Kanye West, Myer Music Bowl, Melbourne.

Wow. Three letters on the lips of almost everyone within shouting distance of the Music Bowl tonight, are w-o-w. That's because for the thousands of fans who earlier walked through a cool summer evening have just bore witness to arguably one of the 21^st century's greatest performers, and possibly the best show this town has seen since the equally outrageous Daft Punk blew Melbourne away on this very stage years ago.

Rising high atop a crane, in the middle of a sea of people, Kanye West opens – albeit half an hour late – with Higher. While his fans veritably lose their shit at this spectacle, he quickly makes his way through the phone-waving throng to the main stage, busting straight into Power and then following it up with the classic Jesus Walks. West is on song tonight, his drive, charisma and energy enough to make even the most ardent of critics enjoy the show.

Broken into a three-Act Greek tragedy, tonight is so much more than a concert; this is a spectacle to behold, one barely possible to replicate without the creative intuition and genius that West has. Can't Tell Me Nothing, Hell Of A Life and Good Life quickly follow, and the only slight on the opening Act is Monster, which lacks the Rick Ross, Jay-Z and Nicki Minaj verses.

The second Act starts out subtly, with West offering Love Lockdown as a haunting soundtrack to some jaw-dropping contemporary dance routines. The crowd is stunned as lithe, costumed girls wriggle, jump, pirouette and twirl across the stage, seemingly weightless. West drops a couple more songs from 808s & Heartbreak, before lifting things up a notch with Homecoming and American Boy, before Gold Digger raises the Music Bowl to new heights.

With the climax seemingly around the corner, West re-appears for Act 3 in black leather jacket and baseball cap, and to a wicked backdrop of red & white strobe lights, throws down Stronger and set highlight All Of The Lights, during which he stops twice mid-song to start again, pleading with his audience to belt out the line “our nigga dead” in ode to Michael Jackson – showmanship at its best despite the initial awkwardness of 10,000 white boys & girls screaming the “n” word.

A white sheet blocks all view of the stage and Chariots of Fire is hammered out for a few minutes, before West re-emerges, red jacket, jeans & shoes atop a raised podium for an epic rendition of Runaway. He has a tendency to improvise/waffle a bit during some of his songs, but the heartfelt nature of his words shows his genuine emotions.

Hey Mama caps off an epic set nearly two and-a-half hours after he started, and even though the omission of Diamonds from Sierra Leone is somewhat blinding, Kanye West leaves nothing on stage.Those three letters again; w-o-w.

Newport Folk Festival, 30-31 July 2011

Contrary to popular Australian belief, Splendour in the Grass is not the only music festival in the world taking place on the last weekend of July. Steeped in history and with a backdrop as impressive as any, the Newport Folk Festival has seen generations of folk music heroes play to dedicated music aficionados for over 40 years.

The two-day festival kicks off on the main stage with Canadian quartet the Wailin' Jennys. The three-pronged female harmonies make for a beautiful soundtrack to a day of 35 degrees. Newport Harbour is resplendent in yachts, canoes, speed boats and other waterborne folk taking advantage of the festival's prestigious location (in an old military fort with views of the seaside town), and the crowd is treated to versions of classic Julie Miller, Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton tunes.

An early highlight comes in the form of New York's Gogol Bordello. With blood lines stretching as far as Siberia and Ukraine (moustachioed frontman Eugene Hutz every part the immigrant son), in fitting with the folk vibe the set is an acoustic one, but that hardly prevents their fans from spontaneous bursts of circle pits and screaming joy. Throwing in sing-along tracks Wunderlust King, Alcohol and finishing with the crowd-pleaser Purple, Gogol are amazing, and smiles abound throughout the crowd.

Country Music Hall of Famer Earl Scruggs has less gusto than the guy from Weekend at Bernie's, but his banjo-picking fingers seem to remember what they have to do, as his band, fronted by his son Gary, belt through some classic bluegrass, including Scruggs' own Ballad of Jed Clampett.

Songstress Gillian Welch, accompanied as always by guitarist Dave Rawlings, gets the crowd all misty-eyed as she croons to the late afternoon sky. Playing songs like Time (the Revelator) and Miss Ohio, it's a picture-perfect way to watch the sun play upon the clouds.

