‘Support Act: TBC’ – This arrangement of 13 individually-innocuous letters is enough for one to get bleary-eyed and start hearing Bernard Herrmann’s strident violins from the shower scene in ‘Psycho’ fame. Presumably, the reason for such paralysing fear is the belief one harbours that the headliner has left the acquisition of a support act to the very last minute like an imminently due essay. Therefore, they must surely serve up and send out the musical equivalent of an incoherent jumble of words backed up by a few rudimentary references from Wikipedia. The strength of such dread brought on by this lexical omen is great; however, it can be by far surpassed by the strength of relief and joy one gets when, upon arriving at the venue, the support act is revealed as being a personal favourite of his or hers. And so seeing ‘Alessi’s Ark: 7.45pm’ jotted below the name of Laura Veirs on the front door of Rescue Rooms really set the pace for the rest of the night.

True to the door’s word, 7.45pm saw Alessi take to the stage in front of a predictably half-empty floor that pleasingly filled up with haste. Dressed in a checkered dress and cardigan combo as sported in her ‘Maybe I Know’ video, she immediately lavishes the unsuspecting spectators with her gorgeous tales of love told via quirk-laden vocals. Relying more on her debut album Notes From The Treehouse than her stunning 2011 effort Time Travel, the 21-year-old plays beautifully through songs like ‘Wire’, ‘The Robot’ and ‘The Horse’ with virtually every song being followed by a brief break and an allusion to how cold it is (yes, she is British). ‘Woman’ and ‘Constellations’ were comfortably the stand-out performances, the latter introducing a theme that Veirs herself would later re-explore (a theme particularly apt considering the moon and Jupiter, hand-in-hand, shone imperiously above the Rescue Rooms throughout).

Alessi’s (above) between song interaction tended to be as precocious as each of her albums and she even took to charmingly goading Nottingham for being too timid an audience. At one point, she absent-mindedly takes to fixing an undergarment before shrieking with embarrassment ‘Oh God, and I’m rearranging myself in public…’ that has the already-endeared crowd erupt into laughter.

During yet another interaction with the transfixed Nottingham throng, Alessi introduces her song ‘The Dog’ as ‘a song about…walking a dog’ before giggling at the absurdity of it and apologising for her songs’ tackling of the mundane. Such humility and self-awareness perhaps disservices and underplays the complexity of what’s really going on in her songs though, and her aching cries of ‘I’m only a woman’ hints at a sombre intricacy veining through both her music and self: more than the jingle-jangle of her semi-acoustic guitar lets on.

Finishing with ‘The Bird Song’, a song that eventually descends into Alessi effectively whispering down the microphone, she’s seen off with ample applause. Disarming herself (of a guitar, obviously), she weaves through an appreciative audience to her exit; leaving many internally intimating – to use words of her own – ‘I’d like to walk around in your beautiful head’.

By now, the venue is, if not rocking, then, swaying with noise and anticipation and it gives me the perfect chance to survey the composition of the crowd. Having just released Tumble Bee, an album of traditional children’s songs, then it’s perhaps not surprising that a large proportion is of families on a night out together; the remainder is made up of lovers entwined and half a dozen mid-life crises.

Veirs strides out on to the stage purposefully flanked by guitarist Tim Young and violinist, violist and keyboard player Alex Guy. Tumble Bee is hardly delved into at all; most material is plucked from her latest ‘adult’ album July Flame, not that this leaves the junior members of her audience chagrined. As triumvirates go, this one’s particularly felicitous in both musical terms and otherwise. While Veirs is the slightly more earnest focal point, the importance of Guy and Young is never overlooked, something Veirs herself no doubt realises and this is demonstrated as she often gives them several individual moments in the limelight. Beyond this, the pre- and post-song dialogue never ceases to entertain; Veirs the instigator, Young the conversational quarry and Guy the dealer of witty ripostes.

It’s not only with each other they interact, during ‘Life Is Good Blues’, she implores the, until now, reserved audience to give a helping hand with the ‘buh buh buh bit’. On one of the two songs from Tumble Bee, she also asks for the upbeat to be clapped and, when they do, she applauds them sweetly.

‘Sun Is King’ beautifully picks up the celestial theme dropped by Alessi’s Ark and the sentiment of it all is lost on nobody. Meanwhile, fellow tracks from the same album, July Flame, are all uniformly effective, perhaps down to their relative freshness. Older songs from Carbon Glacier such as ‘Ether Sings’ and ‘Lonely Angel Dust’, perhaps suffer from a little rustiness and their misfortune to be in such close proximity to the likes of ‘Carol Kaye’ – a paean to the much-admired bassist.

