Cast your minds back to the shadowy depths of 1985. Banks are booming: profits are almost as high as cocaine use in the city. The Smiths are busy touring their latest funeral dirge/album. Dire Straits are playing yet more guitar solos upon solos. In the midst of this quagmire comes forth a collaboration of legendary tour de force. After immense success, Mick Jagger and David Bowie are finally working together on a charity single for Live Aid. Musical publications wait with bated breath as the long hours pass before the track’s release, pens at hand to proclaim the new musical messiah. And then their cover of motown staple ‘Dancing in the Street’ drops. Everyone’s jaws hit the floor.

It could have been a brilliant exploit. After all, these men had penned some of the most successful albums of the 1970s and 80s. But for some reason what we end up being presented with is a cover which lacks any originality. Originally recorded by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas and co-written by Marvin Gaye in 1964, the toe-tapping track not only got people moving on dancefloors but brought people out into the streets in protest, becoming a civil rights anthem. The song is regarded by many as the precursor to disco. Mick Jagger even lifted a line to use in his own protest song, ‘Street Fighting Man’ (1968).

Now, hear me out. I’m not for a second going to pretend that The Holiday is a great piece of cinema – it isn’t – but I can’t deny falling victim to its uncompromising, irrepressible, mushy charm every Christmas when it’s reeled off on loop on ITV2. I suppose it’s what one might call a “guilty pleasure”.

Nancy Meyers is almost single-handedly responsible for bringing feel-good warmth to the world of film over the past 30 years, with such gooey classics as Father of the Bride, The Parent Trap, and Something’s Gotta Give to her name. In The Holiday, it’s more of the same. The world’s most unnaturally good-looking British siblings (Kate Winslet and Jude Law) cross paths with serenely gorgeous Cameron Diaz and – well – Jack Black in a whirlwind “holiday” romance. You certainly can’t argue with the sheer star power going on. There are supporting roles from Rufus Sewell, Edward Burns, and a gratuitous cameo from Dustin Hoffman in a video store. And who could forget then-90-year old Eli Wallach’s uplifting turn as the lonely screenwriter of Hollywood’s Golden Age?

You’ve made it – the days are getting longer, and being free from exams is so close you can almost touch it, so what better way to unwind over your long and productive summer than go on the world’s least hygienic camping trip? That’s right, it’s festival season. So here I am, trying to help you out on choosing the best way to waste around £200 of your student loan.

We’ll start with Reading (28th – 30th August), where you probably lost your festival virginity (and quite possibly your actual virginity too). There’s some decent bands floating about for you to scream along to pretending you’re not far too old to be there. Then again, a lot of the Main Stage just looks like the smaller tents from two years ago (Fidlar, Palma Violets, and Panic! At The Disco). And for those of you being dragged along by mates with a different music taste from you, you can always go see Dope D.O.D. (whoever that is) on the 1Xtra Stage.

Alternatively, you could go to Glastonbury (24th – 28th June), where you’ll still be the wrong age as this will be the first time you’ve seen The Who live. There’s some huge names – Paul Weller, Mary J. Blige, Motörhead – but the burning question is this: can you actually sit through multiple hours of Kanye West tripping off his own ego? Will he play songs or just rant at you that he didn’t win an award? If that tickles your fancy then go for it, I guess.

You could go to Secret Garden Party (23rd – 26th July) and gurn your nut off to bands you’ve never heard of but pretend you love. Or you could not. Your call.

Equally, you could go to Bestival (10th – 13th September) and gurn your nut off to bands you have actually heard of. Again, your call (go for it, your 15 year old self would never forgive you for passing up the chance to see the man himself – Skrillex).

T in the Park (10th -12th July) seem to have just taken acts who are playing everywhere else (The Libertines, The Prodigy, The Wombats, Annie Mac; the list really does go on). So, it’s probably a pretty good call. Then again, you won’t be able to brag to your mates about the really cool act you saw that they’re really jealous of. And actually, that’s the only reason you’re going to a festival anyway, so it’s probably not a good call. I take that back.

The one to go for, then, is the Isle of Wight festival (11th – 14th June). It’s got a little bit of everything. Blur and Fleetwood Mac will sing songs you actually know, you can go crazy to The Prodigy and there’s even a bit of Kodaline for when you need a nap. At the end of the day though, this is all a bit academic anyway as you won’t have a good time anywhere – there’s only one day of British summer and it definitely won’t be while you’re there.

