It’s a general rule of thumb that a third entry into a franchise—a threequel, if you will—rarely trumps what came before. There are more than enough examples to highlight the point; Return of the Jedi, Men In Black 3, The Godfather Part III. That said, however, there are those entries that skirt the middle ground in terms of quality, neither topping what came before nor lowering that which spawned it. The Dark Knight Rises, Return of the King and The Last Crusade all are more than effective at rounding out the trilogy.

The Hangover was an unexpected hit. Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms and Zach Galifinakis were all upcoming stars, brought under the direction of comedy veteran Todd Phillips. The formula wasn’t exactly inventive, but everyone was trying their best. Todd Phillips was recovering from the commercial/critical flop, School For Scoundrels, Bradley Cooper and Co. were out to prove themselves in leading roles. Now, in the third instalment, it’s clear to all and sundry that everyone has moved on.

The man-child Alan (Zach Galifinakis) is spiraling out of control and is off his meds. In one particularly brutal scene involving a giraffe and a motorway sign, Alan is confronted by his father (Jeffrey Tambor) who suffers a heart attack mid-argument. The group agree that it’s better for Alan to stay at a mental institute. En-route, they’re kidnapped by Las Vegas mobster Marshall (John Goodman) who tells them that Chow (Ken Jeong) has escaped prison in Thailand. Unsurprisingly, Doug (Justin Bartha) is held hostage while the others are ordered to find Chow and bring him back. It’s an interesting enough premise and it’s clear that Phillips is trying to break the mould with this third instalment. However, the reality is is that there shouldn’t have been a sequel or a threequel. The first Hangover worked perfectly on its own. It was neat and lean and had a wholly-contained story. There was no room from pushing it out beyond itself, and yet, here we are.

It’s clear that Bradley Cooper has grown in stature and ability since the first Hangover. Anyone who’s seen The Place Beyond the Pines and Silver Linings Playbook will know that Cooper is finally coming into his own. Galifinakis and Helms haven’t had the same luck, career-wise, but both are happily ploughing their own furrow. When brought together for this, it’s clear the chemistry is still there and it’s infectiously funny to watch them squabble and bicker amongst themselves. Nothing in their interactions is forced or unnatural, yet everything outside of it—the plot, the premise—is the exact opposite.

Ken Jeong’s role is expanded to a greater degree this time around; something that could have saved the second film from its fate. As chaos personified, Jeong’s one-liners and general terrorising is funny in places, but it relies heavily on shock value. It can be tiresome, but the film has a brisk pace that means you can’t focus on it for too long. Goodman’s role is pretty much exposition and it’s a real shame. He’s proven time and again that he is a capable comedic actor that can do these smaller roles. Here, however, he’s criminally underused and the film is lesser for it.

Each of the posters and the official synopsis all underline the fact that this is the end of the trilogy. Going in, you’re looking forward to seeing them tie up the story and finally draw a line underneath it. There’s a sense of freedom in that, that they can go anywhere with it as there’ll be nothing beyond it. However, as the films wears on, it becomes clear that this isn’t the end. In fact, the final five minutes of the film state this in unequivocal terms and that feels like a cheat to the audience. Phillips’ attempt to move the comedy towards action-comedy works for the most part, however it goes into some very dark territory that essentially falls flat. Overall, The Hangover 3 is reasonably entertaining if you approach it with lowered expectations.

Tickets for the Vicar St gig cost €23, while tickets for the Empire Music Hall gig are £17. Tickets for both dates can be bought via Ticketmaster now.

My name’s George Watsky. I rap and perform poetry under the name Watsky. I’m originally from San Francisco, California, and I now live in Los Angeles.

Who are your favorite artists from home? What’s it really like touring?

Touring is incredibly fun and rewarding, but it’s a grind. I’ve been living out of a suitcase for three months. You operate on little sleep sometimes, stay in seedy hotels, eat a lot of gas-station food, but when you get to perform to great crowds with your friends on stage it’s more than worth it.

What’s your favourite city/town/venue to play?

It’s hard to say; there are so many towns that have been great to us. My top three might be New York, San Francisco and London, with many, many close seconds.

What’s your ideal festival line-up?

Stevie Wonder, Outkast, the Who, Jurassic 5, the Roots, Prince, Simon & Garfunkel, Louis CK hosting.

Tell us a tour story…

One time, on tour, the other act with us on the road kicked a water pipe in Seattle on the way to join us onstage and sprayed that whole backstage with water while we were performing. The venue didn’t charge us…

What has been your biggest achievement of the year?

Playing my dream venue, the Fillmore in San Francisco, was huge for me. That’s where I saw all of my favorite shows growing up in the city. I still have a dozen ticket stubs from shows I’ve seen there, and it was a very important milestone for me. All my family and friends were there, the house was packed and it lived up to every bit of expectation I had for it.

What was the worst piece of advice you were given?

To try to appeal to what I think kids want to hear musically — there are a lot of hacks in the music industry (mixed in with some creative geniuses) who don’t have any concept for what kind of art they want to create beyond what they think will be popular. These people brainstorm about hit-making after listening to what’s already on the radio to decide what derivative elements to pirate from those songs. All this leads to is watered-down and uninspired music. Better to figure out what you love and why you love it and let it inspire you to create something that is unique.

What do you do to relax?

When I’m truly relaxing I’m doing nothing at all. This doesn’t happen very often though.

What are you reading?

I just finished my friend Beau Sia’s new poetry collection The Undisputed Greatest Writer of All Time.

How about TV, anything good on the box?

I watched half of Breaking Bad and all of The Wire before I left on tour. I have to be careful not to get sucked into too many shows because I’ll watch them all at once at lose three days of time to a blackhole of TV.

Do you have a favourite YouTube video?

Maybe ‘Kick His Ask’ – it’s a little girl learning about swearing and monsters. Adorable factor is off the charts.

What website do you visit most? (discounting email, etc.)

New York Times for news. Some illegal European streaming site so I can watch Giants (baseball) games when I’m on the road.

What is your favourite:

Record?

There are a lot- I’ll put some favorites on: Speakerboxxx/The Love Below by Outkast, Rubber Soul by the Beatles, Joyful Rebellion by K-OS, Chronic 2001 by Dr. Dre.

Song?

Maybe ‘Blackbird’ by the Beatles.

Lost classic song?

‘The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald’ – folk song by Gordon Lightfoot.

Record label?

Quannum Projects. They put out a lot of my favorite independent hip hop in the early 2000s: Blackalicious, Lyrics Born, the Lifesavas and many more.

Who is your favourite current artist?

Digging Kendrick Lamar right now. good kid, m.A.A.d City is an incredibly creative and inspiring album, particularly for one that is a commercial success.

A new artist that you are most excited about?

Digging Chance the Rapper from Chicago. Great creative, honest, musical flow to his lyrics. Excellent wordplay.

What was the last great gig you have seen?

Saw a great comedy show by Bo Burnham. Super impressed by the detail that went into it.

Worst show?

I’ve seen a bunch of duds, don’t want to trash any other artists publicly though.

What should we expect from your Irish shows?

My live shows are a way different experience from watching my videos. I’m very proud of the musicians I play with and we work hard to make every night special. I hope people are surprised by the energy and the level of musicianship.

Watsky performs at the Academy, Dublin this Saturday, 25th May.

See State next week for our preview of the event and our own picks of what to see.

Tieranniesaur, Come on Live Long, My Whippy Soundsystem & Lex Loo, Born Cheating, Bentley Riddims, Watson ACE, Tiny Vinyls, Meltybrains?, Benny Smiles, J Roots and Overhead, the Albatross will also make their way down to Tullamore between 2nd and 4th August.