Overall, the performances never stray from excellent and it’s almost enough to take Young up on his offer of guitar lessons on Skype. It is, at times, enough for one to want to bottle it and use it when required as a balm to soothe thy weary soul. There are criticisms to be found if you dig deep enough though, I counted the use of 5 or 6 bad ice metaphors (including the support act’s) and in my most intermittently cynical moods I pretend to be surprised that the room isn’t decorated with dream catchers and feathers.

One of the most interesting performances of the night was courtesy of ‘Jailhouse Fire’, a song she introduces as being about Alex Guy and as the song progresses, she leads us to imagine Guy committing more and more outlandish transgressions.

As the night approaches its end, Laura Veirs brings out her two most celebrated songs in ‘Make Something Good’ and the exceptional ‘I Can See Your Tracks’, if you’ve not heard the latter I really suggest you do. Feeling that this isn’t enough, she also unveils a bubble machine to everyone’s amusement (including hers) and allows it to fill up the room with bubbles for the duration of the finale. To the hard-nosed, this may seem tawdry but there, in the moment, it somehow works and adds to all that’s gone before. A fine evening.

I’ve never really been one for rituals – or at least not conscious ones – as they’re, for me, inextricably linked with the confessed put-on-left-sock-first mindlessness of Premier League footballers. One imagines though that a hefty proportion of gig-goers tend to have some sort of routine that serves them well and allows them the required repose before the frolic and frisson of live music. Purely accidentally, like some sort of knowing alchemist, I’ve stumbled upon a most magical equation; a routine ritual that ensures no matter how good or bad the band are, how heavy-handed the hurly doormen are or how persistently ennui’s banging down the door of your cerebrum, that serenity prevails. For hiding from in-house hostility and waiting impatiently for the gig’s commencement, I stuck on my favourite (despite being at this point, unseen) Woody Allen and from that moment – well, I never looked back. The combination of edifying editing, succinct smarts and devastating drollness put one in a splendid mood, and not one of those purposeless, perfunctory good moods but one with the façade of meaning. Of course, I was not asked to review a Woody Allen film tonight, but a Deaf Club gig, however, there’s method to the drivel: the reason I tell you this is because if at any point I wax too lyrical, I want you to remember that my brain was not its despondent self and slap me with a wet fish.

Being new to Nottingham’s Rescue Rooms in the gigging sense (I’ve been a few times prior in a standing at the bar and then, when I get drunk enough, dancing dreadfully capacity), I’d no cognisance of procedure. I, therefore, found myself in a one-strong queue at 9.45pm like an over-eager fanboy whose social standing would have plummeted if it hadn’t hit its nadir long ago. Upon entering the intimate (yes, that is a euphemism for small) venue I buckled up, reminisced an hour ago, gripped my Jamaican beer and sat staring, waiting, watching, dying for nigh on an hour. Then at last, the support act smugly strode onstage and within seconds, their presumably paid following filled the room in a most irritating manner – think of Woody, think of Woody. Fears of being unduly generous in praise now duly discarded.

Barefooted, hooded and busking out melodies and sentiments that had been expressed by a thousand more people, in a thousand better ways, it was hard to remain anything other than uninterested during this local band’s set. Yes, they’re young (although not actually that young), callow and new and thus, I should cut them some slack – in fact, I probably would have done had they not proceeded to talk, jump and cackle over Deaf Club’s set. Perhaps more disappointing though was their following’s dispersal soon after the frontman struck his final, derivative chord: had they not heard Deaf Club? Knowing, as I do, that coarse criticism looks unjust and incongruous unless it insists that it’s constructive, I’d like at this point to praise the rhythm section. Is that constructive? Never mind. In case you’re familiar with my opinions – and so hold everything I mumble in disregard – and are desperate to hear this band, I find myself unable to recall their moniker. Sorry.

Inconspicuously walking through where the crowd should have been, Deaf Club – comprising Polly Mackey, Paul Bates, Jac Bates, Tom Ryan and Sian Rosier – took to the compact cage with little fanfare before immediately bursting into a scintillating set list.  Uniformly minimal in both dress and dramatics, it’s clear the band have confidence in the gravitas and allure of their music and rely not on any superfluous nonsense. Singer Polly Mackey stands guitar in hand, occasionally feeling obliged to peer out beyond her dark fringe to check everyone’s as enamoured as they should be. On each side of her, Bates and Roberts remain mostly still – deeply at odds with the moving nature of what they’re producing. Beyond the foreground, and yet to be paid equal attention to, Ryan zealously provides robust rhythms without contemplating effort while Rosier maintains her keyboard as stolidly as Candida Doyle did Pulp’s.