Headliners The Decemberists make sure that they finish the day off in style. Dropping tracks from their latest album The King Is Dead as well as old favourites, their set is played with gusto. Opening with the apt July, July! and singer Colin Meloy the epitome of enthusiasm, this is one of the sets of the year – bar none. Finishing with the 15-minute epic tale of Mariner's Revenge, complete with stagecraft sessions and huge crowd interaction, it is a highlight only topped by the re-emergence of Welch & Rawlings to complete the encore with the beautiful Springville.

Day 2 isn't as hot, but the heat handed out by surprise packet Trampled By Turtles is palpable. Every music festival has 'that band' that leaves its discoverers in awe of a killer set, and for Newport 2011, Turtles are it. Combining the harmonies and instrumentation of Mumford & Sons with a ramshackle, bluegrass delivery, they have the crowd bawling tears one minute and hoe-downing and guffawing the next. So much so that they come back for a unprecedented mid-afternoon encore of the Pixies' Where Is My Mind – classic.

Justin Townes Earle is also at the top of his game, telling stories and singing songs like Christchurch Woman (dedicated to NZ's troubled town), My Mama's Eyes, and finishing with Harlem River Blues. Supported by slide guitar and double bass, on the side stage it's a poignant hour-long set.

One of the few (if not only) non-North American artists on the bill is Elvis Costello, and boy does the guy kick out a set. Belting his gravelly voice to the crowd on the grass and on the harbour, Costello succeeds in getting nearly everyone on their feet, dancing to (The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes, A Slow Drag With Josephine and a killer version of Johnny Cash's Cry, Cry, Cry. Finishing his encore with Peace Love And Understanding, the man in a very polished grey suit and hat leaves no one disappointed.

Finishing the night on the smaller stage is M Ward, whose tender, acoustic songs aren't the best way to finish the day (even if he does include a version of Bowie's Let's Dance), although with backing band, Dawes, he kicks up some dust and gets some last minute booty-shaking happening with a cover of Chuck Berry's Roll Over Beethoven.

And the sun goes down over Newport Harbour. The folks in their cars spend the next two hours getting back into town, while those on their boats just lie back and soak it in. It's a brilliant festival with a hippy vibe, and it's hard not to think; You can keep your Splendour, Newport, Rhode Island, has its own.

- Dylan Stewart

Waking Up On Top Of The World

It's 8am. Despite only 3 hours sleep, I feel rested. It might have something to do with Washed Out's debut Within And Without playing on my iPod dock, it might have something to do with the cool glass of water and air conditioning, or it might have something to do with the view out of my 21st storey window. Building after building, centred - as they tend to to - around Central Park.

New York City has been my friend many times over the past few years, and as I rest my (dare I say, slightly hungover) eyes upon her glorious Sunday Morning facade, it's not so much a sense of deja vu, but of a long-lost companion simply saying "welcome back"...

I arrived at the Beacon Hotel on Broadway & 77th at just after 10:30pm NY time last night, which is the equivalent of 12:30pm on Sunday afternoon MEL time; a full 32 hours after waking up. Through a mixture of red wine, cold & flu medicine and Paul Newman I managed to rustle up 8-10 hours sleep during the flights which, I believe, may have just saved my life.

After a mix-up at front desk in which I found out not only is there another Dylan staying here (Dylan Glover, fyi - I wonder if he's a relative of Danny...), but another Dylan Stewart, I narrowly avoided sharing my room with three high school seniors and checked into my room. Sure, I'll have to check out and check back in, but when in you're in New York, every minute spent in your hotel room is a minute wasted anyway, so after breakfast with the boss, it's "Exploring The Upper West Side" day today.

Tonight I'll be meeting with work folk, checking in on them and ensuring their time spent in NYC has been worthwhile. Although the economy seems to be shot to shit here, Bruno my cab driver informed me last night that there are plenty of crew on every flight coming over here, trying to leave their mark on the city of Sinatra, Allen and Jeter.