3-day camping tickets to the festival cost €79, including booking fee. See www.castlepalooza.com for limited tickets and find Castlepalooza on Facebook or see @castlepalooza on Twitter for further details.

Billy Bragg

If his audience at the Dome aren’t quite your standard Great Escape goer (the festival’s largest venue works as a stand alone ticket), Billy Bragg himself fits right in. Tomorrow he’ll deliver the key note speech on DIY culture but tonight he’s back to the day job. Back with a band after a while playing solo, the set switches between the melancholy of the new album and the fire of his politcal passion. The four song encore acts as a microcosm for the whole night, balancing the humour of ‘Handyman Blues’, the emotion of ‘Tank Park Salute’ and Clash inspired versions of ‘Waiting For The Great Leap Forward’ and ‘Help Save The Youth Of America’. (PU)

Caitlin Park

An Australian performer who caught the eye and ear with her recent album Milk Annual and her penchant for seemingly incongruous samples overlaying her folky musings, Park’s appearance is much anticipated as she sets up in the basement of the Queens Hotel. Her set comes generally minus the samples of the album but the songs still retain their tender timbre and her voice floats through the room to the receptive ears of all. Special mention also goes to her British band, Benjamin Fletcher and David Ford, who after rehearsal time of about a week are bang on the money. (TS)

Cousins

So used are we know to the sight of a guitar and drums combo that the tired old comparisons no longer apply. Cousins, from Halifax in Nova Scotia, do fit into the seat of the pants end of the genre however, flying through a set of power pop – papering over an cracks in their line-up with a wall of guitar and vocal effects and an approach to live performance that leaves the walls of the grungy venue The Hope running with water. (PU)

Fight Like Apes

While they once would have been a main attraction at an event like this, the Fight Like Apes rebuilding process sees them occupying a late night slot at a free fringe venue. It’s no band thing though, for as their Camden Crawl Dublin gig proved, they are a band reconnecting with their audience. Playing on a raised area at the back of the Pavilion Tavern (the Pav Tav to its friends), they’re on top form – with Mary especially a dominating force. The encouragingly sizeable and knowledgeable crowd respond accordingly and soon chaos ensues, leading to bassist Conti getting a crack on the head from a falling speaker and State spending our night catching mic stands and flying audience members. It’s good to have them back. (PU)

Gavin James

Even though technically this is his second time in Brighton, Gavin James announces that it feel like the first time as on his first sojourn to the coast, he had ‘drunk that tequila with the worm in it’. Already making a wee ripple for himself in the UK thanks to his Daft Punk’s ‘Get Lucky’ cover, he has skills beyond skillfully placed covers however and in a tiny gig in a pub on the seafront he demonstrates that ably. Startling self-penned songs combine with a gentle but imposing stage presence ensured that Gavin holds the joyous crowd tight in his big amiable grip. (TS)

IYES

One of a number of Brighton based acts playing their home town festival, trio IYES find themselves in the homely surroundings of The Blind Tiger pub. As with the majority of the non-music venues stepping into the breach, it works very nicely indeed and the locals thrive in the intimate surroundings. Their electro pop may not be the most original sound of the weekend but the tunes are strong and in Melis Soyaslanova they have a cooler than cool frontwoman. (PU)

Night Engine

Such is the nature of TGE that many acts make the most of the opportunity and play multiple shows across the weekend. By the time we catch Night Engine at fringe venue The Mesmerist the Londoners are on their fourth outing, belying their status as one of the UK’s most talked about bands of the moment. Singer Phil is certainly worthy of the interest alone, imposing his presence on an audience that veer from the curious to the converted. Their sound is straight out of the David Bowie / Talking Heads school of enigmatic rock but there is certainly something about them that suggests all that hype might just be justified. (PU)

Parquet Courts

Playing back to back gigs at The Haunt followed swiftly by a festival closing set at The Loft, New Yorkers Parquet Court (pictured) know exactly how to smash their way through the middle of a rock n roll song, taking their guitars on the journey of a very short lifetime. Mixing hard garage punk bits with broken pieces of melody, they make a noise of kidney wobbling proportions that sends the Brighton crowd a moshing and a surfing themselves around the already sweaty interior. There is almost a mini-mosh riot when they are not allowed by the gig management to do an encore but the crowd all go home dripping and happy (eventually). (TS)

Peter Kernel

Neither a man called Peter nor even a solo artist, Peter Kernel are in fact a Swiss-Canadian trio who are fine exponents of art-punk, smashing into their guitars and each other, plowing a furrow through ‘Pixies on a bad trip’ territory. Barbara Lenhoff makes catherine wheels with her blonde hair, lighting up the Komedia Studio Bar and her byplay with fellow fronter Aris Bassetti holds together some serious sound, even if their time rolling around the floor together does cause Barbara’s bass some technical issues (ie. it breaks). (TS)

Soak

Although it may seem incongruous to spend time at a UK festival watching acts from home, it’s always tempting to see how Irish acts are faring in another territory. There’s certainly a buzz about Soak this weekend, not least from the audience in the Komedia Studio. It’s a potentially tough task for the performer but she does manage to silence the chatter with her twin weapons of beguiling songs and charming stage persona. She doesn’t quite manage to hold their interest for the full set but with every gig Bridie Monds-Watson is becoming a more accomplished performer and that career path is still very much on track. (PU)

Tellison

One of the great plus points of TGE is how the festival goers embrace the concept of new music, always expecting to find an undiscovered joy around the next corner, yet there are still some acts who are greeted like long lost friends. West Londoners Tellison may not mean an awful lot in State’s world but the Pav Tav is certainly excited to see them. What follows is one of those shows where all the various elements just fall into place. Enhanced passion is the order of the night – musically in a Hundred Reasons sort of way, crowd surfing up to the low ceiling from the punters – and we can’t helped but be thrilled by the whole thing. (PU)

Wounds

With the hardcore and punk scene in Ireland hardly expansive, it’s no surprise that Wounds have been plying their trade across the water – attracting support from the likes of Kerrang! They certainly draw an appreciative crowd to The Hope and respond by confronting them head on. Looking as messed up in person as they sound on record (Aiden Coogan is sporting a full on shiner), it’s quite the experience and one that easily puts them on a par with the US and UK bands doing the same sort of thing at the festival. Don’t be surprised if they fail to make it home much over the next while. (PU)

Reporting: Tim Smillie / Phil Udell

That is not to say that the album is particularly poor but it’s very much just another (and less effective) Primal Scream album with more of the same adornments; those which work and those which do not. Which, for better or for worse, proves to be business as usual for Bobby Gillespie and the boys. The only immediate problem here, however, is that the album us thirteen tracks long and the majority of them are without much substance. There are elements of gospel, blues, funk, loads of indie guitar textures and musical irreverence which all work very well, but there are very few cohesive songs.

‘2013’ brings the album to life and in amongst the nine minutes of swarming, thick psychedelic brass and flanger pedals you’ll hear Gillespie singing about “twenty-first century kids”, “the establishment” and “getting rich, I guess”. The music is as spirited as ever but the lyrics, which undoubtedly mean something, are slightly too abstract and suppressed to be much more than another layer of instrumentation. This remains a common theme throughout the majority of More Light. ‘River of Pain’ starts well and has the intoxicated swagger of an assured band but is extended by a fairly unnecessary musical collage, which kind of ruins a perfectly good song.

