Escape Artist's Top Five Films of 2010

I've decided to cut down this year's top films into a list of five for a couple of reasons, both of which are a bit depressing. First of all, there's an uncomfortable number of movies that might well have made the list if I hadn't been too busy and/or lazy to see them (The Social Network, Winter's Bone, The Illusionist). This is depressing because I don't particularly want to live in a world where I miss Winter's Bone but manage to drag my carcass to Fulham to see Solomon Kane.

The second reason is that 2010 wasn't exactly a banner year for cinema, all things considered. Of course there were great movies, but the gaps between them felt unusually wide. A hefty proportion of this year's blockbusters failed to make an impression (Iron Man 2, Clash of the Titans, The A-Team, Prince of Persia), and the latest Harry Potter was baffling and frustrating in equal measure for a non-reader (wait, Ron has another brother? When did the Ministry of Magic turn into a magical wing of the Gestapo? Oh, and what in the motherloving fuck is a Horcrux?). A few smaller films have been thoroughly enjoyable and thought-provoking, but just a little too slight to merit full celebration (Buried, Jackass 3D, Valhalla Rising, I'm Still Here).

With the likes of The King's Speech, True Grit, Black Swan and Never Let Me Go kicking off 2011, hopefully our cinema calendars will be more enticing this year. But in the meantime, here are five films that shone like twinkling diamonds on the dung hill of 2010.

Four Lions (d. Chris Morris; w. Chris Morris, Sam Bain & Jesse Armstrong)

Coming from minds that brought us the likes of The Day Today, Brass Eye, Nathan Barley and Peep Show, it should come as no surprise that Four Lions is bladder-worryingly funny. This story of bumbling jihadists from Sheffield struggling to pull off a suicide attack at the upcoming London Marathon is stuffed to the gills with timeless slapstick gags and hilarious sound bites ("I'm not confused, brother. I just took a picture of my face and it's deffo not my confused face"), with just the right amount of sly subversion.

The surprising thing about Four Lions is everything else. The performances, which are at once funny and sinister and somehow sweet, are a revelation. Riz Ahmed as Omar is the perfect anchor for the film, the Wise to the rest of the crew's Morecambe. Omar's struggles as a leader, his joy as a family man and his inner conflicts as a human being are constantly playing across Ahmed's beleaguered face. Nigel Lindsay as overcompensating fanatic Barry and Kayvan Novak as impressionable simpleton Waj are also both deserving of the highest praise.

It's also surprising that so much poignancy and humanity has been squeezed around all the laughs. The film expertly treads a fine line in not excusing the characters' actions, but portraying them as human and fallible. It looks at the complex factors that lead to radicalisation with a light touch and a great deal of consideration. The secret of Four Lions is that it forces us to see its "martyrs" as real people led down a devastating path by a mix of chance and prescriptive ideology. As such, it's a rare example of a comedy that plays to the best in us, when it could have so easily pandered to the worst.

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (d. Edgar Wright; w. Edgar Wright & Michael Bacall)

Possibly the most divisive movie since The Fountain thrilled/bored audiences with its bold vision/pretentious claptrap (delete as appropriate). For every diehard adherent, there's someone else claiming that Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, based on the graphic novels by Bryan Lee O'Malley, is the worst kind of empty hipster nonsense that caters to the worst impulses of the MTV generation.

The sad thing is that most of the bile floating aroung the net has more to do with knee-jerk reactions against an indie culture that is perceived to be snide and pretentious rather than the film itself. Because Scott Pilgrim, viewed without scoff goggles, is 2010's best example of pure, effervescent action/comedy joy. The jokes share the zing and bounce of the original books, and the action fleshes out the vision of the comics with the mischief and flair that Edgar Wright has displayed since his breakout TV series Spaced.

Behind the one-liners and slapstick fight scenes, the film does have something to say about graduating from man-boy to man, as our titular hero (Michael Cera) fights for the heart of his latest infatuation Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) while slowly realising the flaws in his own self-obsessed personality. But at its heart, Scott Pilgrim is pure fantasy, melding Jackie Chan-esque chop socky and hyper-real visuals with the quirks of Toronto's music scene (while also, haters take note, poking fun at it). From the immaculately conceived soundtrack (with Beck's contributions to the Sex Bob-Omb songs a particular standout) to the pervasive presence of videogame stylings, it's a spectacularly well-conceived bubblegum experience, bursting with the vitality and enthusiasm of youth.

Inception (d. & w. Chris Nolan)

One of the finest filmmakers working in mainstream cinema today, Chris Nolan has been on a pretty flabbergasting run in the last few years. He effortlessly restored Batman's street cred. The Dark Knight transcended all expectations of what a superhero movie is expected to be. He knocked out cinematic rubik's cube The Prestige in between his Batman blockbusters. Throughout, his movies have retained the crispness of thought and the purity of vision that made Memento such a success, while simultaneously raking in hundreds of millions of dollars and making Nolan of the most powerful voices in Hollywood.

