Pollocks, what a cheap pun!

If you google Emma Pollock you'll find a lot of pictures of a slightly (but artfully) grumpy looking woman -eyes downcast, mouth down turned and obviously deep in though. You'll also find that she was a founding member of The Delgados, but has been a solo artist since the band split.

She's not going to smile.

Emma's 'I Could be a Saint' is getting a fair bit of airplay at the moment courtesy of Six Music's rebel playlist vote, and I'm jolly glad is it is too. I was so smitten with the song that I went out and got hold of Miss Pollock's first album, 'Watch the Fireworks', which is really rather good too.

Emma Pollock is a little Polly Jean-esque, by which I mean she's not an insipid warbler, churning out run of the mill 'angry woman with piano/guitar' nonsense. Whist she's not quite as heavy as PJ, Emma's songs cleverly combine fermenting intensity and lowfi values with distracting melodies. She's a little bit of the exception to the norm and the highlights on her first album are very high indeed.

Here's one of my favourites-

• If Silence Means So Much To You: Emma Pollock

What a Swell Party It Is

The slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune are whirling around with frenzied abandon - brand new iPod in the sink, the hard-drive gives up the ghost (if anyone mentions the word back-up I shall almost certainly cry blood); on a personal note it's been the end of a tempestuous era (for the best though), and to top it all there's the ignominy of getting just that slightly bit older. And celebrating said aging by getting a fringe cut in - so I look like a disgruntled Vulcan. It could all be worse, I suppose.

It's not all doom and gloom; some good things have come my way - I've discovered I can earn a living off Deal or No Deal on quiz machines, and I went to see the excellent live podcast recording of Collings and Herrin at St David's hall where I became indoctrinated into the black arts of 'secret dancing'.

Secret dancing is a wonderful thing indeed; the basic tenant is -if people can see you movin' and a groovin' (when you're on a train, bus or public non-dancing area: somewhere that no public displays of rhythm are allowed by law) then... you aren 't doing it right!

Give it a try; I can confirm there's something strangely satisfying about surreptiously patting your pockets to to a hidden beat, scratching you ear when a high note plays... that is if you have a working mp3 player, and earphone obviously. However, since I don't I'm forced to make my own entertainment, this includes whistling annoyingly, and occassionally talking to myself like the mad old woman I am.

Still like I said earlier it could all be worse: I could be the person sitting next to the Vulcan be-fringed, gibbering, whislter on the bus. Ho-hum.

Fyfe Dangerfield

I'm rather looking forward to 'Fly a Yellow Moon', the upcoming album from Guillemots front man Fyfe Dangerfield; he of the slightly crazy whooping noises, bags of envied talent, and heart on sleeve. If the first two singles are anything to go by it should be a joyous affair.

The second single 'She Needs Me' is getting a fair amount of radio play at the moment, rightly so; it's a throbbing, sweet little melody, and incidentally mixed by Bernard Butler. 'She Needs Me' is a pretty pop song, and one that isn't shy of adding the odd flourish of strings, brass or synths into the mix, though nothing is wasted, or (shudder) deliberately kooky.

Dangerfield pulls off the same trick as crazy, grin coaxing, uncles everywhere - "is that a smile I see? I think it is, isn't it? It's a smile."

Go on, have a listen...

Kathryn Williams - The Quickening

I’ve only wonderful things to write about Kathryn Williams’ new record ‘The Quickening’. Whilst it’s easy to have a soft spot for dainty folk- the audible equivalent of wistfully gazing into candle flames- this album is all the more marvellous for being filled with unpretentious, devilishly pretty music.

Each song possesses an airy grace, and a pace as slow as the closing of heavy eyelids: consequently the whole record seems to twine into a wonderland of slow yearning. There’s humour there too though, the light hearted merriment of ‘Wanting and Waiting’, mixes against songs that sound like sighs of self-reflection.

Kathryn’s voice beguiles through simplicity, her songs are personal without being navel gazing, and the music grows to envelope the space you're in; one minute it’s a nice song in the background, next you’ve been charmed into paying attention to it alone. Great stuff; out in February, and she's touring too.

Here she is on a previous outing with Neill MacColl...

Film Review: The Box

Oh. Dear. God.

The Button Unit. Yes, that's really what it's called.

I tried to see the Men Who Stared at Goats yesterday. I really did. Even going so far as to briskly walk into the dark depth of shady Cardiff to the lovely, but badly located, Chapter cinema; alas it was only to find for some inexplicable reason (read as my incompetence) that it was on earlier on Wednesdays. As my friend and I hastily awayed to more civilised climes we settled on Paranormal Activity, a decision that was at least half popular (with me). Inexplicably and somewhat suspiciously we arrived too late, so by default The Box became our poison of choice, and by it we were doomed.

