing in the strings section of the orchestra because he could electronically create an orchestra of sound and fury on his own, resulting in much dancing in the streets and on taxis...

CSS are pure pop candyfloss. The key to playing this role well is to let go completely, and Lovefoxxx, unquestionably the star of the show, does this to perfection. Having fun in front of people isn’t as easy as it sounds and for most would come off like an Eastenders party in the Queen Vic; all bright lights, awkward dancing and forced grins. However, when you take to the stage in a skin-tight all-in-one you’re already halfway there.

Located within the Regent Studios complex in Bethnal Green, Transition Gallery is run by artist Cathy Lomax. Exhibiting works in this small white box space by both emerging and established contemporary artists, Transition’s current show is called Arboreal, meaning to dwell or frequent the woods. Arboreal explores human relationships with the world.

Pin-balling my way through The Troubadour, further pissing off the already pissed off waitress whose path I continually obstructed, I started to lose sight of what the hell I had actually trekked across London for. This notion intensified further by the bitter sting of embarrassment that came after I had marched to front of the queue for the gig, proclaimed my name was on the list, preceded to walk in, only to be told I still had to pay. Having just spent the last of my cash on an overpriced drink, I managed to barter my way in with shrapnel and some pocket flint; and just when I thought my night couldn’t get any worse, Owen Duff took to the stage. Nay, I jest.

Racy instrumental pop, a miniature Gossip meets Karen O. These kids are full of life and their stage presence is phenomenal, particularly the leading lady at a mere seventeen years old. A buzz of electronics fill the room as sparky electro violin meets the sometimes screeching (in a good way) voice of the lead, in and amongst delicate young piano fingers bringing tuneful rhythms to the overall sound through keyboard.

Philadelphia musician Brian Christinzio is back with his own brand of music referencing happier past times– everything from barbershop quartet to Beach Boys to 70s era Wings to Carole King to Ben Folds. The hodge-podge works well and is apparent from the get-go with the first song Suffer For Two. But the best song is the next one Lord, I’ve Been on Fire, which is filled with dark undertones, sugar-coated into a well crafted pop song.

Housed in the uber-slick yet strangely tacky offices of the nations favorite pseudo-narcotic beverage Red Bull, Yasemen Hussein’s new exhibition presents a series of figurative works that gently lift organic motifs from their everyday surroundings in order to delicately render them in sculpted copper, steel and concrete.

The beards are gone and they’re off the drugs. The newly fresh faced, clear headed Kings Of Leon return with their most ambitious and arguably best work to date. Out go the acoustic guitars and somber (ish) tones of predecessor Aha Shake Heartbreak, and in comes rogue rock, screaming vocals and driving bass. Oh, and it’s full of tunes as well.

Everyone seems to have a bit of a crush on all-girl keyboard trio Au Revoir Simone , consisting of hot girls that epitomise geek and their self-proclaimed ‘sandbox chic’.
Au Revoir Simone is like a perfectly whipped pavlova: light, fluffy and crunchy, topped with cream and tangy fruit. As leggy and willowy as their music are Annie, Erika and Heather. With five keyboards, omni-chord, a drum machine and a glockenspiel amongst other miscellaneous electronic and otherwise paraphernalia, their synth-driven compositions are quite delectable.

Emerging from the deep woods into Portland, Oregon and subsequently into The Pigeon Hole in London, is one Alela Diane. Armed with her simple yet meticulously picked guitar and bluesy, plaintive vocals, she quietly charmed the audience with her soft presence.

The problem with free gigs, specifically free gigs advertised in ubiquitous Bus-seat liner ‘London Lite’ is that, no matter how early you turn up there’s always going to be a queue and when you here the immortal ‘One-in-one out’ you know it’s time to get comfortable. Sadly, Miss Kate Nash who was headlining the evening was dead on time and her whole set was just a distant hum and an occasional banging of drums from where we stood outside. However, I did pass her on our way in and can confirm that she has fantastic hair and great taste in shoes.

The first gig of the year is always a bit cagey. Bands are a bit rusty, and crowds tend to be a bit comatose. Cue Fucknuckles. Two guys, two girls, and a shit load of noise. The Saturday crowd didn’t know what hit them. Canadian hardcore on a line-up dominated by left-field ballad pop perhaps wasn’t the best choice. But it did feel surprisingly refreshing from the dreary lyrics and glib alt-country that San Frank and Mat Gibson offered.

For such a corporate shindig, other than a banner draped over the back of stage, there is little to suggest that either Xfm or Vodafone have taken much interest in their endorsement of this event. Given the eclectic line-up at this sold-out ‘festival’, all feels somewhat subdued… OMG!!! “Donny! Peaches!”…

Murder By Death ooze hard-man, tattooed, cowboy charm. They’re not as dirty as I’d imagined (although it’s pretty dark, and after being in the Barfly for an hour or so, everybody’s dirty) but the three dudes are every bit as manly. They look exactly like cigarette and alcohol ravaged young men should – beards, sideburns, check shirts, earrings, all the gear.