‘Culturecide’, ‘Hit Void’ and ‘Tenement Kid’ are fairly forgettable thanks to the absence of anything resembling a melody. Not that Primal Scream ever produced notable melodies in the first place, but they always had rhythmic and forceful music to give Gillespie the freedom to deliver his stream of consciousness vocals without ever having to be Paul McCartney or anything. ‘Invisible City’ is the first track on the album to have any space in it and it is all the more memorable for it. The brass section is back and adds more life to the music but as has been the case with the album so far, everything else seems to just eventually blend into a sludgy, impenetrable mist.

Everything else on here is, as goes the mid-song refrain from ‘Relativity’, “a fucking mess” until ‘It’s Alright, It’s OK”. This is a pure throwback to ‘Scremadelica’. Just as well it was the first single because nothing else here is likely to win over any new fans or attract people to a festival. But they may thank their extensive and mostly great back catalogue for any headline slots until they can do better than this.

Eighteen high-achieving, gifted students are awarded a scholarship each September by a panel of professional musicians following a competitive selection process. Award recipients come from a range of academic disciplines, from Music to Medicine, Law, Agricultural Science, Commerce and Engineering. Led by choir master Desmond Earley, their new four track EP features English and Irish language material, including ‘The Parting Glass’ – the piece that closed last week’s show in such jawdropping fashion. Stream it below and buy it here.

It’s here that we catch the opening act of Friday’s line up in the shape of hard rockers Helhorse. Dedicating their set to recently-deceased Slayer guitarist Jeff Hanneman, this sextet waste no time kicking out the jams and blowing the ears off us. Blistering guitar solos and pounding drums pulverise us over the next half an hour, and by 4pm we are left in no doubt that this festival was not just going to be another synth-pop affair. Great stuff altogether.

After a bit of wandering around we take our place to the right of the main stage for Maria Apetri, better known as Fallulah. Taking to the stage with her band and sporting a rather fetching black and red floral dress she delivers a foot stomping version of ‘Dried-Out Cities’ from her latest album, Escapism, which peaked at number two in the Danish album charts. To say she’s got the dance moves down is the understatement of the year, and it comes as no big surprise to find out that she started her career as a dancer at a young age. The Duracell bunny comes to mind with her boundless energy and she really has got fine songs such as ‘Deserted Homes’ and ‘Superfishyality’ to back it all up. Her set is brilliant from start to finish and Irish promoters out there need to take note and sign her up for a show or festival over here, as this lady is set for much bigger things. One of the highlights of the entire weekend without a shadow of a doubt.

Time then for a stroll over to the Voxhall venue to catch Icelandic act Bloodgroup. Well, technically they are three quarters Icelandic as gadget man and all-round musical genius, Janus Rasmussen is Faroese. Keytars and kaos pads are the order of the day here as female vocalist Sunna Margrét Þórisdóttir, dressed all in black, as are the rest of the band, trades vocal duties with Rasmussen to deliver a brilliant set of hook-driven electronic pop. Magnificent.

With nothing in our schedule for the next hour or so we take a chance and wander into the large concert hall in the Musikhuset complex and take our seats just in time to see a gentleman by the name of Søren Huss stroll out in front of a full orchestra. Now, we had never heard of this man, but even before there was a note sung, we could tell from the crowd’s reaction that he was very well respected in Denmark. And rightly so. His album Oppefra og Ned charted straight in at number one in the Danish charts when it was released last October. We only get three songs here, but they are three magnificent songs, the last of which, ‘Tak For Dansen’, makes the hairs stand up on the backs of our necks. Sublime.

It’s back to the main stage area then for Lulu Rouge, an act whose members man the electronics while a cast of guest vocalists take their turn contributing to the house driven bass heavy groove. It reminds us of Icelandic group GusGus in places which is always a good thing. It’s a nice set which gets the whole crowd dancing and ready for the next act.

She’s the lady on everyone’s lips at the moment, and her name is most definitely not pronounced like a character in EastEnders. She’ll be making her Irish festival debut at Longitude in Marlay Park this summer, so we squeeze up the front to get a good look at Karen Marie Ørsted, better known as MØ. We are treated to the tropical pop magic of ‘Pilgrim’ and the brilliant ‘Glass’ with its cascading glacial synth line. It’s a good call getting her over to Ireland for a festival. Great stuff.

Four-piece electro-pop outfit When Saints Go Machine bring the nights proceedings to a close on the main stage to a packed crowd, showcasing songs off their new album, Infinity Pool. Having been up the very front for MØ we decide a spot at the back is the best option this time and are able to catch the full light-show complete with lasers. With the last chords still ringing, we steal away into the Danish night back to our hotel to rest up for another day’s festivities.

It’s gloriously sunny the next day and after a spot of brunch down by the canal we find ourselves back in the Musikhuset to catch Marie Key. We’re not the only ones with this idea as the concert hall is packed to the rafters at 2pm. It’s only with the help of the ushers that we manage to grab a seat. There’s plenty of on stage banter and laughter from the audience here, but as it’s all in Danish we just smile and pretend we know what’s going on. We get a nice half-hour of catchy pop tunes, however, and that’ll do us grand.

Our Vitamin D levels get a brief boost then, as we sit out on the grass taking in the sun and having a coffee before we plunge down into the dark depths of the venue known as headquarters to see the Wands. The windows in here are taped up with black plastic and it’s fairly hot and stuffy with the place full to bursting point. There’s a chap off to one side with an interesting looking overhead projector that throws up all sorts of psychedelic visuals as the four members of this Danish neo-psych combo take to the stage. Wearing flowery shirts, sporting long hair and with a twelve string electric guitar for good measure they let rip with ‘Hello I Know the Blow You Grow Is Magic’ from their EP of the same name. Cymbals are smashed, bass strings are plucked and the rack of pedals are pushed to the limit as we are treated to a brilliant set that could easily be taking place in 1963, never mind 2013. These lads have a great on-stage dynamic going on, and we have to say that we are totally blown away by how good they are. The highlight of the entire festival in our book. Give us some of that blow any day, baby.

We leave the venue briefly then to get something to eat and end up chatting to some people we know, and by the time we get back to see Mechanical Bird, the place is completely chock a block. Managing to score a seat near the back, but with no view whatsoever of the stage this folk collective, lead by Jakob Brixen, break out the banjos and harmonicas to deliver a blistering set reminiscent of Woven Hand at their finest.

Deciding then that our ears haven’t had a good blasting in at least an hour, it’s over to catch Norwegian band Deathcrush to remedy that particular problem. Named after an EP by black metal band and fellow Norwegians Mayhem, this trio sound more like Sonic Youth after a heavy weekend. The blonde-haired guitarist also has a penchant for wandering into the crowd while still playing and it’s funny to see big, burly, tattooed guys back away from this slight girl as she swings her axe wildly, all the time laying down ear-splitting riffs. This is punk rock at its finest, and as guitars are flung to the ground as their set ends and feedback howls through the venue, we decide our ears got the work out they were looking for. To paraphrase Shakin’ Stevens – lovely stuff.

Then it’s the worst named band we’ve ever had the pleasure of reviewing. Ladies and gentlemen we give you Complicated Universal Cum. Thoughts about their name are soon relegated to the backs of our minds, however, as a sonic sledgehammer hits us square in the face with the sheer power of this nine-piece outfit. Nine piece? Yes, you heard us right. Four guitarists, two drummers, two bassists and a guy on a MicroKorg is what we’re dealing with here, and, by God, it’s louder than Hell. One drummer starts while another wades in a minute later, with layer upon layer of window-breaking guitars crashing in like a tsunami of post-rock apocalypse. One ten minute jam is followed by another as the eardrums are blasted off every single person in the venue. Absolutely fantastic.

Two days in Aarhus then and it’s clear that there is a wealth of musical talent in this Nordic nation. We reckon there’s another Viking invasion on the cards. Bring it on, we say, bring it on.

