Jason, who also calls himself JD Weaver, describes himself as a normal 19-year-old from northern England, who happens to be fighting a particular battle. His recently released debut EP, Where Eagles Fly, is the materialisation of his efforts to reveal the underrated capacities and the ambitions of young disabled people.

Representing a man “who could be anybody” looking down at an impressive panorama reminiscent of the Grand Canyon region in America, the cover of the EP already hints at the idea of determination to claim a right to recognition expressed by the young singer’s lyrics. The song ‘Native Man’ is a further hint at how JD Weaver feels he can “relate to the mistreating of native indigenous tribes, which is sort of where [his] music comes from.” To him, music is a way of getting through to a larger audience which needs to be made aware of the struggles faced by minorities, as he expands his statement to all communities regularly confronted with discrimination.

With the popularity of X Ambassadors’ song ‘Renegades’ and the increasing emphasis on tolerance as a general state of mind, “it’s certainly not as bad as it used to be” but there is no time to waste, from Jason’s point of view. What he sees as two communities, the disabled and the able-bodied, have been separated for too long and Jason wishes to create a “bridge” with his music that will finally establish equality between these groups. “I want to open more possibilities for other young people in the same condition as myself”, he says. “This isn’t just a symbolic effort: I’d like to get more exposure in order to spread the knowledge of my cause (…) I find ignorance is the most damaging thing. Not talking about an issue doesn’t make it go, it just makes it worse. You get really frustrated.”

The problem, according to Jason, is originally straightforward. On top of people’s blurred perception of the condition of young disabled artists, studios don’t necessarily have the facilities required to welcome them. He also mentions marketing opportunities as an obstacle to his career, despite the idea that ideally this industry should only focus on sound.

The young man’s dream might be to “get a house of [his] own and live independently” to demonstrate that he is capable of controlling the important aspects of his own life just like any other person of his age, but when asked about his idea of what the next step in his campaign will be, Jason enthusiastically says “maybe an album, yeah an album would be great!”

★★★★☆

The Mystery Jets are a band I can proudly say I’ve grown up with: I usually played ‘Two Doors Down’ on my 1st gen iPod on the bus to school and ‘ Serotonin’ characterised the sound of a house party. The band’s homecoming gigs in the sticky suburban clubs of south-west London have always been a cause for celebration. But as time goes by and more and more bands that emerged in the early noughties fall off the radar, evolution and adaptation are more important than nostalgia and sentimentality.

Opening track and lead single from the album, ‘Telomere,’ opens with Blaine Harrison’s crescendoing falsetto vocal line (somewhat reminiscent of Thom Yorke), while uplifting chords and a slow rhythm maintain interest through the use of a range of keyboard effects, engineered to evoke the extra-terrestrial. This particular feature permeates almost all of the songs on the album, from the synth lines to distorted echoes and fade-outs; the result of four years’ recording and self-production. The balance between guitar-driven urgency and electronic aloofness is struck almost perfectly in ‘Bubblegum’ with its anthem-like synthesisedorgan hook, and in the lighter, more relaxed ‘Bombay Blue’. Acerbic, captivating lyrics sit alongside new-fangled atmospheric oddities; from the strange, wonderful weirdness of ‘Blood Red Balloon’ (“You are made of water / slowly synchronising with the moon / that rises and sea in front of you / like a blood red balloon”) to the reminiscing theremin and orchestra-backed power ballad ‘1985’ (“Saturn will return / back to 1985 / when we were just a spark / in two star-crossed lovers’ eyes”), and the distorted darkness of ‘Midnight Mirror’ (featuring lines from the 1993 Mike Leigh film Naked).

The Mystery Jets have certainly evolved, with the departure of bassist Kai Fish from the band, and singer Blaine Harrison’s decision to take a temporary solo lyric writing retreat.

Curve of the Earth has much hanging on it, and the band offers up the best of the lyric-heavy ballads of 2012’s Radlands, rocket-propelled by the synth sounds and sugar-coated choruses of 2010’s Serotonin into the stratospheric heights of new experimentation.

There is always a danger that too much reflective melancholy can allow a sense of doom and gloom to take over what should be an album heralding an ambitious and long-anticipated return.

However, Curve of The Earth will not fail to please age-old fans, and bring the best of their past into a new era.

Signing records in Truck Store on a sunny Saturday afternoon, Daughter are calm and gracious. A few hours later, and just a little further down the Cowley Road, the north London indie-rock trio turn deftly sincere as they play hard-hitting songs from new second album Not To Disappear.

After debut If You Leave, Not To Disappear is not a blind step into the void. Their infamous brooding capacity of vocals intertwined with Igor Haefeli’s shredding guitar is still apparent. Rather than reinventing their sound for this new album, the group have clasped onto all that they did best, and stepped it up a level. With a smoky strobe mist on stage, they fill the sold-out O2 Academy not only with bodies, but with a certain hazy vibe.

First tracks ‘How’ and ‘Alone / With You’ resonate with the same kind of cool intensity that Daughter are famous for. Ruminating, arching electric guitar lines hum underneath Elena Tonra’s hushed vocals. A luxurious synth-led ebb and flow resounds throughout ‘Alone / With You’, and it seems that what has changed since 2013’s If You Leave is their mindset: a greater confidence in experimen tation, in the way the band pore over their instruments and set into their own groove right from the off.

Amongst this ambience – what can only be described as sheer vibey-ness – rhythms are subtle yet defined. On drums, Remi Aguilella is crucial in providing the momentum for the percussive backbeat that heads out in dialogue with the synth in ‘Numbers’, or the time changes between verse and chorus in ‘Human’, ultimately leaving the song in a lush meandering groove.