Barfly on a Friday night – rammed. Not as you might expect with sweaty youths, oh no, an older crowd is in tow tonight for a couple of hot, new electro-ey acts – wicked.

So here we are. After a couple of years the guys from Canada return come back with their long awaited second release Neon Bible. As a consequence a little journey to London is always good to promote their new material and the Brixton Academy has no problem in selling out tickets of their four concerts in March.

I was a cub scout once. They made me dress up as Bertie Bassett and stuck me on a parade float. I was then propelled around Watford town centre at speeds of up to 3mph as some sort of pagan offering of liquorice to the general public. My parents still have the pictures. So you will forgive me if my initial feelings about tonight do not circulate around excited anticipation and journalistic impartiality. Indeed waiting for them to come on I am, for some reason, reminded of the English bowmen awaiting the French cavalry at Agincourt.

It would be a very easy to misjudge Ill Ease as being somehow, ‘dark.’ After all there’s the repetitive lo-fi riffs, the slightly grubby lyrics (“let me sit on your face/take off my panties/take off your underwear”) and the whole 80’s Seattle grunge vibe thing going on. But after a performance like tonight it becomes clear that this would be to pigeonhole an act that is much more, playfully dirty. What we get tonight is damn sleazy, slightly bluesy, sub-poppy, androgynous sex music. Kinda like what would happen if The Kills met Winnebago Deal and convinced them to try make up, and make better music.

There was a game associated with John Peel’s old Radio 1 show which involved putting a series of entirely unrelated words into a hat, picking them out at random, and then announcing (in your best middle-class Liverpudlian) – say – “that was Grass Lamppost, this is off the new EP from Hedgehog Motorbike.” So then, to The Pigeon Detectives.

Tokyo Police Club are like the little brother that’s just caught wind of what you were doing six months ago. Angular guitars? Check. Synths? Check. An impish keyboard player that jumps around like the bloke from The Automatic? Double check. And the crowd felt awkward because of it. Been there, done that, got the Canadian flag nailed to your T-shirt.

Since receiving the coveted Phillip Hall Radar Award at the 2006 NME award’s, the progress of these Sheffield starlets has been rather rapid. April saw them sign to the ever so cool Rough Trade Records, a string of festival appearances followed before immense critical acclaim greeted their debut long player release Someone To Drive You Home' in November. The record has spawned three top forty hits already and thanks to new video Giddy Stratospheres the sex symbol status of front-woman Kate Jackson secured.

Bryan Ferry covering Dylan… Sounds awful doesn't it. After all, Dylan has been covered countless times before, and save a few notable exceptions (Hendrix and The Byrds), they have all been rather pointless and unnecessary. A whole album of Dylan covers by the frontman of Roxy Music then is sure to follow suit. Not quite.

The night didn’t get off to a great start. Nothing to do with the band, we hadn’t even made it there yet - oven chips just take too long! The time you want something to run late like usual, it just doesn’t. Still, we were about to board a pirate ship, otherwise known as Borderline. It just reminded me of one. Wooden entrance, everyone crammed into the dark pit in the basement, if only there was a gangplank! I’ll give the ship idea a rest, I accept I’m probably alone on that one.

There was hype about tonight. Maximo Park were in London again, armed with new songs from the new album and man were they desperate to play them. They had brought along a grand little crew of Blood Red Shoes, Hot Club De Paris and !!! (pronounced chk chk chk). Butterflies were flapping around in my stomach. But because the night started so early, the first band we actually saw were second band on, Hot Club De Paris.

The dance floor is the fullest it has been in months. Some of the most trying sets of supporting local acts appear; which clumsily consists of a couple of bands who include ex-members of each other. The night plays a bit like an indie-popera, with awkward confrontation and awkward performances. Members of Foals intersperse within the audience, inhaling the familiar scene and mingling with old friends missed on tour. When they finally assemble themselves on stage and begin to play, it’s as if the entire night had been suffering without electricity and someone had suddenly flipped the switch.

Gracious me?! I’ve been to The Water Rats a fair few times in the past, but the buzz tonight is similar to touching the third rail if you know what I mean. Not only are the mighty antipodean Wolf&Cub gracing the stage, but also the boy wonders Voxtrot.

If you weren’t sure with the term ‘neon done well’, this could have been your crash course. If you mix ‘indie’ and ‘rave’ apparently this is the uniform! Brilliant, I got given three glow bracelets from an almost-nuclear guy at the bar. That’ll do nicely.

Fuck it, I like emo. I’m not even sure what emo means any more, but nothing pushes my buttons like melodic, slightly overwrought, sincere guitar music. Enter Cursive. Yeah, they’re five middle aged guys with receding hairlines singing songs that really should be the exclusive domain of sixteen year olds, but Christ they’re good.