If you can prove you’ve been to Electric Picnic once before, you can buy weekend camping ticket for EP 2013 for €169.50. Whereas, if you can prove you’ve previously been to three Electric Picnic, you can get one for €149.50. When the deals end next week, those that were eligible for the discounts will have to pay the standard price for their tickets. Full tickets currently cost €189.50 and will remain so until late July when they increase to €229.50.

Tickets are available from all the usual outlets now, but the respective discounts for one-time and three-time EP-goers are set to expire on 28th May (Tuesday). Ticketmaster has a record of anyone who has purchased a ticket over the last seven years. These customers have been sent an email with a unique code that can be used to purchase two tickets at the very special price.

‘Prancer’ joins ‘Farewell, Mona Lisa, ‘Fix Your Face’ and ‘Panasonic Youth’ in the assembly of Dillinger album openers that go straight for the jugular. Like its predecessors, it’s lean, fast and angry, vocalist Greg Puciato clearly relishing lines like “What was the question? / Why do you need an answer?” as the tempo and carnage increases around him. ‘When I Lost My Bet’ is similarly frenetic, its musical arrangement a clever hybrid of the styles that drove Calculating Infinity and Miss Machine. The aforementioned ‘One of Us Is the Killer’ slows pace, taking the listener on a dark drive where death is promised but closure is not.

It’s a compelling little number, at turns equally beautiful and chilling and though Puciato’s soft falsetto crooning will always tie him stylistically to the hugely influential Mike Patton, it remains a seriously impressive and slightly underutilised aspect of Dillinger’s arsenal. They have shown as recently as 2010’s Option Paralysis that they are comfortable with this kind of material (‘Parasitic Twins’ is a nice companion piece for this track in particular) so it’s really quite frustrating to go straight into ‘Hero of the Soviet Union’, one of the most Dillinger-by-numbers tracks you’ll ever hear. Those numbers will always be mind-blowing when you get down to the technical nitty-gritty but this is the sound of a band content to settle.

There are further bright spots, but they’re mostly fleeting glances. ‘Nothing’s Funny’ is pitch-black pop fun in the vein of ‘Black Bubblegum’, though its hook ultimately masks what is a pretty straightforward structure, while ‘Magic That I Held You Prisoner’ offers up a soaring chorus that dwarfs the rest of the song around it. By contrast, ‘Paranoia Shields’ boasts some of Dillinger’s finest verse work to date but its remainder is surprisingly plain, housing a breakdown riff straight off Metallica’s Black Album and a chorus that screams Ozzy Osbourne. One of Us Is the Killer displays many throwback nods across its runtime, both to others (the scattershot intro to ‘Understanding Decay’ recalls early Slipknot, while the bruising-but-lethargic ‘Crossburner’ inexplicably goes all Alice in Chains at one point) and to various eras of Dillinger’s own existence.

It’s difficult to tell if this is even deliberate. Given their Kubrickian attention to detail, you’d be inclined to think so, but at this stage of the Dillinger Escape Plan’s career, it’s really not that all unreasonable to expect something more innovative.

The Big Reunion tour is all about putting real life on pause. They failed to become ever-lasting gold encrusted pop icons just as we possibly failed to grow up to become whatever we wrote down in a Sugar personality quiz. This is life in aspic, a night were the audience lets B*Witched think they were hard done by and Duncan from Blue still think he’s a Calvin Klein model and they in turn let the audience rewind to a time where there were no frightening bills, no boring desk jobs, no expanding waistlines only the fizzy fun of dance routines, kissing posters and all those endless three minute pop explosions.

So for one night only the 02 is a den of denial, where it’s perfectly acceptable to scream at a 40 year old man writhing around with his top over his head and to indulge in pantomime banter so cheesy it could have been removed from a hobo’s foreskin and there are none more cheesy than our own dancing bobble-heads B*Witched. The hydra-headed beast of denim bound onstage at the staggeringly early time of 8.30 meaning no-one has drunk a sufficient amount to be able to ‘enjoy’ their certain brand of cruise-ship pop. In the dimming evening light ‘C’est La Vie’ sets a worrying tone, yes everyone screamed and cheered at show openers 5ive like it was 1999 but they swaggered around the stage like the moody bad boys we remembered but this time they were casting wry smiles clearly in on the joke, unlike the grindingly perky intro of their biggest hit and the pushy-mother stance of Edele Lynch who is desperately trying to have a Beyonce moment in a song that is reminiscent of the Tellytubbies theme tune. It has the opposite effect of what this night is about, instead of remembering a quicksilver forgotten moment of brilliance it makes you want to leave the past far behind and adding in the obligatory shouts of ‘Ah Heyor ! Leave it Out!’ only makes their performance that bit more cringeworthy. As they exit the stage Tricolour grasped in the Lynch twins palms like bronze winning gymnasts , it is time for a mass exodus to the bar for some medicinal drinks as poor 911 take the stage.

911, the back-flipping Chuckle Brothers and Lee the baby-faced singer, try their best to engage the crowd pulling out the Coldplay trick of requesting that everyone light up the room using their phones but when their first song is actually a medley of two cover versions and the crowd still don’t recognise them they shuffle off despondently with Jimmy mumbling something about Guinness and the threat of bringing out a new album. It looks like the promise of the Big Reunion live has amounted to an even more depressing version of those radio road shows from a windswept car park in Eastbourne. Thankfully the Honeyz remind us why dredging up the past is a good idea. With their insane inter-band scrapping and ever revolving members they were like the proto-type Sugababes and just like their scowly counterparts they had the giant tunes to go with it. ‘Finally Found’ prompts the first bout of mass bellowing and by the time they whip on their trademark blue coats for the swingbeat perfection ‘End Of The Line’ a blast of intoxicating nostalgia fills the air like the overpowering scent of Impulse on a summer night.

This is nothing compared to the arrival of Kerry Katona on the stage. With a montage of her best blubbing bits from the TV show preceding her arrival (including the classic I-was-going-to-be-dead-before-I-was-30) she gets the biggest reaction of the night. The crowd might have had Scott’s face plastered all over their school homework notebooks and Lee Ryan’s gimpy grimace on their walls but Kerry is something else. She is that nice friend you once had who went off the rails, that girl you went to school with that you never see anymore. Her breakdown was Britney-like in its levels of insanity but somehow more relatable in its commonplace sadness and therefore all the more poignant. As she joins up with Atomic Kitten colleagues Tash and Liz stumbling her way through the old dance routines with a massive smile on her face maybe all Kerry needed was an actual job rather than another reality show but before anyone gets too emotional it’s time for Liberty X to remind us all of Richard X’s cold steel production brilliance on ‘Being Nobody’ injecting some shimmering class to the evening that Blue manage to bulldoze their way through like an overcooked Christmas turkey.

Blue are the add on band no-one asked for but apparently everyone is pleased to see as the screaming for raisin-eyed Lee Ryan goes to almost Mark Owen-like levels of ear ringing. As the nonchalantly lean their way through the comical law infused lyrics of All Rise in their tracksuit bottoms and harem pants Blue feel too familiar to be here. There is no fuzzy-feeling of rebirth or remembrance this is a hollow, nasty bout of hijacking to promote their own greatest hits tour and new album.

It’s with this empty feeling that the show grinds to a halt for a ludicrous 30 minute interval (probably to get the Liberty X ladies into their catsuits) before everyone returns to supposedly bring out the heavy hitters, but with the Honeyz having dispersed with their greatest of hits at the beginning they only have the booming ‘Won’t Take It Lying Down’ left in their arsenal to offer before piddling away into insignificance on the forgettable ‘Never Let You Down’. The ballad heavy second half gives more toilet time with the likes of 911 and Blue ploughing through their yawnsome slow set faves and a truly disturbing version of ‘Body Shakin’’ it’s not until Liberty X and their peerless, Hearsay crushing ‘Just A Little’ and the re-emergence of 5ive that things start to get Top of the Pops thrilling again.