I have no false hope that in my short time here I will leave a legacy even half as great as any of those; I'm just here on business. So I shall descend the elevator, cross the marble lobby floor, and burst out onto Broadway. When this city calls my name, who am I to ignore her?

It's 8am. I'm in New York City.

Pennywise, Millencolin & Mad Caddies @ the Palace

With the Soundwave countdown only hours away, the quality of punk, hardcore & metal gigs sprouting up all over the city is the stuff of a headbanger’s wet dream. Tonight, some of the finest exponents of punk and ska appear to quench the oh-so-dry thirst that the punters crave.

While the Palace fills, Californian ska heavyweights Mad Caddies show off their wares. Although at first the set is very much that of an “opening band”, without too much crowd participation, by the end of the band’s allotted 30 minutes, there is no doubt that had the Caddies been the headlining act, this place would still be as sold out as it already is.

Now it’s time to go back in time, to a land of high school acne, limited spending money and a time where the prospect of not purchasing at least one CD per month for the reasonable price of $29.95 seems like larceny. It’s 2001 and I’m the 16-year old version of myself – the most life-altering record is about to hit my ears.

The album is Pennybridge Pioneers, and the band is Millencolin. Celebrating the 10^th anniversary of the release of their breakthrough album, Millencolin play the record from start to finish. No Cigar, Fox and Material Boy (the latter performed to the fastest-formed circle pit known to man) break open the album and therefore tonight’s playlist, preceding another 11 tracks culminating in front man Nikola Sarcevic’ acoustic singlaong The Ballad. A solid encore of songs old and new (think Mr Clean, Black Eye etc) gets the crowd even more excited, and the fact that this is a “double bill” is evidently not lost.

Half an hour later, Hermosa Beach (that’s California, punk)’s finest exports, Pennywise take to the stage. Their first tour to Australia with their current lineup – singer Zoli Teglas joined the band in 2009 – sees them in fine form. Tight, driven and a bunch of fun, the four-piece pull out all the stops, playing hits like Society, Fuck Authority, and ending with a rousing rendition of Bro Hymn. A member of the Greenpeace boat Sea Shepherd appears briefly, explaining the win they’ve recently had over Japanese whaling, and there is a definitive anti-government sentiment throughout.

If tonight’s been a walk down memory lane then it’s been a damn good one, and one that will not be forgotten quickly.

New Found Glory & Less Than Jake @ Billboard, Melbourne

Two bands, at different stages of their careers. The Soundwave sideshow is sold out, a sound achievement for a Monday night. Despite the throng of people inside by eight p.m. however, there’s a definite early-week smell in the air; a feeling that had this been a Saturday – hell, even a Wednesday night gig, the atmosphere might be a little bit more alive.

Of course, those who suffer most for this lack of crowd enthusiasm is the opening band, and the sacrificial lambs on offer to the disinterested “fans” tonight are Floridian ska legends Less Than Jake. For their part, the five-piece is as tight as a band reaching their veteran status would expect to be, and their hour-long set provides a string of hits: Dopeman, How’s My Driving, All My Friends Are Metalheads and Plastic Cup Politics. Horns a-blazing, on-stage making out sessions and the like are standard highlights, but the crowd just don’t care. With the exception of the punters in the mosh pit, front men Chris Demakes and Roger Manganelli really struggle to connect with the rest of their audience. It’s a damn shame, and their frustration is obvious, especially in Demakes. Singling out a nonplussed girl texting on the side, and inviting security on stage for a drink (“I hate to see good money go to waste”) it’s painful to see from this band, whose live shows were once a thing of legend.

The main act however, are still building their fan base, although given the raucous response they receive tonight it’s scary to think how big they may yet become. New Found Glory, also from Florida, have been together since 1997, although the group seem fresh and genuinely excited about their current tour. That excitement, however, has nothing compared with the frenzy that the swollen pit has become. Playing tracks from their entire career (including the brilliant Hit Or Miss from their 2000 self-titled record), this is a band at the height of their career, and with a new album in the pipeline, who knows where they could end up. Closing their encore with My Friend’s Over You all hell breaks loose on stage, and all of a sudden it’s Tuesday morning.