Inception marks another triumph for Nolan as the pre-eminent master of accessible moviemaking that's as deep as you need it to be. Casual viewers of Inception will find immense satisfaction in the film's thunderous action scenes and strong performances from the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Marion Cotillard. But those who want to delve deeper into this story of subconscious subterfuge will strike hidden reserves. Inception has been created with a blistering level of forethought (nearly ten years of forethought, in fact), Nolan playing with physics and metaphysics as Cobb and his dream spies plunge ever deeper into the recesses of the mind. That might sound dull on paper, but when it's all played out through anti-gravity fistfights and folding cities, it makes for an experience that's as spectacular as it is cerebral.

With Inception, Nolan has also answered the criticism that he is so consumed with the mechanics of the mind that he leaves little room for the tender fluctuations of the heart. That most of the film takes place in the world of dreams allows Nolan to give flesh to raw emotions and thoughts that in other films remains buried behind characters' eyes. Protagonist Cobb's lingering guilt over the fate of his wife Mal, as well as his desire to find his way back to the children he's been forced to flee from, provides the story's backbone and emotional anchor. Inception adds to the already compelling evidence that if Nolan has indeed become the most powerful director in Hollywood, we're in safe hands.

How To Train Your Dragon (d. Chris Sanders, Dean DeBlois; w. Chris Sanders, Dean DeBlois, Peter Tolan, Adam F. Goldberg)

Probably the most satisfying film to watch this year, and definitely 2010's best use of 3-D. I may be slightly biased due to my borderline unhealthy obsession with scaly flying leviathans since the approximate age of zero onwards, but I don't know anyone who has seen How To Train Your Dragon who would disagree with me. The story of soft-hearted muppet Hiccup's struggle to win the approval of his dragon-hunting Viking peers while keeping his new draconic friend a secret, How To Train... is a true family film.

The movie was always going to be a hit with kids, but it snags the affection of adults not by sneaking in some pop culture references, but by giving grown-ups a chance to access their inner child. Watching Hiccup's maiden flights on his tame Night Fury Toothless, it's almost impossible not to giggle along like a child on a roller coaster. The art direction is coherent and well thought-out, from the simple beauty of the rugged landscapes to the charming menagerie of different dragon species, with the strangely feline and utterly disarming Toothless a particular standout (the directors also helmed Lilo & Stitch, and the Toothless-Stitch connection is clear).

The characters and story have a great deal of charm, leading up to a genuinely thrilling climax with real bite (pun 100% intended). But in the end they play second fiddle to the simple pleasure of watching a boy and a dragon make friends while soaring around in the clouds. For anyone else who dreamed of befriending a giant flying lizard (or still does, there's no judgement here), we can finally replace those old VHS copies of The Flight of Dragons with the best dragon fantasy ever. Just figure out a better title for the sequel, please.

Somewhere (d. & w. Sofia Coppola)

It's so easy to dislike Sofia Coppola movies. The fact that she's the privileged daughter of a world-renowned film director, combined with her predilection for hazy ambiguity and eschewing propulsive narrative, often plays to her critics' nastiest assumptions. But Coppola's films would stand with or without the backing of a Hollywood legend (whether she would have gotten the opportunity to make them is another question, obviously). They share a quiet, elegant tone that tries to say a lot with as few words as possible. While Coppola may frustrate some viewers looking for a quick snackdown on some plot pie, we should celebrate directors who are taking the harder path by trying to stretch the boundaries of what can be expressed on film, shouldn't we?

Of all Coppola's films, Somewhere might be the most trying for audiences. Dialogue is really cut down to a minimum, with whole scenes dedicated to the likes of a girl cooking a poached egg or a sports car roaring monotonously around a race track. This story of isolated actor Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff) having his 11 year-old daughter Cleo (a radiant and refreshingly unprecocious Elle Fanning) unexpectedly foisted upon him doesn't give much in the way of context. Scenes slide into one another with little connective tissue, building the impression that Marco's existence is confined to a series of sumptuous hotel rooms.

But everything that makes the movie a hard sell is what makes it special. The movie paints Marco as a disconnected, lonely individual, whose luxurious surroundings belie the mind-numbing tedium of his contractual obligations. Like the sports car speeding around the track at the film's opening, Marco is a trinket going nowhere. The sudden intrusion of Cleo doesn't quite kick off the Hollywood-patented journey of emotional reengagement, but it adds a sense of urgency to Marco's confusion about his public and personal life (the former he has lots of, the latter he has almost none).

Although the story marks no seismic change in Marco's life and his relationship with Cleo, there are so many fascinating little details that elegantly build the strange little world he inhabits so joylessly. The film is also one of the best examples of weaving music into the narrative, providing extra hints into Marco's mindset without superfluous lines of explanatory dialogue. Somewhere will never be lauded for its brash visuals or explosive storyline, but it has a boldness of its own; a willingness to speak quietly in an industry that too often rewards the loudest voice.

Escape Artist's Top Ten Albums of 2010

I originally thought I'd try introducing this list with a concise paragraph blithely summarising 2010: The Year In Music. I imagined myself like an Errol Flynn version of Lester Bangs, issuing proclamations on the birth and death of genres while swinging from a chandelier and slashing at the darkness of the artless abyss with my gleaming rapier (only the rapier is actually my WIT!). After 30 minutes of staring blankly at the screen, drooling all over my keyboard and pretending I wasn't just fantasising about Errol Flynn, I gave up.