‘Keep On Movin’’ is an explosion of optimism, it is the bright Saturday morning, Smash Hits sticker swapping, ice-cream eating slice of fun that pop at its most joyous can bring. It is songs and moments like this that make The Big Reunion seems justified. As Abz throws his trucker hat into the squealing crowd and exits the stage there is a collective feeling of goodwill injected in the air that continues through to the grand finale of ‘Whole Again’ it is only fitting that The Big Reunion tour ends with the Atomic Kitten girls clutching each other and swaying on stage as this is a night not just about testosterone and beefcakes, it’s not a night to re-launch careers, it’s a night about nostalgia, about friendships forged and lost to be reunited, those faces may have changed but the songs remain the same.

Cork’s Young Wonder take the congregation immediately away from an acoustic church sound and you don’t even blink because Ian’s warm electronics suit the room perfectly. The choir make their first appearance of the evening, adding a beautiful weight to ‘To You’and ‘In Time’ and it seems as though this crazy idea just might work. Heathers, who admit to being nervous playing such hallowed halls, benefit so much from the silent and rapt audience. The siblings’ harmonies are beautiful in the room but when the choir join for ‘Forget Me Knots’ they raise the roof, set spines tingling and even the sisters seem in awe of what is happening to their own song.

Lastly, Ham Sandwich provide the full band set up of the evening. Niamh is even more magnetic than ever, framed centre of the nave. Podge is the usual loose cannon, more so given the sober nature of the surroundings, but once they are inside a song they’re a serious force. They already have a large and wide sound with added brass and strings, but the special arrangements for ’Models’ and a stirring ’The Naturist’ open the whole night up to become a mini-spectacular.

To close the UCD Choral Scholars line the aisle and, led by soloist Mark Waters, fill the cathedral with a version of ’The Parting Glass’ that could split the heart. The evening’s producer Annette Udell bids the congregation adieu, and ushers State to the pub to blow out our five candles.

Huge thanks go to all the bands; Des Early and the UCD Choral Scholars; Mark, Orlaith and Nuala at Christ Church; Tom, JC, Dave, David, Darren and Ross; all the DIT crew who helped on the night and Alison Curtis for her MC role.

Photos by Paulo Gonçalves.

One of the sexiest and most arresting voices in American pop, plus Alicia Keys.

Luke Sital-Singh | Little Museum of Dublin, Dublin (7:30pm, 22nd May) | €11.50

Up-and-coming London folkie in the unfamiliar confines of a Dublin museum.

The Whileaways | Whelan’s (upstairs), Dublin (8pm, 22nd May) | €10

Galway Americana trio launch their debut album upstairs while…

Lucky Bones | Whelan’s, Dublin (8pm, 22nd May) | €10

…Lucky Bones launch their second effort downstairs, with support from Edisons.

Spies | Button Factory, Dublin (7:30pm, 23rd May) | €8-10

The band launch their latest single, ‘Distant Shorelines’, and promise a good mix of old and new material.

Elder Roche | Odessa Club, Dublin (8:30pm, 23rd May) | €10

Rugged intimacy from the Dublin songwriter.

Nomeansno | Whelan’s, Dublin (7:30pm, 23rd May) | €16

Veteran Candian punks hit Wexford St.

David Kitt | Black Box, Belfast (8pm, 23rd May) | €15

The acoustic auteur continues a low-key national tour. I think I’m related to him somehow.

Todd Terje | Róisín Dubh, Galway (9pm, 23rd May)/Button Factory, Dublin (11pm, 25th May) | €20.90/€15

Him with the bouncy electro tunes and the perfectly sculpted moustache.

A$AP Rocky | Academy, Dublin (8pm, 24th May) | SOLD OUT

I don’t get why Rocky and Kendrick are dressed like they’re in a Westlife video here. Not a stool in sight.

Moscow Metro | Workman’s Club, Dublin (8pm, 24th May) | €9

Indie upstarts play the quays after their double bill with Little Bear earlier in the year.

Craig Charles | Twisted Pepper, Dublin (10:30pm, 24th May) | €13.95

Coronation Street star and former Robot Wars host is now a funk and soul DJ.

The Riptide Movement | Olympia, Dublin (7pm, 24th May and 7:30pm, 25th May) | €16.85-19.50

I still see them about busking. Lads, protect your brand.

Enemies | Button Factory, Dublin (7:30pm, 25th May) | €10

The Embark, Embrace launch continues.

Tony Allen and Colours Afrobeat Foundation | Sugar Club, Dublin (7:30pm, 25th May) | €21.50

Afrobeat legend and Good, the Bad & the Queen drummer Allen is joined by Ireland’s best in the genre for one night only.

Haim | Whelan’s, Dublin (8pm, 25th May) | SOLD OUT

They’re so hot right now.

Widowspeak | Workman’s Club, Dublin (8pm, 25th May) | €12

No widow’s peaks here. No hair styling of any sort, in fact. Hirsute band, sound like a country & western Cults.

Andrew Weatherall | Twisted Pepper, Dublin (10:30pm, 25th May) | €17.65

Prolific, eclectic producer rocks up on Middle Abbey St for an evening with A Love from Outer Space cohort Sean Johnston.

Van Morrison | Castle Ward, Downpatrick, Co. Down (8pm, 26th May) | SOLD OUT

Mr Happy himself.

Lana Del Rey | Vicar St, Dublin (8:30pm, 26th May) | €44.05

Some morose glamour for your Sunday night.

Life Festival

Life Festival takes place this Friday, Saturday and Sunday (24th-26th May) at Belvedere House in Mullingar, Co. Westmeath. Besides the likes of headliners Seth Troxler, Laurent Garnier, Modeselektor and Booka Shade, there’s a full line-up representing the best electronic and dance the Irish festival season has to offer as well as some fun anomalies. Unfortunately, Groove Armada had to cancel for medical reasons, but there is plenty to be discovered in their absence.

At the time of writing, tickets weren’t fully sold out yet. They range from €70 for a non-camping Sunday ticket to €160 for the full weekend plus camping. There are additional fees for campervans and such, and all can be bought at this address. You can see the full line-up below.

“Okay Lamborghini mercy/your chick, she so thirsty/I’m in that two-seat lambo with your girl/she tryna jerk me.”

That’s the hook from Kanye West’s ‘Mercy’, a posse cut that’s not unlike The Fast and Furious franchise—car centric, daft and incredibly fun. The series has seen, like all posse cuts, a cavalcade of personalities all jumping on a verse for something good, yet rarely great. With Fast Five, greatness was achieved with the addition of—as GI Joe: Retaliation director Jon M. Chu so elegantly phrased it “franchise viagra”—Dwayne Johnson who ended up Godzilla-stomping all over Rio de Janeiro and ensuring a box office haul bigger than the first three movies combined.

With the gang all back for another round, Fast & Furious 6 takes on the obvious trait of scaling up for the sequel. With the crew all living off their $100,000,000 payoff from the Rio heist, Dom Toretto (Diesel) brings the family back together after DSS agent Hobbs (Johnson) recruits him to take down a team of mercenaries specialising in military hijackings led by former SAS major Owen Shaw (a surprisingly cold and calculated Luke Evans) and Dom’s thought to be dead ex-squeeze Letty (the forever sullen Michelle Rodriguez.)

