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Just so you know, I will follow to the ends of the Earth any band or performer whose promotional video begins with a skinny man in an ill-fitting sports top saying "the cheese gets up to 70 miles per hour". So should you.

Whether that band chooses to follow this with a run-of-the-mill performance clip or, as in this case, a short history of cheese rolling in...somewhere they do cheese rolling, double Gloucester, probably...is neither here nor there, we are already through the grey-framed, rose-tinted, cloudy indie looking glass and off to wander new and wondrous lands. Come and play!

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Last week I had the honour of attending Lenka's very first gig in London, thanks to the lovely Jessica at , who gave me her spare ticket. I'd not actually heard any of her work before, but the crowd who were there certainly had - even the songs that Lenka introduced by saying "you might not know this one" had certain sections of the audience singing along enthusiastically.

The crowd loved it (except for one chap near me who keep heckling and yelling "play the single!", but I think he may have had a shandy or two) and my rather rambling point here is that I think the sign of a good gig is when you come away with a bunch of songs sitting there in your head like little earworms. And that's certainly what happened to me, with one of the wriggliest earworms being this little ditty.

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Thoughts on the day's events:

1: When I first heard the news last night, my very first reaction, after years of being snowblinded by news coverage about his life, was something close to "chuh, TYPICAL! What will that man do next??". That's not a nice way to react to something, I'm not proud, but it does reflect the kind of media hysteria and cynicism that surrounded the man all the time.

It took about half an hour to break through all that and realise that he was an actual human man to whom a terrible thing had happened.

2: It's hard to know how to react emotionally to the death of someone who was so famous, sorry, IS so famous, that in a sense they were never really alive. Not in the sense that you could picture them sitting in your front room sipping tea. And yet all you need to do is hear a bar or two of his music and it's clear something enormous has happened. That's where the emotions are coming from.

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It's got to be quite an intimidating task, being asked to provide soundtrack music for a film, even if it is the latest in the Transformers franchise. For starters, your music is going to be heard in some detail by people who have paid money to experience something which is entirely unrelated to your best efforts.

Then there's the question of what musical sounds you make. Do you use this as an opportunity to show off your cinematic side? To really experiment with your sound and come up with something that is entirely unlike what you normally do but which has been explicitly tailored to fit the images it will be used to soundtrack?

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Hmph. Let's see now. Ears cleaned thoroughly. Feet resolutely stuck to the floor. Fingers still. Heartbeat steady. Head facing floorward and unmoving. Face expressionless, with no urge to smile or frown. Pupils reactive and un-dilated. Nervous system untroubled by excess adrenaline. Hair on back of neck - unruffled. Breathing - regular. Goose - unpimpled.

This is not a description of the critic at rest, preparing for reviewing duties in a meditative trance and clearing his mind. That's an actual account of my physiognomy during several listens to 'Work' by the Saturdays. If there is another way to measure the quality of music, I am unaware of it, and I'm afraid this may mean that, as a single, the record's a bit of a dud.

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Not wishing to name names, but there were those who, when Jordin Sparks was declared the winner of season six of American Idol, sniffed that her career would be over in a matter of months. I insisted she'd most likely do quite well overseas at the very least, and while the battle clearly isn't over yet, the chance of me turning out to be right is looking promising, at least.

Speaking of battles, Jordin would know why love has to feel like a battlefield. My suggestion would be that she should ask Pat Benatar, who first noticed the similarity back in 1985, four years before Jordin was even born. I suddenly feel very old.

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Try as I might, I can't help but flinch slightly if ever I am called upon to use the word 'flow' - in the context of people who talk in rhythmic fashion over music, rather than anything to do with liquid moving about - without inverted commas. It's one of those terms which has come out of hip hop that hasn't quite made it over to the non-streetslang world, possibly because it describes something which is only really important in rapping, and poetry. Or at least, it used to. Hip hop being such a speedy culture, who knows whether it's even in use any more? Not this sucker MC*, that's for sure.

And yet it's a perfect description of the way words can be arranged so that they tumble into one another and form a musical pattern, without the need for there to be music present. Jay-Z has it, Kanye West has it, but so do John Cooper Clarke, Alex Turner, and, to a ridiculous extent, Jamie T.

