Friday 19 July

Josh Ritter is in his early forties. He has a two-decade career with 10 studio albums (and, incidentally, a First World War novel) to his name. He has come a long way from trying out open mic nights in Providence, Rhode Island. His albums now regularly make it into the upper reaches of the US folk charts. But he still exudes a boyish charm, a winning and willing smile and obvious enthusiasm for live performing.

“As much as I love New York City, it’s all too obvious that Cleveland is about to become the musical focal point that the Big Apple has been on and off since the beginning of the century,” wrote Peter Laughner in October 1974. “I want to do what Brian Wilson did for California and Lou Reed did for New York.” To a degree, the new five-album/five-CD set Peter Laughner achieves this, albeit 42 years after his death.

If there was a downer during the giddy, gleeful Glasgow stop of Gossip’s recent run of shows, it was only when front woman Beth Ditto introduced the band as being “not really together but we’re here”. The dance-punk trio - joined, for this short run of reunion shows, by pre-split touring members Chris Sutton on bass and Gregg Foreman on keyboards - were made to front sweaty rooms, with Ditto in particular a gleaming vision in a sleek black wig and metallic pink dress.

I never quite know where I stand with with jazz. The endless, drifting circular loops of sound, subversive grooves and syncopated rhythms are like having the same conversation over and over, with slightly different turns of phrase and emphasis on different points.

It’s hard to convey in an age of equal marriage and gender fluidity the impact that k.d. lang’s Ingénue had when it was released in 1992. The album, 10 tracks that tell of the pain and pleasure of love and longing, was a huge hit with a generation of gay men and women, closeted or out, who felt it spoke directly to them. Straight people were welcome to the party too, of course; broken hearts don't discriminate.

Oh to be inside the head of Wayne Coyne. The frazzle-haired frontman has always been an enigma, persistently quirky, morally dubious, and undeniably fascinating. Perhaps King’s Mouth offers our best chance yet to get in there – the album is an accompaniment to his art installation in which visitors enter a giant metallic head. Rather on the nose for a metaphor, but still a hell of an invitation.

Thirty-three years ago, at Manchester's Festival of the Tenth Summer, I fumed that New Order had been given top billing over The Smiths, much to the mirth of a couple of reviewers of this very parish. History has proved me wrong, obviously. So, to Italy, and a modest-sized and relatively modern piazza (Napoleonic) in beguiling, ancient Lucca. To see two of Manchester’s most revered bands.

"Genius" is a word to be used sparingly, but Django Bates surely is one. “A musical polymath and prodigiously gifted composer” went the citation for his Ivor Award a few weeks ago. “Joyful, insouciant and insanely clever,” wrote Evan Parker in a sleeve-note describing his re-workings of Charlie Parker in Confirmation (2011), the second album with his Belovèd Trio.

It was billed as a moment of musical history: two of the great icons of rock'n'roll sharing a double-headline. A dream ticket. Except, of course, everyone knows that only one of the two acts is still a conventional performer. And it's not Bob Dylan.

Throughout the afternoon men in old tour t-shirts discussed concerts they'd seen and wondered what might be in store today. The sun was shining and a cool breeze blowing. If there was one thing everyone could agree on it was that Young was going to be ace.

He arrived on stage a little after 6 (there were bands playing all afternoon) wearing his trademark check shirt, hat and shades and looking nothing like his 73 years. Without any preamble, the band launched into a high-octane rendition of "Mansion on the Hill". Attacking his Gibson with furious abandon Young seemed every inch the Godfather of Grunge.

Over the next 17 songs, we saw examples of all his other musical personas. There was the Canyon hippie ("Heart of Gold" "Old Man") the guitar hero ("Words") and the country rocker ("Walk On" and "Like a Hurricane"). Throughout, Young shuffled, grimaced and threw poses. The simple stage featured his trademark totem pole and a large swinging eagle.

The band rarely took their feet off the gas. On "Rocking in the Free World" they pushed the sound system right to its limit. The bandleader Lukas Nelson, looking remarkably like his dad Willie Nelson, traded licks with Young and the wild-eyed drummer Anthony LoGerfo was clearly having the time of his life

The crowd were too. For two hours aging rockers punched the air, and couples swayed. It was hard to see what Dylan (78) could possibly do to follow that.

For a moment, though, it looked like he might pull off something extraordinary. Bob hit the stage at a quarter to nine, dressed in a silver jacket and cowboy boots. He smiled, leant over a grand piano and started on an otherworldly reading of "Ballad of a Thin Man". His backing band played with brooding precision. The vocals were half-spoken and faintly apocalyptic. It was brilliant. It was also probably the best thing he did all night.

For most of the set Dylan just sat behind his piano, grinning and sounding like a lounge singer with a throat infection. Sometimes it was charming. "When I Paint My Masterpiece" had a pastoral feel and "Highway 61 Revisited" was full of energy. But songs such as "Simple Twist of Fate" which rely on melody made little sense.

The crowd started to split into factions. Diehard Dylanologists were determined to see creative genius in every unrecognisable song. Others were simply bemused. When Bob butchered "Like a Rolling Stone" the man beside me said he felt like going home. And yet, every time things felt like they were bottoming out, a twinkle would appear in Bob's eye and flashes of brilliance would shine through. Like the funky "Can't Wait" or the thumping "Thunder on the Mountain".

It was virtually impossible to make sense of it all. Still, isn't that the point of Dylan concerts these days? Everyone knows the music is going to be challenging. The fun is in the unpredictability. As the evening ended and 65,000 people filed out, a consensus seemed to have finally been reached: Neil Young had been flat-out brilliant and Dylan, strangely compelling.

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Overleaf: the full setlist