It’s probably a moot point for such a ridiculously daft franchise but what makes Fast & Furious 6 suffer is the fact that it’s just not that clever. What worked for its predecessors so well was its heist angle which made it all play out like Oceans 11 on a cocktail of cocaine and PEDs. In upping the ante and settling on a simpler revenge tale, Lin has lost a lot of the whizzy fun. When things work—there may not be a smarter and meticulously choreographed scene then a chase through London with modified military Formula 1 cars—it’s a blast, but when they don’t—a confusing finale on an infinite runway—you’re pulled right out of the action and reminded just how stupid what you’re watching is.

Pushing the realms of credibility, Furious 6 doesn’t so much as nuke the fridge as launch them at each other from speeding cars and tanks over median strips. I haven’t seen the fourth installment, but that’s the one where they all got adamantium skeletons, right? It’s a world of heightened reality that Toretto operates in—one where Ludacris is a techno-savant and navigating London streets is a pleasant, uncongested affair. Still, it carries a good message: buckle up, and you’ll probably be grand.

There’s still so much to be enjoyed though, particularly in the new additions. The last time we saw Gina Carano, she was kicking seven shades of shite out of Michael Fassbender in the Shelbourne Hotel, and here as a member of Hobbs’ team, she enjoys some brutal scraps with Rodriguez that put the mens’ bouts of fisticuffs to shame. Fast Five sits only behind The Raid: Redemption as the best action flick of the past five years, so adding the latter’s Joe Taslim delivers a much needed nitrous boost to the hand-to-hand hammerdowns.

Of the old guard, Walker spends half the run time off on his own while Jordana Brewster’s presence has been relegated entirely to getting into danger, all of the time. Dom’s quasi-religious devotion to family—he’ll one day be the founder of the Toretto Church of Kith and Kin where BBQ’d meat and Coronas are substituted for the body and blood of Christ—gives him the strongest arc as he refuses to give up on Letty, grunting, “you don’t turn your back on family, even when they do.” The Rock, receiver of the perfect appellation ‘Samoan Thor’, struggles a little this time around. The material isn’t there for him yet his tandem with Diesel might be the greatest tag-team since The Legion of Doom last rode.

It’s unlikely in a Summer of serious sequels that there’ll be a movie more self-aware or fun than Fast & Furious 6. So put your brain in the boot and, for two hours, live your life a quarter mile at a time. Just remember to wear a seatbelt.

Jay Bulger is a documentarian, journalist, music video director and rock fan. Discovering via a court report from South Africa that Ginger Baker was still alive and kicking, he set out to write an article on the legendary drummer of Cream, Blind Faith, Blues Incorporated and numerous other elements of musical royalty.

Often credited as a founder of everything from prog rock to metal, Peter Baker was born less than two weeks before the start of World War II, a conflict that would claim the life of his father. Baker possesses that most elusive of traits; raw musical talent. Over the course of the film he consistently references ‘natural time’, and those who have it, himself included. Only loosely interested in his personal life, the film is more concerned with his skill, influences and legacy.

That’s the key word here; legacy. Like most impressive words it’s grossly overused, but here it’s entirely applicable. Whether you think Cream were transgressive geniuses who created a new genre or purveyors of the most turgid shite imaginable, you can’t deny their influence, nor that of Baker. The musicians featured (including the always punchable Lars Ulrich) are all either huge fans or previous collaborators, and often both. The consensus seems to be that Baker took the technical ability of the Jazz drummers he wanted to emulate and found a way (or forced one) of working it into rock music, which was almost done leaving the roll behind. As is made clear, Baker would loathe this interpretation as ‘you can’t put music in a fuckin’ box mate!’

Though his influence is nigh incalculable, the restitution he received was not always in line with that legacy, and these dire financial straits form the main narrative alongside a traditional A to B to C life story. Going from London to America to Africa to Italy then back to Africa, the film zips along nicely while allowing for some interesting insights and genuinely hilarious anecdotes (one about Mick Jagger stands out, if only for how bitter Baker sounds), all tied together with some beautifully stylised animated sequences, even if the sound design of these sequences is a little trite.

Bulger also avoids pulling punches when documenting the life of a man who refuses to compromise, often to the detriment of his image. Baker seems to have pissed off almost everyone who has ever known him, so a purely worshipful documentary would’ve been rather difficult to pull off, but trying to be honest about someone he so clearly admires is still to Bulger’s credit.

At an hour and forty minutes the film is a little too long and a biopic about a still living subject is always problematic as there’s no conclusive end, but ultimately your enjoyment will hinge on how much you care about Baker. If you already know who he is, you probably already want to see this documentary, so bizzare is its subject. If you’re unaware of the insane visual hybrid of Luke Kelly and The Joker that is Ginger, he’s a fascinating study, even in an introductory sense.

With all the glitz and glamour of a furtive greed-hog, Luhrmann’s whining rendition of The Great Gatsby dives whimpering into the shallow end of the adaptive scale. Carving his name childishly into the roll call of well-wishers that have come before him, the director attacks Fitzgerald’s triumphant novella with the vacuous zeal usually attributed to a tacky music video.

It would seem, at this late stage in the game, that we’re all familiar with the 1926 plot. For those attempting to arrive fashionably late to this soirée: the party is over. Nonetheless, it is the story of Nick (Maguire), transported to the highballing consumption of 1920s New York. Relinquishing his non-existent career as a writer, he endeavours to chase stocks and bonds on Wall Street. Enter cousin Daisy (Mulligan), effortlessly wed to “old money” Tom Buchanan (Edgerton). Residing across the water from his cousin, Nick busies himself on West Egg with intrigue and fascination regarding his mysterious “new money” neighbour, Jay Gatsby (DiCaprio). What unfolds is the impatient cliff-note of a much beloved tale: identity, modernisation, withered retrospect and sorrowful satire.

What should culminate in a tempered unfolding of social satire and ceaseless regret, is left waning in the tepid waters of pop-culture under Luhrmann’s guidance. Far from Jack Clayton’s 1974 resolve, this film lathers on the glamour and computerises the set, leaving an empty feeling where Fitzgerald’s dark and contemplative prose should cut deep with sentiment. Alas, the film’s strong suits are not found in the performances. DiCaprio ritualistically toys with the pleasures of playing the mystery of Gatsby, while Maguire seems an apt but stale choice for Carraway in execution. Unfortunately, yet predictably, Mulligan proves out of her depth, blustering her way through a verbose presentation of Daisy’s confused melancholy, attempting to relinquish the indifference endlessly explored in her more contemporary back catalogue. Surprisingly, Edgerton presents the most convincing and enjoyable performance as bigoted Tom; swaggering from the outset, comfortable in his pettiness.

Aside from the strenuous and flagrantly ill-mannered post-production work, Gatsby’s central flaw is its impatient desire to juxtapose an analytic narrative with contemporary ‘swag’. With Jay Z (that’s right) as executive producer on this sinking party boat, the film is saturated in paper-thin CG style, and a soundtrack that would be more at home on the finale of an MTV reality show. What little sway the actors have over the pacing of their performances is drowned out by the ironic emptiness of the filmmaking; the desire for pomp and flair makes the original satire and tragedy incredibly difficult to remember, let alone gel into filmic adaptation. In the climactic hotel room scene, the audience are given a firsthand example of just how little this production cares for subtlety with DiCaprio exploding into the camera and out of character.

Lost in a hurling wave of its own grandiosity, Luhrmann’s film actively forgets its roots and thus its place. With panhandled allusions to a narrow psychoanalytic reading, line delivery lost outside of the necessary circumstance, and a disgraceful pastiche of on-screen text whenever they want to drive home a memorable line from the book, The Great Gatsby is nothing like what it once was or should ever be.