Thing is, music is so huge (and has been for such a long time) that anyone with a brain that isn't located in their belly button knows that the grand musical decree is rendered irrelevant by the vast oceans of the music out there. To make brash, all-encompassing statements about music, you either have to boil it down to what people have been buying this year (that Lady Gaga, isn't she something else?) or you have to think really really hard about it. And I'm not willing to do either.

So suffice it to say that lots of good music came out this year. Here are ten bits of music, in no particular order, which I thought were the goodest.

Marnie Stern, Marnie Stern

Ever since her debut In Advance of the Broken Arm in 2007, Marnie Stern has been a fascinating guitar player and sporadically brilliant songwriter, but it wasn't until her self-titled third album that it all seemed to click. Before, her guitar's mix of reverb-laden distortion and rhythmic finger-tapping was entrancing but occasionally frustrating, too often flitting on to a new melody and tempo before the listener was done with the first.

Not that this year's album is all that different from its predecessors - the zinging guitar twang is intact; Stern's pixie-berserker howl is accounted for; Zach Hill still provides the waterfall of drums that adds to the tracks' breakneck abandon. But Marnie Stern feels like the purest and most condensed distillation of what makes its creator so invigorating. The guitar hooks are purer, the songs are more energised and focused, and the lyrics bleed raw emotion more than ever before. In this case, an eponymous album title makes perfect sense: these songs feel like the same Marnie Stern, just more so.

Kanye West, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy

...On which an egotistical virtuoso finally justifies his ego. West's past albums, despite moments of brash power and his undeniable ear for a hit, felt like shades of the versions archived away in his head. But just when we were ready to consign Yeezy to the trash can of promising rap careers swept away on a riptide of swagger and hubris, he opened up and showed us his twisted fantasy. It was beautiful (and dark).

It's not like there isn't boatloads of self-fellatio on Fantasy. Far from it. But it's joined by seething layers of self-hatred and revelations that always seem to come a little too late. What's so astonishing about this record it actually feels like a fairly comprehensive deconstruction (conscious or not) of a mind that straddles the line between preening ego, demented ambition and brittle vulnerability. And all put to one of the most consistently brilliant set of beats that mainstream hip hop has ever seen. From the Godzilla posturing of 'Monster' to 'So Appalled''s resigned decadence and 'Blame Game''s confused heartache, this is the sound of a facade forever cracked.

Deftones, Diamond Eyes

Diamond Eyes isn't a leap forward for Deftones. If anything, it's a scaling back. After a car crash left bassist Chi Cheng in a semi-conscious state from which he is yet to fully recover, the band temporarily shelved the record they had been working on, called Eros, and reassessed. They decided to draft in ex-Quicksand bassist Sergio Vega and record an album fast and loose, sharing more DNA with the relentless shred of Around the Fur than with the more languorous exploration found on Saturday Night Wrist.

The result is the band's least self-conscious record for years, filled with a renewed ferocity and energy. The album's first four tracks, starting with the gothic title track and running through to booming riff monster 'You've Seen The Butcher', comprise one of the best opening sections of the year. Throughout, the band seem more unified than they have since White Pony, and their enjoyment at rediscovering the relative simplicity of their early days is almost palpable. This is Deftones trimmed of the fuzzy edges, all lean muscle and hellcat fury. Just don't call it a comeback. This is a reassertion.

John Grant, Queen of Denmark

After ten years of labouring away as frontman of the Czars to little recognition and suffering through that band's disintegration, John Grant has ironically gotten the attention he deserves by embracing his outsider status. Part of the thanks for dragging Grant into the light should go Texas band Midlake who saw him perform and insisted on producing and recording his debut solo album, more than six years after the Czars' demise.

The spotlight should remain on Grant, however, who has created an album of adventurous yet poised lovelorn anthems. Focussing primarily on growing up gay in a God-fearing Midwestern hometown as well as some of his (by the sounds of it, painful) adult relationships, Queen of Denmark could have so easily been a pity party. But between the album's interesting arrangements, Grant's rich vocals and lyrics both heartbreaking and humorous, it feels more like a treasure trove. Tracks veer from wistful acoustic balladeering ('TC And The Honey Bear') to honky-tonk singalongs ('Silver Platter Club'), but they share Grant's appealingly direct lyrics and a world weariness that's occasionally leavened by bright thoughts.

Avey Tare, Down There

I'll happily admit that the debut solo album of Animal Collective's Avey Tare won't be for everyone. From the first sleepwalking beats on opener 'Laughing Hieroglyphic', a fair proportion of listeners would probably prefer to plug their ears with aggressive termites than continue. But those who stick around are rewarded with one of the year's most immersive albums, the lack of immediate hooks made irrelevant by the addictiveness of Down There's nocturnal atmosphere.

Here's my review of Down There for the BBC Music website.

Flying Lotus, Cosmogramma

A lot has been made of Flying Lotus' (aka Steven Ellison) jazz heritage as a central tenet informing his latest electro-headtrip Cosmogramma. There's definitely something to that - the freeform synths and constantly evolving beats of a track like 'Zodiac Shit' feel like a natural modern progression of the improvisational virtuosity of Miles Davis or John Coltrane (FlyLo's great-uncle).