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Last time Florence had a single out, I did a long spiel about the brilliance of ukuleles - Noah & the Whale had just had a hit using one, and the introduction to 'Dog Days Are Over' had a similar noise on it. I then went on to marvel how such a cheap instrument can be used to make a noise that sounds not a million miles away from the noise made by a harp. You can read all about it here, if you like.

Unfortunately, it was then pointed out to me that the noise I was referring to was actually made by a real harp, and not a ukulele. And the person who said it seemed to really know what they were talking about.

At the time, I blustered, and said something about how silly it is to hire someone in to play the harp when it's only going to end up sounding like a ukulele, but that was just an attempt to save face. Everyone knew the jig was up.

I just hope FloMash's latest does not contain similarly confusing musical arrangements, or there will be trouble...

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There's a habit people have of referring to music as if it's food. This is partly because there are ingredients to both, and flavours...and spice, and heat and chemistry and...well, let's just say there's a lot of common language.

But it is also because good music can provide essential sustenance, even if you were not aware that you were hungry. We've all had the experience of unexpectedly hearing a long lost favourite song, and suddenly feeling a little taller, a little happier and a lot more confident - refuelled, in other words. It doesn't even have to happen at a particularly vulnerable time, that's the beauty of the thing.

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As Ms. Faith is clearly enjoying one of those Jared Leto-style joint careers, split between music and film/stage work, it's tempting to conclude that she's actually been cast by a record label to play a kind of cleaned-up, less troublesome version of...well let's just call her A Well-Known Tattooed Singing Star, shall we? Saves all that undignified finger pointing.

Aside from the fact that 'Stone Cold Sober' is more of a uptempo rockin' raveup than it is an old school soul resurrection (with desperate lyrics, let us not forget), there are a LOT of little clues scattered through this endeavour which suggest Paloma is being sold as a sequel to a very successful franchise.

Not that this is a blot against her talent, I should add. It's just interesting to see THE MARKETING at work...

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I've never really noticed The Enemy existed until now. No, I haven't been living under a rock for the past two years (although some people might think this is true, seeing as I'm from a small English village that according to my friends "surely can't have electricity?!"); it's more the case that I couldn't actually name any Enemy songs, even if forced to. But I could almost certainly sing along should they come on the radio (although I can't promise I'd get the words right).

You see, 'Away From Here' and 'Had Enough' (Yeah, OK, I can name them NOW. Thank you, Wikipedia), for example, are infectious pop songs that have a sly way of wriggling their way inside your brain without any consent whatsoever (a song can wriggle, right?).

Sadly, with 'Sing When You're in Love', there is no chance of that happening.

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Sophie Ellis-Bextor is an extremely underrated force in pop. There, I said it. I've never really understood why she isn't a bigger star than she is, considering that for my money, she makes probably the best frosty electro ladypop in the business. Indeed, Fraser and I had arguments about which was the best track from her last album that went on for days because there were so many different options to choose from.

[Fraser's note: And I MAINTAIN that, even though 'Love Is Here, 'China Heart' and 'If You Go' are all very wonderful songs, I was right about 'Today The Sun's On Us', STEVEN...]

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We live in an age where we are so starved of interesting, distinctive male voices that the merest hint of regional accent is enough to qualify as an arresting and amazing new sound. This is no idle claim, or deliberate provocation, there are simply too many singers whispering, squeaking and groaning when they should be singing - singing from the gut, singing from the heart, anywhere but the nose and the back of the throat - and I for one have had enough.

Look at the girls, fellas! All sorts of different vocal sounds coming out of them, lots of emoting going on, AND they dress up and make the effort to look nice and stuff. Dishevelled chic is all very well if you've got the cheekbones to back it up, but I want a decent sound to come out of your mouth too, and I'm not going to be too picky about the source.

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For some reason - possibly related to broken wine glasses and shattered ear-drums - La Roux is one of those pop people who polarizes opinion, even among fans of sugary chart pop. Compared to the backwards-over-falling reception Little Boots seems to be getting, La Roux has already managed to get people's backs up with only the one hit single to her name so far.