Dashes weave between three distinct lines, topped by a flurry of musical notes. Spindly feet stick out left and right, approaching and distancing themselves from the central line around which they are grouped. On closer inspection the little cross- ings begin to resemble forms and one can make out the traces of figures being described by this seemingly random assortment of shapes.

The question of dance notation is one that has plagued the medium for years. How do you record the exact angle at which an arm should be raised? Or in what way can you make sure that a dancer moves their foot on the fifth beat? The accurate translation of a medium reliant not only on movement but also sound onto flat paper seems an impossibility.

The Beauchamp-Feuillet notation method of the Baroque period traced patterns of steps across the dancefloor, with different lines being assigned to different movements. The Romantic period moved towards stick figure representation of tiny dancers moving across the page in a variety of poses that indicated different turns in combination with the timings and musical notes placed above.

★★☆☆☆
Two stars 

The self-styled Elusive Chanteuse returns, humbled but not necessarily wiser, from the unjust failure of last year’s delightful Me… I am Mariah. Her chosen vehicle? A glorified repackage of her previous greatest hits album, now titled #1 to Infinity. The collection runs through all 17 of Mariah’s chronologically ordered US number one singles, topping them off with the compilation’s obligatory promotional single, ‘Infinity’.

However, Carey, in the legacy stage of her career, is not enjoying a sudden period of resurgent popularity, and it’s hard to imagine the intended audience for such a repackage. Still, the music is undeniably great. Most tracks stay within Carey’s firmly established wheelhouse of soft R&B, and it’s always nice to hear gems like ‘Vision of Love’, ‘Fantasy’ and ‘One Sweet Day’ again.

With regards to the new single, ‘Infinity’, it’s a serviceable but unspectacular addition. But as Carey hits the song’s climactic whistle notes, we’re reminded of what a vocal powerhouse and wonderful performer she is, just in time for the launch of her Las Vegas residency. Oh yes, her Vegas residency. That’s probably the reason for this lazy, cash-grabbing promotional retread. Got it.

Recently, to the great amusement of my friends, I clicked ‘attending’ on the Facebook event page for a ceilidh happening at a local church hall back home in Glasgow. Upon seeing it, they assumed that this was a prank centered on my regional heritage. That someone had obviously gone onto my Facebook account and found an obscure event for eccentric retired Scottish farmers who practise historic re-enactment in their spare time.

Known as I am for usually wearing normal person clothes instead of a Tam O’Shanter costume, for voting ‘No’ in the recent independence referendum, and for not sharing either an accent or world view with Groundskeeper Willie, they couldn’t picture me wheeling and braying to the sound of bagpipe-based Gaelic folk music and the instructions of a kilted dance caller. While I choose to think this is partially to do with my reputation as an ice- cool femme fatale, I’d say the main reason is because they couldn’t picture anyone doing it. That they couldn’t picture Scottish country dancing, as I know it, at all.

So I decided to educate them, as I now attempt to educate all youse sassenach readers (that’s Scottish for ‘you Saxon/English readers’ – we have a second person plural pronoun, comme les français). I played some modern ceilidh music on Youtube. I explained the drinking and dress culture involved. I even demonstrated the Canadian Barn Dance and the Gay Gordons with the help of a very unwilling and uncoordinated volunteer. It wasn’t the most accurate demonstration as I had to lead, we were both sober, and when I shouted “Polka!”, he didn’t realise he was supposed to fast waltz for a few metres so I ended up just tripping him over. I’m not sure exactly how I expected them to react, but my expectation wasn’t a few blank stares and a dismissive, “So it’s basically like Scottish Morris Dancing, then?”

★★★☆

Brandon Flowers’ solo career has taken off since the release of Flamingo in 2010, and fans of his debut solo album will not be disappointed with his latest offering, The Desired Effect. In some ways, Flowers has attempted to retain some aspects of The Killers, but he has also developed his own unique style.

The Desired Effect has moved away from the American heartland influences of Flamingo and incorporates more alternative synths, reminiscent of Hot Fuss. ‘Can’t Deny My Love’, the album’s defining single, is perhaps not very innovative but it really exemplifies Flowers’ signature sound and sets a precedent for the entire album. It also has a particularly interesting music video, which is based on American author Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short story, ‘Young Goodman Brown’.

Other songs, such as ‘I Can Change’, which samples the backing track from Bronski Beat’s 1984 ‘Smalltown Boy’, have heavy 80s influences, combined with hauntingly composed lyrics. Critics will complain and call Flowers “cheesy”, but, whilst I admit Flowers has a tendency to be a little clichéd, I think it is very much intentional, and adds to the ambiguity of the songs, whilst also making them appear more relatable. Overall, The Desired Effect is an excellent follow up to Flamingo, and an exciting addition to Flower’s illustrious career.