Anyone familiar with last year’s ‘Lull’ EP will know that such self-confidence is not misplaced; it’s an EP with a great sense of sadness, moody melodies, haunting riffs and dual-titled songs (separated by the Fleet Foxean ‘/’). Unsurprisingly for a band who are, thrillingly, still in their fresh-faced ascendency, Deaf Club showcased Lull in its entirety and, unperturbed by their own astuteness on record, seemingly redefined brilliance with the live outing of each ensuing song. The irrefutable highlight of both ‘Lull’ and their gig here tonight was ‘Forest/Shore’ ; introspective, masterfully played, foreshadowing impending doom and with an orgiastic, instrumental sub-climax, it’s as affecting a song as you’re going to hear anywhere, anytime. ‘Postcard’ too is worthy of such description, here played with a passion and vehemence that’s at times unsettling. Coming at the end of the set it feels like a plea with what their wielding to allow this moment infinity and I too found myself arms akimbo, confronting entropy with anger as it dismissed my request and allowed the passing of time to remain. Preceding the performance’s finishing, a group of girls happily congregated in front of the stage in what can only be described as a huddle-cum-dance aimed at and caused by what they were hearing: a suitable and warming way to end a most impressive show. The band then gave their thanks, said their goodbyes and crossed the room to flog t-shirts and CDs in an act ill-befitting their potential.

In conclusion I shan’t go over previously made points like in a badly-written essay, but I shall make a concession. Having seen my two picks for 2012 (The Staves and Ren Harvieu) being regurgitated by broadsheet newspapers in the twilight days of last year, I’m rather eager to supersede them. While Deaf Club have a double A-side coming out in February, they’re still, I feel, not quite ready for the success that deserves them. They’re not quite inchoate, not quite fully-formed but somewhere in between and so I hereby declare them my pick (record release permitting) not of 2012, but 2013.

Record Label: City Slang

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When one sits down to listen to an artist like Laura Gibson, they tend to need prompt dissuasion from their unfounded belief that she’ll be yet another fey, Marling impersonator. With Gibson having been around a while now and not being an ersatz Marling (like many are) it’s a relief ‘La Grande’ offers this dissuasion with force: the title-track and opener is little short of exceptional. The rolling waves of determined drums and perfectly-pitched vocals gives us immediate belief in the album and sets up the more pensive, introspective ‘Milk-Heavy, Pollen Eyed’, a track as enjoyable as it is despairing. With momentum and pathos on her side, Gibson really – to use an idiom carelessly misappropriated by sports pundits – goes for the jugular with the gorgeous ‘Lion Lamb’ and its folkier, maracas-laden successor. ‘The Rushing Dark’ sees a black mark next to it for its (understandable) self-indulgence. From here, Gibson invites us to stroll round her mind’s innermost emotional dilemmas, an invitation we should all be too happy to accept – for it’s a golden thing. ‘La Grande’ as an album should not be underestimated for it’s viciously touching, urgent, impassioned, ramose and above all – it’ll stay with you for a very long time.

Record Label: Dirty Hit

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Despite adopting a band name that makes them sound like a close relation to several talent show also-rans, Little Comets are, in fact, a highly celebrated indie three-piece from the North East. Highly literate and unpretentious, their songs are often expertly crafted and held up lofty by the loving might of Robert Coles’s immaculate vocals. It’s fair then to approach their latest single ‘His Thunder’ – from their ‘Worry’ EP – with some anticipation, although wary that they might never again reach  the soaring heights of ‘Joanna’. As it turns out, this latest offering comfortably manages to draw parallel with ‘Joanna’, even if it never manages to pull away from it. The triumphant, yet ultimately doleful chorus is enough to raise goose bumps to a flesh wound and really acts as a sort of showcase for the vocal talents and lyrical dexterity of their frontman. The remainder of the band, of course, play their part too – in particular, the deft riffs of Michael Coles keep the song ticking over beautifully. And so right at the tail end of the year, here we find ourselves with one of the best songs of it.