This is partly because she is such an ardent '80s revivalist, which seems a little self-defeating when the genre you're trying to resurrect is the forward-looking futurefest of early '80s electropop. She's looking backwards at something which was looking forwards at the time, in much the same way that Paul Weller and Ocean Colour Scene chased the mod dream, even though being a mod started out as a statement of NOW, against the traditional THEN of the rockers they fought.

Still with me? No? Then read on...

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Yes, yes, so it's been in the Top 10 for ages and anything I have to say on the topic beyond "OMG people really seem to like this, don't they?" is so far beyond irrelevant it makes irrelevant seem, y'know...RELEVANT.

You've heard it, I've heard it, people have been downloading it, and NOW it is finally going to be available in the shops. It's the song which brings together Timbaland's mate, that fella with the big ego and venetian blind shades, and the cat in the hat.

So...what to do...do we run a full review, or have a look at the fun things which occur within the lyric sheet? Should there be sensible coverage, or snarky daftness? Chinstroking assessment, or pedantic mucking about?

Well why not both?

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You know how some people get really excited about the Pet Shop Boys, and claim they're the kings of artpop and will not hear a word said against them? In a way which, to people who only sort of like some of their songs is entirely mystifying? I'm a bit like that about Depeche Mode.

It's partly the fact that they started out as fey art-school types and ended up as a greasy old rock behemoth, and partly that there is always a little whiff of sulphur about everything they do. For all that Neil Tennant claims the Pet Shop Boys as the last of the great gender agenda synthpop bands, their heavenly perfection can be a little too bookish and meek, compared to DP's massive leathery throb.

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I've been inspired by this song's title to tell a bit of a truth. OK, a lot of a truth. So much truth that your mind could quite possibly implode upon reading. Maybe. Ready? Here goes: I've never really liked Take That.

Woah, wait! Before you judge me, you must realise that when I was growing up it was Take That or The Backstreet Boys, and for me and my friends it was Backstreet every time. Why, we would ponder, would we want to be obsessing over those leather-wearing, diamond-encrusted, groin-thrusting types, when we could learn BSB's dance moves in the playground, and fixate over the oh-so-dreamy Nick Carter to the point of obsession?

(His favourite colour was green, his favourite food was pizza and he was dating, but not steadily. OK, now you can judge me.)

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Hey, remember when you were a kid, and you had too much energy, so you could never focus on one thing for very long, and felt like you could do anything you wanted, whenever you wanted - including running around the garden with a towel tied around your neck, playing Superman - without getting embarrassed or self-conscious? Remember when your best dance moves included jumping up and down, and your favourite ever song was by the Tweenies/Bob The Builder/S Club 7?

Let's assume your answer to most of these questions is yes. Now, do you remember when that all stopped and you suddenly couldn't get out of bed in the mornings and literally everything in the world ever made you feel mortified and shy?

That's the transition Jack Peñate seems to have undergone, the poor fella...

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I honestly never thought I'd be reviewing a Blazin' Squad single again. Seriously: what's with everybody reforming these days? Is it the recession? Suddenly they all realise that they're skint and need a proper job (assuming being a popstar counts as a proper job, and I sincerely hope it does). More importantly, who's next? One True Voice? Vanilla? Hepburn? I MUST KNOW.

Anyway, Blazin' Squad are back - or at least some of them are, since the numbers seem to have depleted somewhat since the glory days when they were promising to see us at the crossroads crossroads crossroads. Given that they probably had a few superfluous members to start with, this trimming of the excess does make the whole shebang seem a bit more manageable.

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When it comes to making new songs, working to a formula can be a dangerous thing. On the one hand, you've got all the benefits of decades of musical wisdom, each lesson hard-won in front of a discerning audience, so you KNOW what's going to work and what won't. On the other, if your song sounds exactly like nine other new songs which are all vying for attention at the same time, you're going to struggle to get anywhere.

The trick is to only use the very best ideas, and to coat them in so much fairy-dust that they shine as if freshly minted at the very moment you first hear them. This will make people think you're a production genius.

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Another in a long list of song titles which send out an alternative message to that which is intended by the band. 'Heavy Cross' could be a two word biography of Beth Ditto herself, you just need to add a comma.