But the overriding vibe flowing out of Cosmogramma's every pore is a grand psychedelia. If electronic music has a general flaw it's that it too often moves like mathematics, perfect rhythm matching pre-programmed harmonies in a way that can sometimes seem sterile and robotic. Flying Lotus has definitely bucked that trend on his latest album, more so than any of his other recordings. These tracks bend and creak and morph into one another. In a genre that often prioritises keeping toes tapping over scratching through to its soul, Cosmogramma is a revolution in its imperfection and humanity.

Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti, Before Today

One of America's great musical traditions, and one that is consistently underrated in the modern day, is that of the MOR radio rock song. Simple and unpretentious, this very American pop form tends to age well as a result of simple hooks and timeless, accessible melodies.

There are now a fair few US bands looking back into the country's B-league pop catalogue in an attempt to craft something new from the raw material of the 70s and early 80s. With his first major label release after a raft of lo-fi bedroom LPs, the prolific and obsessive Ariel Pink has emerged at the forefront of this movement. Before Today isn't just a series of nostalgic reconstructions, however. Every track seems to take a classic format and jumble it into something effortlessly modern.

The gloriously-named 'Butt House Blondies' matches the heavier moments of Husker Du and the Replacements with baroque pop verse sections to make a cocktail that's both smooth and gutsy. 'Beverly Kills' kicks off with the 70s soul staple of cop sirens and the hubbub of street chat before seamlessly busting out the slap-bass and loading the listener onto a disco bus - destination? Funky town. It's this makeshift stitching of styles, combined with the pervasive presence of Pink's distinctive vision, that makes Before Today so special.

The Besnard Lakes, The Besnard Lakes Are The Roaring Night

The Besnard Lakes' last album ...Are The Dark Horse was one of the most sensual pleasures of 2007, and as such many of us probably would have been perfectly happy for the Montreal-based band to just poop out a reconstituted version this year, complete with that album's elegant, spidery spirit.

Re-poop they did not, however, and shame on us for being willing to settle. ...Are The Roaring Night is a far more expansive experience than its predecessor, taking the epic template of 'Devastation', one of the few songs on Dark Horse that went really stratospheric, and using it to make an album of soul-scorching post-rock. 'Chicago Train' starts with an orchestral whisper and ends with an electrifying shout; 'Albatross' radiates warmth and light before exploding into an almost epiphanic supernova. The Roaring Night is an appropriate title for a record so epic that it might burst out of your speakers and do battle with a flaming unicorn made of lasers right there in your living room, before giving you a thumbs-up and imploding with the force of a hundred thousand collapsing stars. It's really good, essentially.

Arcade Fire, The Suburbs

So that makes three amazing albums in a row from the officially crowned Kings of Indiedom. This incredible streak is made all the more impressive because the band have (consciously or not) refused to retread old ground, placing each successive release with its own fully fleshed-out world. The Suburbs isn't nearly as flashy as Funeral or Neon Bible, but that's in keeping with the album's exploration of the mundane and the middle-class, the comfortable and the comatose. While by no means sparse, The Suburbs exercises a lot more restraint than its older siblings, constructing quietly desperate vignettes of defeated youth and the empty confection of privileged modern life. Old hat perhaps, but Arcade Fire never fail to separate themselves from the crowd with an abundance of passion and conviction. While there is a lower anthem ratio than some fans might expect, that sense of conviction burns as brightly and as intensely as ever.

Joanna Newsom, Have One On Me

Finally, a Joanna Newsom album we can all agree on. Her earlier albums Ys and The Milk-Eyed Mender are immensely impressive, but tend to split opinion, depending on the listener's proclivity for intricate harp plucking and vocals that occasionally hit a pitch that only dogs can truly appreciate. Despite being a somewhat intimidating triple album, Have One On Me is Newsom's most generous album to date, kind of like a sonic cuddle. The depth of the lyrics and stunning instrumentation is still there; the simpler arrangements simply sharpen the picture to show these virtues with due clarity. Tracks like 'Good Intentions Paving Co.', '81' and 'On A Good Day' are the clearest expression yet of Newsom's giving yet iron-strong vocals, as well as her talent for composition and swirling, Sufjan Stevens-esque orchestration.

Question to ponder: how different would the music world be if Sonic Youth had been called Sonic Cuddle?

Comedy Review: Daniel Kitson, 66a Church Road: A Lament, Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases

I've always thought that a good way of judging the quality of a show is how much of its spirit accompanies you home on the Tube, swimming lazily around in your head juices and sticking with you for a while after you slam shut the front door at home.

When I saw The Woman in Black for the first time (aged 12 or so), I spent a night have recurrent fear-aneurisms about vengeful spirit-bitches from the black beyond. When I saw Springsteen on his Magic tour (in a stadium, on my own. Go me), I air-guitared my way home like I was sprung from cages on Highway 9. A good show leaves ghosts of thoughts that take time to fade, like flashbulb motes flaring across your eyes.

Which brings me somewhat unceremoniously to Daniel Kitson, who has been quietly winning crowds over for years with a mix of stand-up routines and so-called story shows, which mix humour with narrative structure, recounting events from Kitson's life and stirring in immaculately worded observations on the strange irregularities of mundane life.

