If only we could separate the art from the man! Damien Hirst’s retrospective taught me that delightful and profound art can be found in the most unlikely of places. However, this message was in danger of being lost in the sheer arrogance of Hirst’s showmanship. This is not an exhibition of art. It is one man’s sensory exposition of fantasy. But what’s the difference?

The difference is that the pieces on show here are incapable of standing up for themselves. A series of frankly uninteresting spot paintings claim an aura of merit only when you see them as part of an artistic journey that starts in room one with Hirst’s first attempt. A room’s worth of canvases stuck with dead butterflies becomes meaningful only after you have contrasted them with the delicate loveliness of the living butterflies roaming in the next room. Even the shark in formorlhyde is unimpressive; it isn’t even ‘terrifying’, which the guide assures me was the artist’s intention.

The diamond skull is the most spectacular example of this showmanship, which is capable of passing off even such a tacky piece as magnificent. It is situated alone in a blacked out box in the turbine hall and the entrance is so dark that I could not even see my hands in front of my face. But, stumble through the hall and there the skull is, four spotlights trained on it. I won’t deny that it is dazzling. The trick of the light ensures that the skull appears to be the source of whatever light there is. And it glitters, it positively glitters with rainbow reflections off the 8, 601 jewels that encrust it. Like a fly to a rotting cow’s head, I was completely enthralled.  

Remarkably, the longer I stayed in the exhibition room the more I appreciated. Like how the skull multiplied into infinity through its reflections in its glass case and how the human faces that looked at it, illuminated palely by the diamonds, uncannily moved in and out of these reflections. At one point I was given a start as one reflection blinked at me. It was a human face overlaid with the image of the skull , an uncanny juxtaposition of the living and the dead, the spectator and the art, which was completely effective and completely unnerving.

But that was for only ten minutes. This impression was killed by the recollection that the skull’s power to dazzle lay in Hirst’s power to show it off to it’s best advantage. Stick the skull in a lighted room and it would seem smaller and far less impressive.

This was the story of the whole exhibition. Each piece was only as impressive as the other pieces or its history allowed it to be. No single piece in this exhibition caught my eye as being singularly ‘great’; every piece relied on the borrowed glory of the artist’s identity and of it position in relation to the other pieces in the exhibition.

That said, I would recommend this collection. Hirst is an important British artist, and this retrospective provides a comprehensive look at his career so far, ranging right from his student days to his newest works, which resonate unashamedly with the fiscal fascination of Hirst with his multi-millionaire collectors. It takes us from technicolour pots to cabinets of diamonds. If you want to be amazed – and completely swindled – visit Hirst at the Tate.

Given that the singles chart is currently topped by the bubblegum pop of Carly Rae Jepsen and Justin Bieber’s attempt at impersonating Justin Timberlake (even The Black Keys’ latest album sounded a tad more polished) it will be interesting to see whether Blunderbuss can match the critical acclaim it has already received with commercial success. After all, White’s music has always been a little…messy. Yet whilst some of the vocal duets veer towards being slightly painful to listen to, it’s this unbounded aspect that gives the album its raw joy.

And boy, White is certainly having fun. Away from the self–imposed constraints of his previous musical projects, he skips between genres with free abandon. The heavy guitar riffs and idiosyncratic screeching solos we’re used to are still in attendance, notably on the stomping ‘Sixteen Saltines’, yet Blunderbuss is dominated by a new keyboard sound, with organ riffs, honky-tonk piano and solos which alternate between jazz on ‘Missing Pieces’ and flamboyantly rock-operatic on ‘Weep Themselves To Sleep’.

Blunderbuss was written following White’s divorce from Karen Elson, thus making it easy to read it as a break-up album. Indeed, the sadomasochistic lyrics on ‘Love Interruption’ about wanting love to ‘Stick a knife inside me’ certainly sound bitter, but given that the couple announced their split with invites to a party to celebrate ‘their upcoming divorce with a positive swing bang hum dinger’, the songs with Elson’s backing vocals seem less Libertines-esque musical brawls and more ironic fun at playing wronged lovers.