Hastings is on the road when I call him, having just returned from six weeks of touring the USA. He tells me it’s great to be able to get introduced to an expanding set of people at the Young Fathers shows, but that the attitude of the band to live shows remains as it always has been. “We just want to be honest because people respect that a bit more,” he says, explaining that the nature of the set can change on a nightly basis when different crowds and venues are taken into account. That’s not to mention the mindset of the members. “Sometimes the last thing you want to do is get up on stage and do a show, but those can be some of the best shows you do.”

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The obvious question to put to him is about the impact of the Mercury Prize, awarded to Young Fathers for their album Dead in late October of last year, but he is quick to rubbish the notion that it has impacted on their musical process. “When we got the Mercury most of the music for the new record had already been written,” Hastings says, “but any more exposure is liberating.” He continues, “All we’ve ever wanted is to be heard, and we believe we make pop music. We call ourselves a pop band because we want to be in that world. But what we say is different.” It’s interesting to hear a band with such an independent aesthetic and eclectic sound, but the band is clearly out to make more rather than less noise with the light now sharply thrown on them in the wake of their Mercury success.

The title of the new album White Men are Black Men Too is, I argue, a potentially provocative statement in light of this, but the response is enlightening. “The title is a statement, but it’s one that has a personal meaning to us. We can see people portrayed under one umbrella and it’s disgusting. The world is made up of individuals.” Running on with the theme of an increasing audience, it is interesting to hear about the band’s experience of touring in South Africa. “We went to South Africa and were asking about how they all felt about the title. Obviously race issues are much more relevant there but it’s also a really forward thinking country with regards to young people and music. The hustlers on the street have a really strong sense of culture. They see the connection between music and wider society: they move at the same time. If you see things from someone else’s perspective it can make things clearer. It allows us to say something more meaningful.”

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I ask him about the state of hip-hop in popular music, and his answer is unrelenting. “I just don’t believe that people want to be pleased, that they only hear what they want to hear. Mainstream media is trying to please everyone, so in order to show difference you have to include a band like us. No one knows what to do with a band like us and that’s what we’re up against.” When I ask if Young Fathers are trying to revive something from a past era of pop, the response is even more bleak: “Pop music is dead. This is the last fucking hurrah. We’re using our music to get heard in spite of the media and the executives. People want us to exist in some left-field world but that’s not good enough for us.”

It seems that he is confident about Young Fathers’ ability to effect change, which is testament to their maintained sense of confidence in spite of their increased exposure. “Being pigeon-holed gives a good headline but the story doesn’t mean shit. We didn’t want to say we were a political band because you lose people who ideally you would want to change, and you’re only going to be preaching to the choir. It’s not about anger though, it’s about subversion. “You’ve got to use your enemies’ strength against them.”

★★☆☆☆
Two Stars

We begin at night, on the road. A car rattles to a halt as it crosses a US army patrol, the soldiers demanding to see inside. Sprawled across the seats is a figure, Nelly (Nina Hoss), whose face is hidden, covered in a mask of bandages soaked with blood.

This is Germany, 1945, and the war is over. Nelly is a Jewish concentration camp survivor who has been badly disfigured by a gunshot wound, and she is being driven by her friend to Berlin, her home, where she will be given reconstructive surgery. She cowers before the soldiers, but they let her pass. As the car drives off into darkness, the image fades to an unfussy title card, accompanied by strains of mellow jazz.

It’s a masterfully engaging opening, which sets us up with a distinct impression of the film we’re about to see. Phoenix’s biggest flaw is that it ends up going, after a certain point, in quite a different direction with the material, leaving much of this initial promise untapped.

Post-surgery, Nelly sets about wandering the streets of Berlin late at night, trying to track down her husband, Johnny, the memory of whom sustained her whilst in the camps. When she finally comes face to face with him at the titular Phoenix club, Johnny doesn’t rec- ognise her. He does however see something of a resemblance, and sets in motion a plan to have this woman pose as his wife, so she can publicly ‘return’ from the camps, and together they can collect and split her family’s inheritance.

At this point the film becomes quite a different beast. Now it becomes a two-person psychological drama, almost a chamber piece, as Johnny attempts to fashion Nelly into the woman he knew. This premise is promising, to be sure, but the best these scenes can do is to remind us of Hitchcock’s Vertigo (the influence of which is fairly explicit) – they have neither the insidious creepiness nor the uneasy tension of the latter, and so they fail to truly fly.