You might have also seen him pop up briefly on Peter Kay's Phoenix Nights series, although he later dismissed the show as "lazy and racist" (on the Phoenix Nights DVD commentary, Kay refers to Kitson only as "the bastard").

It's clear that Kitson shines brightest when telling his own tales, and 66a Church Road is a fine example. In recounting his love affair with a relatively unassuming piece of rented accommodation and his subsequent, years-long quest to purchase it from a colossal clusterfuck of a landlord, Kitson actually delivers a whole lot more.

Possibly the closest touchstone to Kitson's style is Dave Gorman's Googlewhack Adventure, but while Gorman relied on a preposterously dramatic turn of events to keep audiences rapt, Kitson shows a true flair for performance by achieving precisely the same result with considerably less pliable material.

Whether conveying the sheer joy of his favourite full English breakfast ("Nailed it! Nailed it! Nailed it!" he cries, gesticulating wildly at an imaginary plate of sausages and beans) or vividly recreating the highs and lows of his fraught flat hunt, Kitson has the audience alternating between fits of laughter and ravenous silence for a full hour and a half.

The show is broken up by musical interludes (sounded like Iron & Wine to me) over which Kitson's pre-recorded voice plays, while the man himself illustrates the scene with adorably twee home-made models, appropriately stashed away in suitcases strewn about the stage.

But what made the show great, what had me still digesting the spirit of it on the way home, was Kitson's poignant vision of home as a concept, and what that concept ought to be. It's the show's central theme, and throughout, Kitson poetically expands on the idea that home is a repository of memory and the keystone with which we reassure ourselves that those memories won't be lost, because they've seeped into the walls and floors and before we know it they're galleried all around us.

Whether we find home in a building or in the arms of a loved one, the protection of memory - the instrument we use to measure and define the meaning of our lives - is an enduring and endlessly romantic theme. That's the warm spirit of 66a Church Road, and that's what I was thinking about on the Tube home.

ASTRAL NUGGETS: New tracks plucked from the interwebular loom

This is a track review round-up in which I chew on some of the most exciting new tracks circulating around the web and regurgitate some thoughts directly to the readers, whom I consider my hungry baby birds. It's sustenance mixed with stomach acid, essentially. A salty cocktail, but good. Let's get started.

Gold Panda, 'You' (listen here)

After the miraculous warmth of last year's 'Quitters Raga', which stitched samples of guitar, sitar and sliced-up Hindi vocals into an emotionally gripping patchwork of textures and melodies, London producer Gold Panda might have been feeling the pressure to produce an adequate follow-up. Well, if 'You' is what Gold Panda comes up with when he's under pressure, I propose the motion that he henceforth be forced to write tunes whilst suspended over a pit of ravenous Komodo dragons. 'You' is a refinement of the chopped-up South Asian classicism of 'Quitters Raga', sacrificing a little of that track's emotional pull in favour of a more instant hook and danceable beat. It's a rare breed of sunny driving music that has enough depth to withstand the endless repeat listens foisted upon it by an obsessive like me.

The National, 'Bloodbuzz Ohio' (listen here)

Escape Artist: "OMG! It's Matt Berninger, lead singer of the National! Hey, can you tell us a little about Bloodbuzz Ohio?"

Matt Berninger: "Well, it's kind of like most other National songs."

EA: "So, totally awesome in an earnest way; led by plaintive piano melodies and propulsive drums, with driving guitars heightening emotional tension as the song progresses? And lyrics expressing an intangible sense of loss and frank introspection, delivered in your trademark shellshocked baritone?"

MB: "Uh, yeah."

EA: "Cool! ...Hey, Matt?"

MB: "Yeah?"

EA: "...What's a bloodbuzz? And why does it happen in Ohio? And how did you get there in a swarm of bees? Also, can I be your friend?"

MB: "Oh my God, shut up."

Erykah Badu, 'Window Seat' (listen here)

Erykah Badu is now two-thirds of the way through her New Amerykah trilogy, with part two, entitled Return of the Ankh, released a week or so ago. Thematically, it's all change - out goes the venomous social commentary, in comes spiritual reflection backed by soft synths and ear-nibbling jazz; the hard concrete of the mind traded for the verdant glades of the soul. 'Window Seat' is a bewitching highlight, Badu weighing a yearning for escape against the need for the love of another ("Somebody say come back...I want you to need me"). It's the kind of effortlessly listenable soul music that's easy to define but so hard to master. This is music as spiritual salve.

The New Pornographers, 'The Crash Years' (listen here)

Whistling in pop songs. It's a hard road to walk. There are only a couple of sonic millimetres of difference between the wistful brilliance of Otis Redding's 'Sitting on the Dock of a Bay' and the skull-collapsing, planet-imploding agony of 'Young Folks'. Luckily, with the second track revealed from their upcoming album Together, the New Pornos walk that line with typical grace. 'The Crash Years' has a tremendous sense of momentum, building from a solid template of guitar and rhythm interplay and incorporating so many elements that there seems to be a hook around every corner. To some it's songwriting for the brain-mashed goldfish generation, but to me it's musical confectionery, a song that leads you merrily down the garden path, soundtracked by Neko Case's commanding vocals and the cheerful whistling of ruddy-cheeked Oompa-Loompas nearby.

