Some say that R.E.M. haven't made a great album since original drummer Bill Berry left in 1997. Others don't care whether they have or not. But regardless of whether Collapse Into Now is "great", it's an excellent R.E.M. disc which erases the memory of equivocal efforts like Reveal or Around the Sun. It does so by successfully re-establishing contact with the band's original strengths (guitars, harmonies and a whiff of folk-rock mysticism) and doing it with a barrelling rush of energy which verges on the phenomenal for a band now past its 30th birthday.

I have thus far been a bit wary of the Janelle Monáe hype. It's only natural: when an attractive young performer is taken under the wing of megastars like Outkast and P Diddy, and drenched with media acclaim that pronounces them an artist on the level of Prince, all on the basis of a few download tracks and one album, one bristles. And when that album is heavily conceptualised and crisply produced but more full of overt retro references than it is instant tunes, the suspicion only grows. Live reviews, meanwhile, suggested that there might be something more stage school than old school about her soul stylings. I really didn't have many expectations for last night's show.

What's weird about the reams of commentaries that have already sprouted around The King of Limbs is the way they try to tell you what it resembles, but not what it actually is. Apparently it's like Miles Davis, Foals, Autechre, dubstep, Talk Talk, Philip Glass and Charles Mingus, among others. But is there an essential Radioheadness at its core?

As acting challenges go it borders on the foolhardy: impersonate not just in looks and mannerisms but in musical skill too some of the most truly iconic figures of the 20th century. And do it up close and personal with an audience who know the subjects' work inside out to boot. It seems almost impossible that a cast could manage to convincingly portray the (real) musical meeting of Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins at Sam Phillips's Sun Studios in 1956, but Million Dollar Quartet has managed successful and continuing runs in Chicago and on Broadway, so they must be doing something right, mustn't they?

Since breaking through with her 1992 debut album Dry, PJ Harvey has constantly been on the move, changing and evolving, both musically and sartorially. Last night at the Troxy in East London was no exception. As she walked onstage dressed in a long black frock with a riot of matching feathers exploding from her head, she resembled Lady Gaga's bonkers West Country Edwardian ancestor.

The White Stripes may have just announced their retirement but theartsdesk can report that the boy/girl two piece is still alive and well in the form of She Keeps Bees, a Brooklyn-based band currently on a mini-tour around Britain and Europe. Here it’s the girl, Jess Larrabee on guitar, and boy, Andy LaPlant on drums. The sound is superficially similar to The White Stripes with Larrabee delivering gutsy blues rock guitar, but vocally she sounds more like PJ Harvey stranded in Tennessee during a full moon. The soon-to-be-released sophomore album, Dig On, was self-recorded in a log cabin in upstate New York, and during a sound check for their warm-up gig at The Windmill, Brixton, the pair told theartsdesk how they came to record it.

Fresh from being anointed a Godlike Genius at this week's Shockwaves NME Awards, Dave Grohl celebrated with a roaring two-hour set with his recharged Foo Fighters at Wembley Arena, still a dismal dive despite the major refurbishment which put the entrance at the wrong end. However, Dave basks in the reputation of being the Nicest Man in Rock and a thoroughly good egg (Lemmy says so, and nobody argues with him), and he successfully flooded this unprepossessing shed with good vibes mixed with shattering quantities of decibels.

This isn't an awful album. It even starts really well. The opener, “Four Letter Word”, comes pounding in with the sort of jackbooted psychedelic rock attitude that Oasis always promised and so rarely delivered. Add a swooshy noise and it could almost be early Hawkwind, so fried-synapse rock'n'roll is it. Then comes “Millionaire”, which if you heard it blind you might accept as a lost track by The La's, so timelessly, northernly tuneful is it. But sadly, inevitably, comes “The Roller”, with all its excruciating Lennonisms leaking all over the place: a track that slams the face of creativity into the kerbstone again and again and again.

Rock-folkies can sure be snobs. Even though New Hampshire-born Ray LaMontagne is still relatively unknown over here, there are still purists who view his records with suspicion. They feel the voice is just too huge, the sound too commercial. The irony is that no-one courts attention less than LaMontagne. Last night he delivered the entire concert from a static spot just to the left of the band. And apparently he’s as withdrawn offstage as he is on. But the RFH saw him focussed. Focussed on finding the right way to channel that part-bluebird, part-bear he has for a voice.

No, not “trance” in the sense of galloping four-to-the-floor electronic music made by people on Ecstasy for people on Ecstasy. This trance is the original ritualised half-conscious state produced by fast, intensely repetitive, rhythmic tribal music… OK, now I’m thinking about it, we are kind of on the same page here, you just have to appreciate that what this French/Italian/Algerian/Kabyle singer-songwriter is interested in is the spiritual origins of the braindead quantised noise favoured today by the average clubber.