Granted, it doesn't take into account her voice, her band's commitment to various worthy punk rock causes, or the fact that her band can, on a good day, blow the dust off an old hat from a five mile distance, but still, pithy eh?

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In my mind, every time N-Dubz get together to make a new song, they work in a very different way to other artists. For starters, all of the music is prepared beforehand, possibly with the band's involvement, possibly not (this is my imaginary version, remember, I could have Dave Grohl writing all of their music if I like). Anyway, the dramatic strings have been scored and recorded, the plinky synth stabs all sequenced, and the little vocal samples woven into the finished backing track. Then the band arrive.

At this point, someone sits them down, much like a film director would do, and tells them what their motivation is for the song. In this case, Tulisa is a hot lady who is in love with a boy, who is being played by Dappy (let's gloss over the real-life family connection between them, they're acting). Fazer's job is to represent lovestruck male youth in a more general sense, and to back up some of the points Dappy will go on to make about raising a family.

Then they're ushered into a vocal booth and told to improvise the whole thing. Three, two, one...GO!

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When the list of Most Very Horrible Noises In Popular Music is finally compiled, you can be sure that Katy Perry's swoops up into her upper vocal register will feature strongly. OK, possibly not as strongly as Madonna's attempts at rapping, or the introductions to hip hop records where rappers say who they are, or preposterously widdly-widdly guitar solos*, but it is definitely up there with the best/worst.

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Provocative title, donchathink? I mean the Brothers Jonas, in all their non-real, strictly-for-the-little-girls glory, must be getting a fair amount of heat from the world's rocksnobular community. Especially as they've got that 3-D concert movie out ahead of more 'worthy' acts. And now they're releasing a song which has the same title as a song and album by Black Sabbath - the metalliest metal band that ever there was, according to Kerrang! - at exactly the same time that Black Sabbath re-release the album with the same title as the song by the Jonas Brothers.

Needless to say, the JoBro song is actually related to the Black Sabbath song in no audible way whatsoever. You can go on ahead and make your own "in league with Satan" jokes now...

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Pixie Lott, eh? With a name like that, I don't see how she was ever likely to not be a pop star. Not only would it be a shame to waste such a brilliantly showbiz name, but - and perhaps this speaks a bit of my own personal prejudices - I'm not sure I'd be able to take a dentist or a zoologist (for example) seriously with a name like Pixie Lott, because I would be wondering why they weren't off being a pop star instead.

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I'm not sure why it's so inconceivable to me that the Pet Shop Boys should be close to celebrating their 25th anniversary as a pop-making entitly, and yet it is. I think it's partly an assumption, based on their own unchanging demeanour, that electropop duos shouldn't really age in the same way as leathery old rock stars. Which is an odd thing to think considering that even Kraftwerk (ask your futurist uncle) had to change their robot selves to reflect the passing of the years.

I should imagine the next iteration of Kraftbots will be sitting down, for starters.

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Oh hello, what's this? A former TV talent show winner banging out a disco torch song, supported by massed ABBA harmonies and a bass so thick you could use it as a doorstop? A modern day update of 'I Will Survive', which makes up in enormity what it lacks in defiance? A club-destroying barnstormer, worthy of a doffed cap from Dave Pearce himself (even if the hat-removal exercise would require some Super-Glue thinners and a pair of barber's scissors)? The future of all heavy metal as we know it?

Well, yes, yes, yes and no. In that order.

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Isn't it strange how long a quote about the transient nature of fame and celebrity has lasted? Andy Warhol first said that thing about everyone eventually taking turns at being world-famous for 15 minutes back in 1968, that's over 40 years ago. Since then - and this is just within the field of music - we've had an astonishing turnover of ideas - prog rock, funk, glam rock, metal, reggae, punk, hip hop, new wave, electropop, indie, acid house, techno, Madchester, trip hop, britpop, nu rave...

And the one constant is that people are still trotting out this one silly line. Heck, this isn't even the first song about it.

This is largely because it gives back as much as it takes away. Unless you're one of the people whose 15 minutes has been and gone, Andy Warhol has basically promised that you will be world-famous. Never mind that you'll be forgotten quicker than last year's Britain's Got Talent finalists, you will at least get to experience fame for a little while, maybe just long enough to launch a perfume range or get some free designer socks.

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