It bridges the musical gap nicely too, finding the band facing major label life with typical bloody-mindedness and setting out to record an album without any R.E.M. type songs on it. While in hindsight the mix of rock with acoustic instruments and softer sounds would become something of a trademark, Green did mark a major step forward for the four piece. Those styles weren’t quite ready to mesh together however, with the record divided between the louder guitar numbers (‘Pop Song ’89′, ‘Turn You Inside Out’) and the more experimental ‘You Are The Everything’ and ‘The Wrong Child’. The two elements did come together on ‘World Leader Pretend’, a song worthy of inclusion on any career retrospective. At times playful (‘Stand’), at others as angry as you’d expect an album released on the day George Bush Jnr was voted President to be, Green captured a band whose time was about to come.

That feeling is enhanced by the second disc of the set, Live in Greensboro 1989. Recorded on the penultimate night of the Green tour, it’s pretty much the only live R.E.M. document that you’ll ever need. Perhaps their last hurrah as a live force (it would be six years until they would tour again on the back of the patchy Monster album, a trip that would leave them on the verge of disintegration), it includes the pick of their then new material alongside older gems and even a couple of tasters from Out Of Time. Peter Buck is in full flight, Michael Stipe still juggling his old, enigmatic persona with the demands of a larger audience and Mike Mills’ harmonies holding it all together. At the time, it was hard to believe that they could get much better. That they did – in the studio at any rate – is one of rock’s great stories and Green is a vital chapter.

While the entwining guitars of the Dessner brothers provided the perfect foil to Bryan Devendorf’s bruising yet versatile drumming style, singer Matt Berninger was left to settle into his unapologetic baritone on High Violet. And with this follow-up, Trouble Will Find Me, the National have made the decision to push Berninger front and centre. Not that he wasn’t already the band’s mumbling focal point, but the intricacy and anthemic melancholy of High Violet have been restrained in order to accentuate Berninger’s words and struggles. It is, to put it mildly, a break-up album.

Actually, Trouble Will Find Me is more than a break-up album; it is what comes of leafing through one’s anthology of pathological romantic failings. Berninger is compelled to replay mistakes over and over and always in search of the most crushing blows. It is an album of great introspection, inescapable regret and one that finds Berninger seeking solace in despondency. He finds there’s an imbibing comfort when internalising his anguish, and he dominates Trouble Will Find Me for better or worse.

Lead single ‘Demons’ best encapsulates Trouble and the themes running around Berninger’s head. Each verse overflows with words, and the ever-present medlodica line provides a sedate contrast to an unusually talkative Berninger. He sings, giving himself over to the pain that defines him (“It becomes the crux of me”) and Trouble Will Find Me as a whole. The “chorus” of “I stay down with my demons” is suddenly imbued with power to bring the song to a fitting climax – it’s as if Berninger shrugs his shoulders and renders musical catharsis.

Opener ‘I Should Live in Salt’ and ‘Don’t Swallow the Cap’ bookend ‘Demons’, coming to similarly effective conclusions without feeling like complete songs – a criticism that can be levelled at a majority of tracks on Trouble Will Find Me. The Dessners’ guitars are sparse and elliptical, careful not to tread on Berninger’s words, and so Devendorf is forced into the role of musical protagonist. Indeed, it is not until fifth track ‘Sea of Love’, a hectic blend of militaristic drums and slashing guitars, that the National allow themselves a rare injection of energy.

‘Heavenfaced’ and ‘This Is the Last Time’ excel in spite of sparing instrumentation and Berninger’s all-too-maudlin appearance. The former slowly takes hold with only Berninger and the plaintive strains of Aaron Dessner’s guitar forcing the issue, while ‘This Is the Last Time’ is altogether more sinewy, the dying shout of “I won’t be vacant anymore” giving way to a rather wonderful duet between Berninger and a female voice on a final painstaking refrain as strings and bass swell dystopically in the margins.

“I do my crying underwater / I cannot get down any farther” is just one of the telling lines packed into ‘Demons’ and introduces the sea as the metaphorical body that both consumes and numbs Berninger’s misery. It’s a persistent motif that demonstrates his isolated turmoil rather splendidly, but a constant barrage of despair becomes very tiring over 13 songs, especially when there’s little of audible interest happening elsewhere. He admits on ‘Slipped’, another highlight, “I keep coming back here where everything slipped”, and ruinous love proves to be a drug he cannot quit. That praised refrain that ends ‘This Is the Last Time’ goes: “It takes a lot of pain / to pick me up” – this pain is both a buoy and an anchor for Berninger and Trouble Will Find Me.

With Berninger lamenting the losses of Jennifer (twice), Jo, Grace and the other nameless women (including the mystery southern belle of ‘Slipped’) that haunt Trouble, it is left to the melodic ‘Pink Rabbits’ to saves the second half from repetitive self-parody before the tumult subsides on ‘Hard to Find’, the rather optimistic closing number filled with blossoming guitars and indie rom-com potential.

Trouble indulges Berninger without second thought to a counteracting distraction. The Dessners all but recede into the background over these 55 minutes, leaving the all-Devendorf rhythm section as the frontman’s sole consolation. Although he has always been their disheveled heart, Matt Berninger is not all the National have to offer, but Trouble Will Find Me is stunted for living in his lengthy shadow.

If you sought a general consensus of the Daft Punk-scored Tron: Legacy (and what an odd task that would be), you’d probably end up with “looked pretty, sounded great”. With Oblivion, director Joseph Kosinski has largely repeated that trick, crafting a functional sci-fi flick that appears gorgeous and occasionally soars (even if does pay tribute to/rip off about 25 different films) and, crucially, boasts music from a French producer who specialises in sky-scraping electronica. With the M83 name attracting its most mainstream attention to date; this seemed a can’t-miss prospect for everyone involved. Sadly, Gonzalez soon found himself constrained by Hollywood, his style dismissed as “too indie” and an artist who excels at building and bursting through barriers wound up boxed in.

The result is a slick, professional affair that does what it should rather than what it could. Bombastic boxes are ticked with orchestral precision as studio notes and deadlines are met – ‘Waking Up’ is dynamic if derivative and the frantic drum battle of ‘Radiation Zone’ is exciting but loses something without the accompanying onscreen chase sequence. If it feels obvious to state that a soundtrack loses power in isolation, then consider recent work from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. Both were afforded a liberal amount of creative freedom and thus turned out two excellent soundtracks that also worked as standalone pieces. Daft Punk no doubt faced demands, but they were allowed to be Daft Punk. Gonzalez has stated that he would prefer Oblivion be released under his name alongside colleague Joseph Trapanese, but no such luck.

It’s a shame because while Oblivion has plenty of rousing highlights, it’s mostly homogenous, too often aping the work of others – the midway point of ‘You Can’t Save Her’ could almost prompt a legal writ from the offices of one H. Zimmer, were he bothered – to exist as its own unique thing. At times, Gonzalez nails the compromise, such as the magnificent contained crescendo of the Vangelis-esque ‘Starwaves’, but these moments are few and far between. The title track, easily the most ‘M83 moment’ of the record, is a delight. Picking up the rising strands and huge percussion from ‘I’m Sending You Away’ and adding heart-stopping vocals from Susanne Sundfør proves a masterstroke and the closest Gonzalez comes to smashing through the glass ceiling.

Gonzalez has noted, a touch defeated, that he believes M83 fans will hate this album. That seems extreme, though it will likely provide an awkward asterisk in the back catalogue when all is said and done. New converts will probably just wonder where the saxophones are.

Tickets will cost €49.50 (inc. booking fee) and got on sale this Friday (17th May) at 9am, available from Ticketmaster or by ringing 0818 719 300.