Record Label: Bella Union

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A few months back my weekly shop was halted abruptly as I tried desperately to make sense of what I’d just heard: a six-year-old singing Rihanna’s S&M song. With ‘Tumble Bee’, one suspects Laura Veirs witnessed the very same incident and shared my distress; more likely though, the birth of her son inspired this album of folk songs aimed at children. It is, nonetheless, refreshing to see an artist  try to get children to shy away from the likes of prurience and the Golden Arches of cruelty and cholesterol that have infiltrated their innocent, now-soiled minds and instead, return to the beauty of ditties concerned with anthropomorphised farm animals. ‘Tumble Bee’ oozes charm and Veirs’s voice is vintagely her own, allowed to breathe and be on its own with the instrumentation providing only a canvas upon which her voice can paint these wondrous scenes to captivate her young audience. What’s most impressive is that it, at no point, patronises the listener; it’s undoubtedly aimed primarily at children but has a real sophistication about it. With vocal contributions from Colin Meloy and Jim James, there’s as much here for the post-pubescent as there is for the children; beautiful record.

Being too vain to arrive unfashionably early and too eager not to miss anything to arrive fashionably late, I managed to wedge myself inside seconds before Jim James and his Kentucky  troupe found themselves upon the stage. A fairly small, intimate and cosy room for an O2 Academy, the Leeds venue is saluted with a brief hello, a preparatory pace or two and off they went, the frontman’s faux-falsetto leading into ‘Victory Dance’, one of the many songs on their latest album, Circuital, that deserves all our undivided attention. Those familiar with the song will be all too aware of, not only the euphoria contained in and served out by James’s introductory noises, but  also the difficulties a reviewer might have in transcribing them. ‘Victory Dance’ leaks immediately into the title-track and it’s here we are all treated to – for the first time – the band en masse swaying their remarkable manes  - and it is surprisingly all rather un-gratuitous.

Considering 2005’s ‘Z’ is My Morning Jacket’s most impressive piece of work thus far -arguably, their seminal album – it’s perhaps not surprising that they perform from it as frequently as they do effectively. Although that opus’ stand-out track, ‘Into The Woods’ is noticeable by its absence among its peers tonight, the 4 other songs performed from Z are all greeted with rapturous approval – despite the arena, perplexingly, not being sold out. ‘Off The Record’ is aired early on and is followed successively and successfully by the sanguine sound of ‘It Beats 4 U’ and its Arab Strap percussion.

Circuital’s strength as an album isn’t only based on MMJ’s progression since Evil Urges – an evolution that’s seemed to make the band’s excessive tinkering and experimentation positively vestigial – but its variation. The range of different sounds found on Circuital is almost enough to make Jim James’s breath-taking vocal versatility sound rather ordinary. Said variation was demonstrable on the night; ‘Wonderful (The Way I Feel)’ was the first of three consecutive songs from the album at the mid-way point, with its aching desperation for a certain utopia where ‘there ain’t no police’ and ‘where there ain’t no disease’. ‘Outta My System’ then brushed away the beautiful sentimentality of the previous song in favour of a more light-hearted approach with the perfectly-judged opening line: ‘They told me not to smoke drugs, but I wouldn’t listen’ inevitably leading us to the chorus where the song’s title is offered up as an excuse for such transgressions.  ‘First Light’ then strums its way to the forefront with a guitar-riff suspiciously similar to Iggy’s ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’, while the drummer manages to steal some of the audience’s attention from James with a stirring spectacle of showmanship.

The band really aren’t afraid to dip into their back-catalogue, whether it be deeply with ‘At Dawn’ or shallowly with the only mildly enjoyable ‘Smokin From Shootin’, informing us that they’re more than comfortable with their earlier efforts. ‘Mahgeetah’ – one of those relatively early songs – not only leads us toe-tappingly to the interval  but also to the conclusion that James’s voice is – as suspected – one of the very few that sounds superior live to its recorded rendering. This, doubtless, not harmed in any way by his incomparable enthusiasm, seemingly seeping out like sweat.

Having heard shortly after the gig that MMJ were, in fact known to play encores many times longer than tonight – despite having initially been impressed by the 5 songs comprising tonight’s – I came away feeling that I should have felt unfortunate or cheated. The fact that I did not feel this way is testament to just how passionately performed these 5 songs were. ‘Movin’ Away’ started things off with serenity before ‘Wordless Chorus’ permitted Jim James to dust down his best Pink Floyd wails and again, falsetto – this time not so faux.