Deftones, 'Diamond Eyes' (listen here)

So, we've heard two tracks from Diamond Eyes, the new Deftones album coming out in May. The first, 'Rocket Skates', is a sleek atonal beast, all sharp elbows and bared fangs. Second single 'Diamond Eyes' is a more spacious affair. Where 'Rocket Skates' feels like a lunatic screeching off the walls of a padded cell, 'Diamond Eyes' builds a dense cathedral of noise, culminating in a sweeping chorus dominated by Chino Moreno's echoing vocal refrain: "Time will see us realign/ Diamonds rain across the sky". Perhaps the only link between the two tracks is a return to the thick riffs of Around The Fur, Steph Carpenter's guitar presiding over the track in a way not seen since 'My Own Summer (Shove It)'. Certainly, the pounding onslaught of the song's final seconds is one of the most lead-heavy moments in the band's career, which is another way of saying it will blow your teeth out through your anus. It's a tantalising glimpse into what we can expect from the album next month. Rest assured, too, that the band has lost none of its thunderstorm spark after the sudden (hopefully temporary) departure of bassist Chi Cheng following a car crash that left him in a semi-conscious state.

LCD Soundsystem, 'I Can Change' (listen here)

With LCD Soundsystem's new album This Is Happening plump and ready to drop on May 17 (May's shaping up to be a pretty great month for music, isn't it?), leaks are popping up with a frequency that suggests the album has lost elasticity and tracks are simply tumbling out of its butt. While 'Drunk Girls' is exactly the kind of indulgent party banger that an LCD album would feel bereft without, 'I Can Change' feels like it might be more representative of the album's core. In other words, if 'Drunk Girls' is this album's 'North American Scum', 'I Can Change' is 'Someone Great'. Sharp, stripped-down keys are overlaid with a sparkling synth sheen. James Murphy is in contemplative mood here, reflecting on the emotional compromise of a lover stretching to accommodate an infatuation ("I can change...If it helps you fall in love"). It's also Murphy's most confident and consummate performance as a vocalist, his voice sounding more supple than ever, even bending to an impressive falsetto. David Byrne would be proud.

Joker, 'Tron' (listen here)

Tron Legacy, the sequel/reboot of the 1982 cult sci-fi favourite, will be hitting our screens in December. Based on this track, the movie's producers could do a lot worse than hire Bristol dubstep producer Joker to provide the score. Earlier Joker tracks like 'Digidesign' have shown his predilection for an aesthetic that evokes a future constantly shrouded in night, lit only by the flickering luminescence if the inner city. It's a good fit all round. With 'Tron', Joker has downplayed the hyper-bass of previous tunes to experiment with a more mid-pitch sonic spectrum (if you think 'Tron' is bassy, just try 'It Ain't Got A Name' by Joker and TC). The result is a lithe central hook intercut with thrilling diversions. It's a track that more than lives up to its name, and should leave track marks on a significant number of dancefloors, even if we never get to hear it blaring from the stereo of Kevin Flynn's light cycle.

GOD OF WAR III & HEAVY RAIN: Refined past vs. imperfect future

Last week, like several million other gamers around the world, I had the somewhat jarring pleasure of playing God of War III and Heavy Rain back-to-back. So I thought I'd try my hand at a double review with some cursory commenteering thrown in. Just because my recent posts have been nowhere near confused and scattershot enough. So prepare to be forever trapped in an infinite vortex of unnecessary adjectives, pungent similes and phallic punnery! HAHAHAHA!!!

Ahem. So, God of War III and Heavy Rain. Unlikely bedfellows, I'm sure you'll agree (although after three games I'm fairly confident that Kratos could dominate pretty much anything in the bedroom). God of War III is a slickly-produced action/adventure game set in a highly revised version of Greek mythology, giving players the chance to brutalise all manner of fabled beasts and deities whilst carving their way up Mount Olympus in a gore-soaked journey of merciless revenge. It's also the product of five years of refining a combat system and a fight-puzzle-fight game structure through the previous two GoW titles, not to mention the countless influences it snatches from other games (most notably Japanese hack 'n' slashers like Devil May Cry and Ninja Gaiden). The story of God of War, therefore, is one of brilliant refinement, of taking features that have existed for a while and implementing them in the most seamless, epic way possible. It's what has made this the definitive action series for the Western audience, a crown that's thoroughly deserved.

And GoW III is the purest refinement yet. The combat system, characterised by vengeful protagonist Kratos' wildly swinging chain blades (now called the Blades of Exile), is familiar and comforting like an old quilt, with just enough new hotness thrown in to keep things spicy. The controls are intuitive enough that the player can think tactically about how to react to different situations without having to battle with buttons or spasming thumbs. The balance of the game is similarly well-honed, with chase sequences, platforming and simple puzzles effectively breaking up the slaughter sections.

Some recurring problems inherited from the previous games still occasionally frustrate. I can't count the number of times Kratos awkwardly stumbled off the side of a cliff because of spazzy camera angles and deceiving depth perception. There are also a few too many (ie: more than one) 'arena' sections which pad out gameplay by tirelessly throwing waves of minotaurs at Kratos' bald pate before allowing him to continue.