I'd rather eat my own curried optic nerve than watch this long winded, directionless drivel again. Indeed as one of the few people not to be crazy over Donny bloody Darko, I didn't exactly have high hopes for Richard Kelly's latest outing - The Box. I should of known better and pitched any sense of expectation in a subterranean cave; one so dark that the flickerings of life inside have never seen light. The only thing to like about this film was that it wasn't Sunshine ("for seven years I've talked with God": can you hear my teeth grinding out there?) which like The Box is a massive waste of life. Other geninue plus points? Frank Langella's make-up, maybe, certainly his tailoring; for the duration of the film I was a Woman Who Stared at Coats.... and sighed.

As to the nitty-gritty of the picture; I'll charitably say that the first twenty minutes are interesting enough; the trailed premise of a million dollars for sanctioning the death of someone you don't know is mildly thought provoking. More so when you hear the entire cinema to a man all whooping and shouting "yes!" - that made me worry, and I thought it was the civilised bit of Cardiff!

As for the rest; oh god no. No. No. No. Oh, it's awful; mystery is throw upon mystery until the whole thing creaks with the weight of its own tediousness, and instead of being engaged, you find yourself consigned to boredom. Just when you think it can't get any worse, trust me it does; the plot takes a turn for the utterly farcical. None of this film fits together - it feels as if it's been heavily edited to deliberately remove any coherence, and yet the bits that are left in labour heavily, like a ragtag child with a particularly splodgy potato print, just to make sure you understand what someone thought was obviously a fiendishly clever plot.

The Box is really, really, truly god-awful. I can't stress this enough. If I do one good thing this year I hope it's saving someone some time and money by dissuading them from going to see this pile of steaming offal.

Put it in a box, tie it with a ribbon, and fling the whole crescendo of dull down the nearest open sewer.

Film Review: Where the Wild Things Are

Directed by Spike Jonze, written - Spike Jonze & David Eggers, starring Max Records, James Gandolfini, Catherine Keener, Paul Dano, Lauren Ambrose and Forest Whitaker.

Looks good, doesn't it?

Yesterday I sniffled back a snuffle and tried not to get all maudlin to 'Where the Wild Things Are'. The plot, in case you don't know, involves the adventure of an angry young boy called Max; one evening he runs away from home, finds an island, and convinces the mosterous inhabitants that he's their king - 'Let the wild rumpus commence!'

It's melancholy rather than wild though; sad-sweet, like a terrible Jim Croche ballad that you shouldn't like, but that somehow makes you wistful, though this film is far classier than Jim and far more engaging to look at than his furry face. The verdit is: it's good. Jonze and Eggers capture the crushing inarticulacies of childhood: I know all the angst, rage, inability to continually do the right thing, not to mention the delightful inventiveness, flooded out from my deep dark past as soon as the silver screen started to flicker.

When watching you remember what it's like to be that little, and not just the bad parts of stomping, crying and slamming doors at the injustice of the world, though this gloomier aspect is firmly in the driving seat. I don't remember the book too well (wow, what pictures) but I'd have thought the process of being King of the Wild Things would have been more joyful. Then again, perspectives change. I don't like the idea of a tiger coming to tea anymore either! Regardless, the introspection isn't a bad thing. Chaos, forts, wrinkled brows and wobbling lips. That really seemed like the old days to me.

The island of the Wild Things is a surprisingly physical place; the cliffs are hard work for a small boy, there are long walks to take and the monsters throw themselves about with gusto, providing piquant moments of comedy. I loved the puppets actually, especially the way they were able to interact with weight since they're not just CGI. I did wish they'd cheer up a bit at times though; speak with some animation rather than their half-committed drawl. That said, the Wild Things are interesting fusions of children who need mothers and strangely unknowable adults, bundled into feathers and fur. Max Records also aquits himself very well indeed.

Would little ones enjoy this? I'm not sure; partly because it's quite slow, but mostly I think they'd find the monsters incomprehesibly sad indeed. Then again maybe not, as all my evidence points to the contrary; I sat in a cinema with 60 (very well behaved - well done) small children who watched enraptured - their only noise was laughter. It is, however, quite rightly a PG.

Where the Wild Things Are made me feel very grownup, despite giving me back a bit of my childhood; I constantly wanted to explain to Max and his chums what they needed, or to tell them off. It remind me how far away I've gotten from being able to visit that island, but I still remember the reasons why I'd have wanted to go - that powerful sense of rebellion came as a marvelous shock.

Incidentally the Karen O's soundtrack is pretty marvelous too and compliments the picture nicely.

You Can Do It With A Sailor from Peru to Venezuela

What's not to like about Alma Cogan's 1954 hit - 'You Must Never Do a Tango With An Eskimo'? It's festive, but not overplayed; there's cheesy horn section blowing whilst party girl Alma trips around witty lyrics, sounding as merry as gran tippling a Snowball, and what's more you can swing about to it under the mistletoe.

As for taking a turn with the Eskimo, who could resist?

• Alma Cogan - You Must Never Do a Tango With an Eskimo