There is a charming discord between the intensity of the band’s art and their down-toearth nature. Between songs, Tonra sips out of a red tin camping flask, overwhelmed at the whoops coming from the crowd she looks out on. Suitable for the emotional and gripping nature of their sound, the room is dripping with sweat, and audience and band alike quickly begin to feel clammy. “At least I’m up here – no one can smell me”, Tonra quietly says. While I’m sure the audience would like to be even closer to her, the frontwoman’s timidity often makes it feel as though she’d prefer to be playing in a different room from other humans altogether.

Old songs provoke particular claps and squeals from the tightly-packed audience. Tonra, ever coy, shyly smiles and shrugs. Socalled “old” and “new” songs seamlessly give way for each other in this set: 2013’s ‘Amsterdam’ rings with Tonra’s whispered “I’ve been thinking I should see someone / Just to check that I’m alright”. On Not To Disappear’s lead single ‘Doing the Right Thing’, Tonra is sensitive enough to write from the perspective of her grandm o t h e r , troubled w i t h Alzheimer’s and at a loss of what to make as she slowly loses her grip on the world around her.

These lyrics may seem morbid, depressing even, but the starkness with which Tonra sings them, and the serenity to which they are lifted amongst fuzzy guitar and rippling drums, does not sink the evening into miserable territory. Instead, Tonra’s vocals fill a space, lingering over instrumental rhythms and substantiating a void – this modern industry – that is screaming out for truthful no-nonsense, no-hyperbole writing. In writing lines as honest as “Oh there has only been one time where we fucked and I felt like a bad memory” (‘No Care’) or “Sometimes I wish I’d stayed inside my mother” (‘Smother’), Tonra dispels any myth that emotional frankness has no place in pop.

★★★☆☆

If, like me, you know nothing of this play, do not be misled by the somewhat innocuous plot description online. The birthday party premise, coupled with a list of whimsical character names (Foxtrot Darling sounds cheery right?) formed the basis of my vague expectation for some kind of light-hearted satire. Instead I endured over 2 hours of a macabre pyscho-thriller interspersed with flashes of a twisted, fairytale-like narrative. Think Dorian Gray meetsthe longest Alfred Hitchcock ever and you’re along the right lines.

‘Endure’ is not inapposite given the sheer length and frustratingly slow pace of the first half. Whilst it painstakingly establishes the perverse dynamic between the manipulative and narcissistic title character, Cougar Glass (Jack Morris) and his benignly subservient disciple, Captain Tock (Max Reynolds) in terms of plot development the first hour is positively glacial.

Such a slow-moving storyline plus minimal use of visual and audio stimulation meant that strong characterisation was critical and luckily an impressive cast did not disappoint. Morris’s poise was excellent and overall he struck the perfect balance between the sexual charisma and pure malice that makes his depraved character so arresting. Reynolds’s performance as Captain took longer to convince me (initially the skullcap of duct tape creating the impression of baldness proved too distracting); however he quickly warmed up and his response to some of the more sinister emotional manipulation inflicted by Cougar was truly engaging.

The appearance of Cheetah Bee, the geriatric landlady oddly reminiscent of Catherine Tate’s notorious ‘Nan’ character, freshened an atmosphere which by the end of the first half was bordering on tedium. Whilst Alexandra Ackland-Snow did a laudable job and her eccentric presence onstage provided some much-needed relief, it was a struggle to develop her character into anything beyond caricature.

Thankfully some bolder directorial decisions were taken to enliven the shorter second half and the drama was at its strongest with the four main characters onstage together, participating in an increasingly unsettling birthday party ritual. Emily Smith delivered an expert performance as Foxtrot Darling, whose pathetic eagerness was pitched at just the right level to convey the teenager’s total infatuation with Cougar, and later boiled over into bitter resentment at the domineering antics of his brother’s ex-girlfriend, Sherbet Gravel (India Opzoomer). Although Opzoomer took a little longer to settle into the hardness of her character she commanded the later scenes – there was collective tensing in the audience as Sherbet cavorted around stage, palpably enraging the volatile Cougar.

Overall, the ill-judged pace of the first half was a real let-down and although the second half was more engaging in every way, for me it never quite redeemed itself. Doubtlessly this production as a whole would have benefited enormously from some ruthless script editing at an earlier stage. That said, if a drawn-out display of In-yer-face theatre particularly appeals, or if you’ve got a desire to marvel at some deeply disturbed characters, then The Fastest Clock in the Universe would certainly be worth an evening of your time.

★★★☆☆

Sunderland rockers Field Music have always been singular in their knack for jangling melodies, edgy rhythms and interweaving vocals. Back for Commontime, their sixth album, brothers Peter and David Brewis do not leave this behind. If anything, they push at the peripheries of the indie-rock they have made in the past, with ironic album opener ‘The Noisy Days Are Over’ announcing anything but: this noise is here and now.

After taking four years off – both members are involved in various solo and side projects – their perspectives seem to have changed. Now both fathers, they talk about familial relationships in their music. In ‘Stay Awake,’ David sings, “And I’m sorry if I’m ever short with you – I don’t mean it”. Despite this domestic familiarity, the brothers are able to create an invigorating sound.

At times hitting at a more reserved, mature version of Vampire Weekend’s tightly crafted indie-pop, the duo recorded the album in spontaneous bursts over six months in their Wearside studio. This spontaneity is certainly felt: vocals are often soulful, but sometimes clashing; harmonies are often discordant but occasionally lush and full; melodies sometimes take the form of crooning saxophone jibes but, at other times, come from tinkering piano.

It seems they do have a lot of fun up in the Northeast, after all.