Holst? Yes. Britten? Maybe. But John Adams? Programming Adams’ Guide to Strange Places as the extended opener in this National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain concert made complete sense after a few minutes; conductor John Wilson’s strengths as an interpreter of Hollywood film scores and British light music made him ideally suited to unpick the thornier metrical complexities of the Adams work. Wilson’s beat is disarmingly precise, every gear change spelt out with refreshing precision.

Ah, Goth. It’s a difficult genre to take in any way seriously unless you’re feeling under-appreciated while going through puberty. Then again, like heavy metal, maybe it’s not supposed to be taken seriously, more an enjoyably melodramatic way of roaring angst at the universe through fantasy metaphor. Officers probably couldn’t give a damn one way or the other and almost certainly wouldn’t welcome the term – but that’s what their music is entirely run through with, and rather fine it is too.

Rachmaninov’s choral symphony The Bells always feels like a valedictory late work, a composer’s eloquent, melancholy adieu both to pre-revolutionary Russia and to the fulsome late-romantic style which had served him so well. Happily, Rachmaninov’s career didn’t finish in 1913, and his last few decades in exile resulted, sporadically, in some stunning pieces – the Paganini Rhapsody and the Symphonic Dances among them.

And so, after 30 years, Chumbawamba are no more. Leeds’s finest issued an eloquent statement on their website back in July, confessing that “the rest of our lives got in the way and we couldn’t commit the time and enthusiasm that the band demanded… being already involved in the stuff of life that wasn’t the band.” Many musicians keep going to embarrassing effect long past their sell-by dates, but this lot are still brilliantly accomplished performers – witty, energetic, engaging and sublimely musical, with a capella harmonies which make the hairs on your neck tingle.

It’s not easy bringing the Mississippi delta to Leeds city centre – yet here its hanging moss and tea-coloured waters fill out every inch of the expansive Quarry stage. Indeed, all that’s missing from Francis O’Connor’s remarkable set is a hungry alligator or two, though in the drama for which it provides a backdrop – Tennessee Williams’s Pulitzer Prize-winning classic about death, desire and deceit – the human characters are capable of inflicting quite enough damage on themselves.

Charm, politeness and glittering repartee are clearly not considered important qualities for the Yorkshire-based policepersons who work alongside DCI Banks. TV coppers are rarely a barrel of laughs but for this bunch, spitting, snarling and glaring are their default modes of communication. Banks himself, played by Stephen Tompkinson as though he's lugging an invisible York Minster around on his shoulders, has assembled his characterisation of the doleful detective from a mixture of gloom, depression and disgruntlement.

Fans of the Leeds International Piano Competition argue that this triennial event, now in its 49^th year, has done more to raise the city’s profile than any other local institution. Supporters of Leeds United would doubtless disagree, but Dame Fanny Waterman’s long-running contest has grown into an influential, internationally renowned affair. Dame Janet Baker awards the prizes. Lang Lang is now the competition’s Global Ambassador along with Honorary Ambassador Aung San Suu Kyi. Waterman, now an improbably spritely 91, is still very much in control of proceedings.

It’s cold, grey and damp. Welcome to Leeds. The city centre has grown more homogenous, less distinctive since I arrived here in the 1980s, but there are still delights to be found.

The first time I ever saw Kaiser Chiefs was on Saturday morning children's television. While the musicians performed onstage, vocalist Ricky Wilson went walkabout, continuing to belt out "I Predict a Riot" while lurking out of view. Halfway through last night's gig I thought he was about to pull the same stunt when he bolted off shortly after a blinding live rendition of "...Riot". I was sitting in the front row of the balcony at the time. I looked to my left and suddenly Wilson was singing right next to me, serenading the stalls from above.

As an evening out, Angus is about as nutritious as the midget gems dispensed by one of the heroine’s confidantes (and offered in heaps to the audience waiting in the foyer). Directed by Ryan McBryde, this stage adaptation of Louise Rennison’s chirpy bestsellers just about hangs together, even though the moments where it succeeds most effectively are the points which most explicitly reference other coming-of-age narratives.