One minor disappointment arose on the penultimate song – the absurdist comedy, ‘Holdin’ Onto Black Metal’ – when it became abundantly clear that the backing vocalists had been left locked in the tour bus. Those who witnessed the band’s performing of the song only a couple of nights prior on Jools Holland will appreciate just how much they contributed to one of Circuital’s weakest tracks. Any feelings of disenchantment didn’t last beyond the disclosure from the guitar that the final song was to be the band’s epic ‘One Big Holiday’. Duelling guitars, a manic drummer and the most animated bass playing one’s ever witnessed all adding to the inbuilt, organic exultations within the song. Exactly two hours after their arrival on stage, My Morning Jacket were saluting their fans – of which I was now one –  and I spilled out into the Leeds night having witnessed one of the most special live bands of our time in memorable form

Record Label: Tummy Touch

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Allow me to come clean: I’m a miserable, ‘bah’ uttering curmudgeon who’s very much stuck in his ways – sadly, this tends to limit what one can do on a Saturday night. When I do – on occasions – venture out to nightclubs though, I often sit in the corner lamenting the monosyllabic tripe spilling out of the speakers and insist on braving the skinny jeans and going to an indie club. Upon arrival at said places I find myself no better catered for, as for every Bowie or Morrissey song there are fifty synthy-songs I’ve never heard before – my fault, not theirs I hasten to add – and so I’m ostensibly ostracised. ‘Neutron Wireless Crystal’ by Nottingham-based Swimming is very much one of those ‘synthy-songs’ I refer to. Now, I’m hardly au fait with this genre so I’m going to use some fairly plain, unsophisticated words to describe the song: you’ve been warned. Joyous. Euphoric. Delightful.  Exhilarating. See those words – it’s all of them and a bit more. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m off to listen to Swimming’s back-catalogue as well as anyone I suspect of being cut from the same cloth.

Record Label: PuMp

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After releasing ‘Vomit’ as a free download, Christopher Owens – Girls’ gaunt frontman- has clearly, with ‘Honey Bunny’, doffed his hat to himself (what’s new) before upturning it for us to throw our money into like a common busker – asking us, the iPod generation to pay actual, real-life money for music? Audacious swine! My role is to inform you as to whether your money will be spent on a worthwhile bit of art or yet another sterile indie excretion. Largely, this new single falls into the former category, for among the din of fretboard slides, rolling drums, weak vocals and oedipal pining, we actually find ourselves with a fairly enjoyable little jingle here. There’s little original to celebrate though, the main body of the song, quite predictably, comprises Beach Boy riffs and a Castello-like delivery, something they’ve done ad nauseum. Meanwhile, the bridge makes Freud look like a matricidal maniac (as opposed to merely a maniacal mummy’s boy) and has more than a touch of John Lennon’s ‘Mother’ about it. All in all though, it’s a very credible effort for a band that have the ominous, onerous honour of being the tastemaker’s concubine.

Record Label: Damaged Goods

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Butcher Boy are a band who are always going to be compared to Belle & Sebastian in the opening lines of their records’ reviews – and who am I to go against the grain? Of course they’re not as well known as their fellow Glaswegian indie giants – this may encourage the listener to think they’re the more esoteric of the two and thus - as is often the case - have a more pertinent story to press into our eardrums. It turns out that on Helping Hands this is not quite the case. The seven-piece’s 3rd offering only really starts at the 2nd song ‘The Day Our Voices Broke’ – a beautiful example of what the band are capable of. The problem is that, beyond this song, there’s a real lack of distinction and so it coaxes the listener into the most deplorable of acts – passive listening. Of course, there are flashes of lyrical quality and musical dexterity that pulls us back into consciousness (specifically ‘Imperial’ and ‘Parliament Hill’) but they’re all too fleeting. Escaping B&S’s shadow’s going to be a stern challenge for Butcher Boy but there are certainly glimpses within ‘Helping Hands’ of an ability to do so – should they want to.

Record Label: Decca

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A debut is the only point at which no demographic can completely dismiss you as they’ve yet to hastily form an opinion of you. This, effectively, means you’re playing to the whole of the music industry: naked, nervous and mostly – callow. Therefore, it’s important to get your tactics right: leave them panting with your profundity, machete them with melodicism, or deafen them with arhythmical drum and bass. Dixon has opted to go for ebullient tinkling of ivories; this’ll certainly be enough for some to take him to their heart. Indeed, you’ll often find your irises, bronchi and toes dancing manically without your permission as some of the piano hooks do just that – hook (‘My Favourite’ and ‘On A Day Just Like Today’, in particular). At other times though, his lyrics can irk and vex in their very blandness, being coherent but little else beyond that. Dixon’s voice is also very much an acquired taste; it can seem indistinguishable from countless others doing the same thing. Of course, there’s little Gabe can do about this, but it does vitiate and detract from his evident astuteness as a pop-composer. Such comments don’t serve to denigrate Dixon, but to forewarn you, the reader and listener: it may leave you bruising your bare toes on inanimate objects in frustration.