Jenny and Johnny @ EBC

JENNY & JOHNNY, THE LAURELS – EAST BRUNSWICK CLUB

It’s festival season, so for the poor buggers who can’t afford a ticket to the festival itself (OK, so I’m talking Laneway here, surely you’ve worked that out by this review’s title), we’re in the few days during which one chooses the favourite band from the line-up, and fork out the $$’s to check ‘em out.

First up tonight at the East Brunswick is Sydney’s The Laurels, a four-piece shoegaze crew who seemingly hit the right notes without actually making an impact on the growing crowd. There are some brilliant, LSD-inspired Beatles moments, and the majority of the set is reminiscent of the drone-rock of the Black Angels or Tame Impala, although there seems to be a bit too much wanking over amplifiers to really stand out.

After a quick sojourn to the bar and an all-too-obvious increase in crowd population, Jenny & Johnny take the stage. The girlfriend/ boyfriend duo of Jenny Lewis (of Rilo Kiley fame) and Jonathan Rice (of Jonathan Rice fame) share the stage wonderfully, batting eyelashes at each other from either side throughout the night. Playing pretty much their entire first album I’m Having Fun Now, including highlights Scissor Runner, Big Wave and My Pet Snakes, the set is a ripper. With only the minimum amount of banter recognised by a Melbourne crowd (who, in all honesty, don’t really seem to get into the show until the last 20 minutes), Lewis & Rice and their backing two-piece band run things very smoothly on stage, without even the slightest awkward pause.

Lewis and her seductive gaze ensures there’s not a red-blooded male in the room who doesn’t dream to be her bass guitar strap (classic Dream Weaver “sha-winggggg” moment), and Rice carries enough indie cred to keep the skinniest of jean upright.

After a very weird encore break, where the duo just hover side of stage, visible to most, they come back on for an acoustic version of Rilo Kiley’s Silver Lining. It’s a beautiful song made even more haunting by the acousticity (sure, that’s a word), and even the blatant mental blank suffered by Lewis isn’t enough to detract from it being the highlight of the night. Even the rain outside isn’t enough to wipe the smiles off all these faces.

Gareth Liddiard @ Thornbury Theatre, Nov 6, 2010

On a normal night, it’s a long way to Thornbury. The shiny lights and the buzz of High St, Northcote are distractions that pull dedicated punters away from distant suburban destinations, however tonight there is something special that calls followers of high-brow lyrical entertainment from far and wide. Gareth Liddiard, lead singer for living-legendary local band the Drones, is to play his second consecutive show to launch his debut album Strange Tourist, after his first last night sold out. As the last-minute crowds ascend the marble staircase of the Thornbury Theatre, the room’s atmosphere is pregnant with expectation. Strange Tourist is a sparse, haunting, lyrically brilliant album, and tonight Liddiard’s audience is in for a faithful reproduction, most likely with a few yarns thrown in.

He follows the album’s structure “from go to woe”, starting with the delicious Blondin Makes an Omelette, followed by Highplains Mailman. The 400-strong crowd sits mesmerised, and the genuine applause that follows each song is a fitting tribute to an artistic genius, even if an eager punter takes it a step too far – “Tapping on a glass? What are you, the fucking king of England?” After half an hour, aka three Liddiard epics, one realise that this is the kind of gig that should he play until sunrise, every seat would still be full when breakfast time comes.

Supported by crystal clear sound quality throughout the night, Liddiard is calm and confident, relaxing on his seat as though he is playing in a dimly lit lounge room in front of half a dozen of his closest friends. The honesty and forthrightness of his words, paired with the personal nature of his guitar playing, creates an intimacy with every person in the room. Liddiard’s poetic lyrics have been well-known in these parts for many years now through his work with the Drones (a fun game throughout the evening is Drone-Spotting – identifying Messrs. Noga, Luscombe & Miss Kitchin in the crowd), but stripped back to a man and his acoustc, it is truly a memorable show. After closer The Radicalisation of D Liddiard leaves the stage, only to shortly return armed with a trifecta of Drones tunes Super Cargo, Locust & Jezebel. The night is over after 2+ hours of brilliance, and the royal nature of the Theatre is truly evident. Suddenly Thornbury seems a whole lot closer to everything.