Nine albums and almost 10 years in, Animal Collective show no signs of smoothing the edges from their herky-jerk, ADHD psyche-pop. Vocals carry a melody, but everything else in the mix counters that – pinging sounds, Afro-inspired percussion, bloops, stabs of synth. Beyond Animal Collective, only a bear with a sore head could make psychedelia this twitchy.

You’ll know by now, perhaps, that Sun is supposed to represent a “rebirth” for Chan Marshall, the famously intense singer-songwriter who performs as Cat Power. Since the release of 2006’s The Greatest Marshall has shunned her own material, instead reinterpreting Memphis soul and Delta blues in a sensual, dusky croon. When your songs are as personal, as taut and extreme as some of Marshall’s work can be, however, there must be times it pays to take a step back.

Ride: Going Blank Again

Kieron Tyler

Considering how over-stuffed Brooklyn is with music, south London’s Dignan Porch being issued by that locale’s super-hip Captured Tracks imprint smacks of coals to Newcastle. But they fit in a treat, sharing an outlook with Brooklynites Crystal Stilts and Frankie Rose, or label mates Wild Nothing and Holograms (who are Swedish). What this means is that Dignan Porch have taken a raft of Eighties indie rock - when it meant independent – influences from the pre-Grunge era, whizzed them up together to remake them afresh.

It is sometimes hard to be enthused by midweek gigs. Last night was one of those occasions, at least for the 30 seconds I thought I was going to be watching most of the show on the iPhone screen of the six feet of beard that planked itself in front of me just in time for the music starting. Those are the nights you need, as Sharon van Etten might say, “something that’s hard to describe”. Something that changes your mood, and makes you smile, and doesn’t happen all of the time. Something fun.

The first thing that strikes you is the voice. At once coarse and warm, like the creak of the stairs of your childhood home as it settles in at night, Meursault’s Neil Pennycook sounds like a man with more than a few stories to tell.

Bloopy Seventies synths. Glitter Band drums. The fuzz guitar of Sweet’s “Blockbuster”. Eighties electro-robot-pop. New wave chug. The hot dog streets of West Bromwich. Morning TV. Bailiffs at the door, The secularisation of institutions and the decline of civic pride. Mickie Most and his plastic pop. These then, are amongst the contents of the new tablet handed down by former Felt leader, perennial underdog and über-cult figure Lawrence. Bizarre and enjoyable, it’s disquieting too. “Hello, I’m Lawrence and I’m taking over” he declares colourlessly.

The moment you reach “I Call This Home”, the third track of Saint Saviour's debut album, it’s obvious this is an album to stick with. A pulsing rhythm beds guitars that reverberate like vintage Cure. The voice is quavering, anguished. Then it opens up. Suddenly driving and tense, the dramatic, shimmering song sounds like an anthem in waiting – albeit one with a maverick sensibility akin to that of Fever Ray, Goldfrapp and Marc Almond. It fits that Saint Saviour has played live with Hurts.

There is film footage of those opening magical, transformative moments: of Brown intoning, “The time, the time is now. Do it now, do it now.” Film, however, could not capture the effect the band’s arrival had on the mood of the crowd; it was a jaw-dropping biblical reaction, of relief, amazement, worship and unadulterated joy. “It was like a massive pilgrimage to witness,” said Roddy McKenna, the man who had been instrumental in signing the band to Jive/Zomba.