The rambunctiously fantastic cover of Rudolph Troombs’ ‘I’m Shakin’’ is a highlight of the album, after which it mellows down into more stripped-back blues. But if we hadn’t already realised White’s cross-genre skills, the album’s final track serves as a tongue-in-cheek reminder, with its faux-ending breaking into a righteous climax. 

FOUR STARS

Jason Pierce (who, for the uninitiated, is Spiritualized) has always been struggling to reach the heights of the work he produced as part of Spacemen 3 – the influential ‘80s psych rock frontrunner. It could be argued that their brand of minimalist drug music prefigured the chillwave scene before synths became a feature of budding artists’ bedsits. Mix that with just a hint of The Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin’ and you have an idea of what they sounded like.

After Peter Kember and Jason Pierce decided to go their separate ways, few have never felt that the promise they showed as a double act has been fulfilled. Spectrum always felt too straightforward, and Spiritualized just tried too hard (packaging albums as if they are prescription meds).

Sweet Heart Sweet Light may begin to lay these foolish fears to rest. Despite near-death experiences, being slightly too old to be a drug musician, and attempting to name the album ‘Huh?’, Jason Pierce is back on top. The intro is classic Spiritualized, a gentle build, dropping off towards an uncertain conclusion. The brief second’s silence in between this drop and the chugging guitars of ‘Hey Jane’ (a nine minute belter) was the most nerve-wracking moment in the album – a wrong move could have toppled the whole thing.

Pierce is, however, an old hand. Moments of delicate emotion, such as ‘Freedom’ are handled equally as competently as lighters-aloft choruses such as ‘So Long You Pretty Thing’. Lyrics were never Pierce’s strong point, and the pubescent ruminations on death in ‘Little Girl’ can be a little grating, but the orchestration is fantastic. Even when tracks trail off into discords and thrashing, it works.

Spiritualized is no longer trying too hard to regain the cool he once possessed. Pierce has it under control.

FOUR (AND A HALF) STARS

Mumblecore is an interesting phenomenon in modern cinema and one that 98% of cinemagoers would be advised to avoid. But, if you are going to get your mumble on, then the best place to start is with the Duplass brothers, who broke into the mainstream last year with Cyrus starring John C Reilly, Jonah Hill, and Marisa Tomei. They’re back this month with Hollywood stars Jason Segel and Ed Helms in Jeff, Who Lives At Home.

The eponymous Jeff is played by everyone’s favourite Muppet (or man) Jason Segel. He’s a useless, pot-smoking slacker who sees existential connections in the smallest things. The ‘smallest thing’ that gets the film going is a phone-call for someone called Kevin. Thus begins a hunt across Baton Rouge for an explanation to this phenomenon. It’s a hunt that will lead him to cross paths with his paint salesman brother, played by Ed Helms, who suspects that his wife (the wonderful Judy Greer) is having an affair. The two brothers reconnect as their investigation goes on and even though the ending is too absurd to be plausible, there’s something charming about their relationship.

The movie makes its main (perhaps only) misstep in its use of Susan Sarandon as the boys’ mother. Her subplot feels like it’s taken from a sitcom and bears no relation to the main thrust of the film. Still, Sarandon is always likeable, so it’s not unpleasant to see her onscreen. But the film really succeeds when Segel and Helms are allowed to run riot through Louisiana. Their largely improvised dialogue is funny and touching in almost equal measure and, were it not for the surreal ending, as honest as any dra-medy of recent years.

A Mumblecore Genre Guide might want you to watch Puffy Chair or Baghead first but this is as good a jumping-off place as I’ve ever seen (especially as it’s not shot on frustratingly amateurish VHS) and definitely worth catching.

Jeff, Who Lives At Home is the Slacker’s Club choice at The Phoenix Picturehouse on Thursday 26 April at 8.45pm. Just bring your student ID and you get to see the movie for FREE!