That it gives way to Ayse Hassan’s driving bass makes sense. Frontwoman Jehnny Beth will likely be hailed as the most exciting riot grrrl to happen along in quite some time but Hassan provides the heartbeat throughout. Music like this lives or dies on the tuning and arrangement of rhythm and Hassan is on point from the second she kicks ‘Shut Up’ off properly, further shining on the vicious ‘No Face’ and the disturbing, brief garage stomp that is ‘Hit Me’.
Whether Silence Yourself revives post-punk or not remains to be seen. What is immediately clear is that it’s a strong debut that harkens for a time when analogue instruments and dark stages dominated. It calls back but doesn’t crib; a trick that can only really work with genuine spirit. ‘I Am Here’ and ‘City’s Full’ are hardly unique but as slices of pissed-off judgement calls, you’ll never doubt them. Same goes for ‘She Will’, a driving Interpol-esque number that disguises venomous sentiment with dynamic guitar lines and thrusting drums.

The brooding ‘Husbands’ proves even more sinister, the breathless repetition of “Husbands! Husbands! Husbands!” evoking memories of giallo classic Suspiria and its unsettling score. It’s a little scuzzier than its initial appearance as a B-side last summer, when it prompted mentions of Siouxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division and Public Image Ltd, to name but three. Comparisons, then, seem unavoidable, and that’s before you even get to the ‘all girl’ thing, so let’s at least think slightly outside the box. Karen O comes to mind, though a very specific iteration of her, namely the 2003 Fever to Tell version when the Yeah Yeah Yeahs seemed a lot more dangerous than they do now. Tracks such as ‘Husbands’ and ‘She Will’ feel like distant cousins to the likes of ‘Pin’ and ‘Date with the Night’, the same manic energy and sense of controlled chaos found within.

If ‘Husbands’ is Dario Argento, then baroque closer ‘Marshall Dear’ is distinctly David Lynch. A ‘Wicked Game’ style guitar, a damaged lounge lizard and a moody, odd saxophone outro successfully eke out a heightened sense of noir. Beth’s siren call of “Silence yourself” sees her sounding out the first word like a child learning a foreign tongue, content to be incorrect, the twist of “see-lens” a possible nod to Lynch’s Mulholland Drive and its final, mystifying line – “Silencio”. Given that the band played Lynch’s Paris nightclub of the same name a few months back, it’s a safe enough bet.

Yet, reading between the lines isn’t something Savages seem all that interested in. Maybe there’s no great mystery to be found here and it’s simply an engaging rock record that hits its targets with gusto. After all, as they plainly inform us as part of a rather lame modus operandi, all in capital letters so that we can’t miss a thing: “SAVAGES’ SONGS AIM TO REMIND US THAT HUMAN BEINGS HAVEN’T EVOLVED SO MUCH, THAT MUSIC CAN STILL BE STRAIGHT TO THE POINT, EFFICIENT AND EXCITING.”

To that strangely blinkered end, mission accomplished. Then again, a twist would be fitting. The characters that populate Silence Yourself scrape by with difficulty. Savages think we have it easy, that music should challenge, not soothe. It can do both, but if you draw a line in the sand, it’s best to bring courage to your convictions. Silence Yourself is either a direct instruction or an invitation to rebel. Debut albums rarely get away with such provocation. This one is different, but it’s worth remembering that WU LYF’s was too.

There are lyrical flourishes to be found, however. The title track has a high-noon swagger (helped by a strutting blend of guitars and pianos) that comes to the fore as Dowling sings “I’ve been bad, brazen and bold / And dragged my past in from the cold”. It’s an image that sets the singer up as battler, but one that is repeatedly undermined over the album’s 34 minutes. ‘Gospel Song’ is a sickly yet sinister consolation, Dowling turning tragic raconteur as strings are picked and backing singers harmonise beneath, before the track expands into widescreen – those strings beginning to ache and the echoes of a guitar becoming chimes. The track reverts to its foreboding beginnings but subtly grows to become a great, churning spectre of dread.

‘Come On’ may be the album’s real highlight though. The Believer‘s third track is from the same template as much of the album (metronomic piano line, milquetoast vocal, those ever mournful strings) but works thanks to a sense of desperation and an addictive, rewinding guitar riff. There’s fire and a will here that’s unfortunately missing elsewhere and sadly ‘Invisible’ undoes the good work with the melodramatic cry of “I long to be left alone / I want to be crucified” ringing in the ears.

Abandoning Alphastates’ electronic tinge in favour of a heavier musical backdrop, The Believer sees marching piano with accented violins and guitars that are allowed to roam as they please but takes a radio-friendly form for the most part. There is some variance to be found – ‘The Well Runs Dry’ evolves from spacious, Hans Zimmer-like beginnings – but songs tend to blend into one another with alarming ease and, while it often hints at a dark underbelly, this falls short too often.

Or, perhaps, it is the high watermark they set with Alive in 2007. As far as live albums go, this is possibly one of the best. Fair enough, calling two lads pushing buttons and turning dials a ‘live’ performance may be asking for pedantry and ire, but it was recorded live and therefore, it is live. Either way it was a masterpiece of an album and went some way to recreating the energy and delirium of a DP live show. The music sounded so full of energy and life; it was familiar yet different. So now that Random Access Memories is about to be released, expectation is naturally going to be in the upper regions of weighty.

Unfortunately, it is as underwhelming as it is brave. Tomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo set out to create an album that couldn’t be made in a bedroom and acted as a testament to its own influences. They wanted to pay homage to the ground they were breaking. The impact of Nile Rodgers and Paul Jackson Jr on it is very notable, and present. But perhaps a little bit too much so. From the get-go the instrumentation is gorgeous, and the production is faultless. But all the little chops and jangles from Rodgers seem so layered on as if subtlety was a dirty word in the studio; there is just so much of it that it feels as if you’re watching somebody apply icing to a cake with a shovel.

From the moment ‘Give Life Back to Music’ strikes up, you know it couldn’t be anybody but Daft Punk; but at the same time, it sounds nothing like them. The lyrical refrain sounds as if it is straight from the pages of Google Translate, but it is a good song and a great opening track. ‘The Game of Love’, again, has plenty of guitars and big, splashing cymbals, but it is way too airy and slow to keep the momentum going. And Daft Punk’s love of vocoders is all the more insistent than usual – in fact, rumour has it that this album actually uses robotic voice simulators which are treated to make them sound more human. Hmmmm.

Next up is ‘Georgio by Moroder’, which starts with a groove-sapping monologue by the man himself. Homage: yes, fromage: definitely. It does break into a monumental funk which is a slightly welcome shift away from the unrelenting disco. But now the album drifts off into some meandering freefall from which it never really recovers. ‘Instant Crush’ featuring Julian Casablancas is good even if the Strokes frontman is practically unrecognisable on it. ‘Touch’ sounds like the intro to Taxi and ends up like some unidentifiable ‘celebration’ song you might have heard at a 21st once. And this is one of the albums supposed epics.

There isn’t a whole lot to be excited about until ‘Get Lucky’ starts up and it provides one of only three hairs-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck moments. This song is perfect, perfect, perfect, and I defy anybody to produce a more fitting start to the summer. ‘Doin’ It Right’ featuring Panda Bear and ‘Contact’ are the only other exceptions to what is an underwhelming album.

Full of nice little flourishes and almost 100 per cent sample-free, Daft Punk have made a kind of progressive-retro album. But it is just too much of a good thing. If you like funk and disco and want to see more done with it, this album is a good start. If you wanted anything else, you may have to wait until somebody, inevitably, rips them off and possibly does it better.

Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories can be streamed on the duo’s iTunes page now.