But all criticisms fade into insignificance during the game's most impressive sequences, the sheer scale of which is genuinely staggering. The game's opening salvo (Kratos scaling Olympus on the back of monolithic Titan Gaia) might hit your eyes like a bag full of sex hammers, but just wait until you experience a later boss fight, in which your enemy's fingernail is the size of a detached house. And despite the occasional platforming hiccups, the team at Sony Santa Monica has done some great work with the in-game camera, which zooms out to paint epic watercolours and back in again to capture all the gory details without ever sacrificing player control. I heard someone say that the game is aggressively directed, and in the case of the game's highlights this is a spot-on description. And by aggressive I don't just mean point-of-view beatings and unflinching decapitation sequences, rather that the camera feels more actively involved in the proceedings than ever before.

While GoW III represents the refinement of a genre to its purest molten core, Heavy Rain is an attempt by French developer Quantic Dream to breathe life into a whole new genre of gaming: the 'interactive drama'. Yes, I too was ready to sniff at this somewhat baroque Gallic description, but I genuinely can't think of a better one. It's basically a CG movie in which the player has control over the outcome of scenes through pressing (or failing to press) buttons at relevant times. Although that makes it sound much more boring than it is. It's an interesting game. An important game, even, and one which will hopefully spark a new wave of mature gaming experiences with which adults can connect. It's just that it's not a very good game.

The story, which follows four unconnected characters (you play them all in various scenes) who are all trying to track down a child-snatching serial killer, is involving if generic (think Zodiac meets Se7en with Saw groping itself in the undergrowth nearby). Dialogue veers wildly from convincing to laughable, depending on how well the largely French cast can manage a US accent and how well the game's director David Cage deals with North American dialect and mannerisms, both of which seem to vary from scene to scene. It's disappointing that a game that has compromised interactivity in order to present itself as a thriller to sit proudly alongside cinema's best offerings has settled for a story and dialogue that fails to break out of the 'good, for a game' category.

However, what the game does excellently is build atmosphere and tension within individual scenes. Quantic Dream has built on lessons learned on its last game Fahrenheit to craft some of the most memorable moments in videogame history. Scenes in which the characters are imperilled are rendered all the more jittery with the knowledge that any of the four characters can die and the story rolls on without them, often towards a more tragic ending. The controls effectively mirror the stress levels of the characters, and tricky actions (picking locks, disarming bad dudes etc) translate into holding down tendon-stretching button combinations that are refreshingly representative.

But on almost all other fronts, the control system leaves a rancid aftertaste. The developers' bizarre decision to control character movement by holding down the right trigger and steering them like a goddamned Panzer tank makes the simplest actions a chore and often leaves the player strafing face-first up and down a wall like an abandoned Asperger's patient. The over-reliance on responding to on-screen button prompts, as is so often the case, means that your eyes are scanning the screen for the next prompt to pop up rather than enjoying the action that's going on as a result of your button presses. Likewise puzzles, which regularly occur under an aneurysm-inducing time limit, too often degenerate into frantically wandering around an environment looking for a prompt to pop up rather than actually coming to a logical conclusion.

No matter how dubious the execution, however, the fact remains that it is Heavy Rain rather than GoW III that will be looked upon in ten years as a landmark release. While Kratos disembowelling his way through the Olympian pantheon trumps Heavy Rain on virtually all counts in terms of sheer fun, Quantic Dream has made a more ambitious game. In fact, playing them back-to-back was a curiously satisfying experience; a 48-hour marathon during which my thirst for new virtual experiences and my sickening bloodlust were both sated. As long as the games industry has the capacity to continue offering polished gems like God of War alongside ambitious experiments like Heavy Rain, I reckon gamers have got a lot to look forward to.

Drive-By Truckers BBC album review

The follow up to Drive-By Truckers' incredible Brighter Than Creation's Dark (number 28 on Escape Artist's Top 50 albums of the 21st century) came out yesterday, and it's called The Big To-Do. To find out what old Auntie Beeb's take is on the Truckers' latest slice of Georgia geetar-twang, check out my review on the BBC music website by clicking here.

Head on over to DBT's Myspace page to check out three songs from the album - 'Birthday Boy' (a highlight, rocks like Full Moon Fever-era Tom Petty), 'You Got Another' (forgettable piano balladry, albeit with lovely intro) and 'This Fucking Job' (stomping blue-collar desperation - first line: "Working this job is a kick in the pants").

Red Dead Redemption: Impressions, leading to a conclusion

Apologies for the resigned tone of the title above. It's just that I so desperately wanted to use the subtitle "Me So Ornery" for this post, but the dull side of my brain told me that it was a step too far and more than a little racist. So to spite my killjoy brain I went with a snarky title and decided to put the quote in the very first paragraph. In your face, common decency!

So now that I've given you that privileged glimpse into the creative process of a deranged troglodyte, we can take a collective peek at the creative process of a bunch of intelligent, presumably non-troglodyte game developers who are hard at work on Red Dead Redemption, pseudo-sequel to 2004's patchily-received PS2 spaghetti shooter Red Dead Revolver.

While Revolver was a vivid romp through Sergio Leone cliche, taking in a range of evocative (if occasionally jarring) locales and a well-rounded (if occasionally playable) supporting cast, its shonky mechanics and second-rate graphics showed that the developers' imaginations were pistol-whipped by their limitations. The lack of production values was a result of the game's chaotic development. Original publisher Capcom canned the game mid-way through its development, paving the way for Rockstar Games (the powerhouse behind GTA) to purchase the rights in 2002. Rockstar San Diego expanded on the game's existing assets, leading to a product that felt like a standard shooter with extra features and style poured on before release. Needless to say, it was the last-minute Rockstar additions that provided Red Dead Revolver's best moments.

Red Dead Redemption has suffered no such setbacks. It's a Rockstar San Diego joint from top to bottom, and looks set to become the rootin', tootin', shootin'est game ever to set foot in the Old West.

STORY

Players take on the role of John Marston, a former gunslinger who has since hung up his metal to settle with his family. But familial bliss does not an awesome game make, so our man is coerced by the law into taking up arms again to track down and bring in his old gang. It's a journey that will take him across the arid borders of America's southern states and on into the revolutionary breeding ground of Mexico (there are three huge primary areas where the game takes place). So far, so Ford. But Rockstar San Diego have made the interesting decision to set the game in 1908, with the West definitively conquered and the frontier smashed into the sea. And with encroaching modernity comes the technology to grind the old breed of outlaw desperado into the desert dust. It's a fascinating period of upheaval that paved the way for modern America, and it seems that the game will take more from revisionist anti-Westerns like The Wild Bunch and Unforgiven than the classic interpretations that preceded them.

GAMEPLAY

Well, it's Rockstar, so yes it's an open-world sandbox game. If you're anything like me, those terms will elicit a curious mix of excitement and dread. The best open-world games offer players freedom and choice but with enough context to imbue those choices with meaning. Infamous and Prototype were so unappealing to me because they simply presented cities to piss about in, as if that were enough. It's not. But based on Rockstar's spotless track record in this genre (GTA IV is a platinum example of a game that effortlessly integrates player freedom with an overarching story), we have every reason to hope that Red Dead Redemption will follow suit.

At the front end of the experience is the shooting mechanic, buoyed by the Euphoria engine that powered GTA IV's character animation and physics. Any player who experienced that jaw-dropping first moment in GTA IV where Nico is sent flying through his car's windshield after a particularly nasty crash will testify to the engine's power, and based on the promo videos shown so far, Redemption is using it to similar effect. So expect enemies to react uniquely and convincingly when you fill them with buckshot, rather than pre-canned animations (a la Call of Duty) or over-the-top ragdoll physics. Dead-eye targeting returns from the original game, an inspired take on bullet-time which allows advanced players to slow down time to mark separate targets and then watch the carnage unfold as Marston pours lead into the skulls and bollocks of his foes (the only two areas worth aiming at). Expect to see the Quick Draw pistol duel mechanic return too, although this hasn't been confirmed.

As Marston gallops (on some of the most convincing horses yet seen in a game) through dusty towns and border outposts, his actions will be monitored by an Honour system that will see the reactions of common folk (and the long arm of the law) change based on the violence of his disposition. Capturing bandits and stopping off to rescue stranded wagons will see Marston revered as the Batman of the Old West, whilst horse theft, shooting old ladies in the face and single-handedly wiping out small villages will, unsurprisingly, cause hapless townspeople to prolapse in fear at the sight of his horse on the horizon. Don't expect a swift GTA-style police reaction, but consistent lawlessness may result in righteous posses being rounded up and a sizeable bounty being placed on your own head.

As this is Rockstar's first open world game set in a predominantly rural environment, we can't expect the vibrant, frenzied hustle and bustle of Liberty City. But the development team has worked hard to ensure that, outside of the main story, there's plenty for players to aim their peacemakers at. From lively saloons complete with bar games (one of the videos shows a game of skill involving a sharp knife and five tender fingers, like you used to play at school only not with a compass) to treasure hunts complete with hand-drawn maps to side quests aplenty, there ought to be enough to do. I'm particularly looking forward to simply saddling up and heading into the wilderness for a few hours of living off the land (there's a dynamic wildlife system for you to admire and/or slaughter) and enjoying the vistas presented by the weather system and ambient day/night cycle. After the straight lines of Liberty City, Rockstar's proprietary RAGE engine has shown itself equally capable of creating organic-looking natural spaces, from sunlight filtering through weatherworn branches to the warped wood of the ramshackle towns and villages.

THE CONCLUSION

So all the pins seem to be in place for a satisfying gameplay experience. But the real potential of Red Dead Redemption is in its setting. By choosing to set the game in a period when savage wilderness was eroding under the steam pressure of oncoming modernity, Rockstar has given itself a golden opportunity. Just as GTA IV plays on ruthless entrepreneurialism and the cruelties of modern American economics, Red Dead Redemption could make a powerful companion piece, exploring the violence and misanthropy that lies at the dark heart of the American dream. I drink your milkshake, indeed.

Red Dead Redemption is released on Xbox 360 and PS3 on May 21, 2010.