Sixty-eight tracks into the intriguing Action Time Vision, orthodoxy suddenly gives way to individualism. The two-and-bit discs so far have mostly showcased what passes for notions of punk rock: block-chord guitars, guttersnipe vocals, Ramones-speed rhythms and Clash-style terrace-chant choruses. Suddenly, The Fall’s lurching “Psycho Mafia” suggests the early punk era was not about trying to be same as every other band. Individualism was possible.

New Year’s Eve has its rituals and, in the Russian-speaking world, watching the 1976 film The Irony of Fate is core to ringing out the old and ringing in the new. A television staple, it has the seasonal status of It’s a Wonderful Life, The Little Shop on the Corner and White Christmas. First seen in Russian homes as a three-hour, two-part small-screen production on the first day of 1976, it was subsequently edited and shown in cinemas.

French Pictures in London was a bolt from the blue. Issued in June, four decades after being recorded, it was a previously unknown, unreleased album better than most mid-Seventies rock offerings. It was also better than about 99 percent of albums retrospectively hailed as classics. However, it had escaped attention and its maker was barely heard of.

Attempts to steer a straightforward path through the music of Sun Ra have always been hampered by the volume of records issued, their limited availability and trying to work out whether they represent something he had a hand in releasing. Just because an album is in the shops does not necessarily mean it was part of the artist’s own vision of who they are or were.

Like the sex life of a long-married couple, it’s not every night that a band who’ve been around for over three decades will catch the unfettered frisson of their wildest moments. For the first half of their set, despite frontman Bobby Gillespie assuring us the just-rendered version of recent single “100% Or Nothing” was “maybe the best ever”, the gig didn’t take off. It was another decent roll in the sack, a band on tour searching for the sweet spot, another rock’n’roll night.

The big news as this year closes is that vinyl sales have brought more money in than downloads. They made £2.4 million compared to the £2.1 million from digital, the eighth consecutive year of growth in vinyl sales. Of course, to a large degree, this is because the youth market very suddenly transferred their affections from downloads to streaming. Which doesn’t make sense to me. If you can’t get a decent connection, you don’t have music. And that’s not even starting in on quality issues.

Anthologie 1953–2002 is a monster. A 20-disc set spanning almost 50 years, it tracks one of France’s most beloved singers and songwriters. Gilbert Bécaud died in December 2001, but songs from his posthumously released Je Partirai album are included. Fitting, as his music lives on and the release of this box set marks the 15th anniversary of his death.

Now the celebrity-drug-addict phase of Pete Doherty's career seems to be over the question remains as to what sort of artist he really is. After all, Doherty's best material always appeared to be inextricably woven into his chaotic lifestyle. The new album, Hamburg Demonstrations, on the other hand, was apparently recorded entirely drug-free. It's given fans pause for thought about where Doherty-the-phenomenon ends and Doherty-the-talent begins. 

Before Tuesday's show one punter gave me his opinion. "The drugs were really an irrelevance," he told me, "What matters is that Pete lives in a world of his own and his gigs give us the opportunity to join him." If this was the same world that Pete's guitarist Jack Jones also inhabited it sounded Bohemian, indeed: Jones warmed up proceedings with a quarter hour of performance poetry that sounded like John Cooper Clarke with a Welsh accent.

A figure emerged from stage-right dressed in black leather and wearing a hat. It was Carl BaratDoherty arrived, a little late, wearing a slightly-too-tight Blues Brothers-style suit. In tow were his backing band, the Puta Madres, who would go on to help create a loose Rive Gauche atmosphere whilst maintaining admirable musical discipline. Particularly notable, again, was guitarist Jones: now bare-chested and with a Welsh flag wrapped around his head, he looked more like the Doherty of old than Doherty himself did.

Through "I Don't Love Anyone (But You're Not Just Anyone)", "Last of the English Roses" and "Kolly Kibber" – three rather melodic solo songs – the main man meandered around the stage picking out notes with the air of a tuneful drunk: a woozy air which may have been partly put-on but, then again, possibly not. Then, halfway through track four, "You're My Waterloo", something happened to inject a hundred volts straight into the moshpit. A figure emerged from stage-right dressed in black leather and wearing a hat. It was Carl Barât, Doherty's sparring partner from the Libertines, and he was on fine guitar-playing form. But although Barât would return throughout the night – most notably for a barnstorming reading of "Gunga Din" – his presence was only incidental to the success of the evening. 

More pertinent was the warmth that came from the audience sharing the singer's alternative reality. As Doherty progressed from wearing a full three-piece suit to just a T-shirt, guest players came and went and speakers were knocked over. At one point Doherty even managed to trip up Jones, who finished the song flat on his back. Yet for those who bought in – apparently everyone here – these ragged moments felt less like unfettered chaos than a letting-go.

Maybe, at some level, Doherty was telling us to stop sweating the unimportant stuff and to connect with something higher? Or maybe everyone was just having a great time. What was undeniable though was the wave of euphoria that hit the room during two very spirited versions of "Killamangiro" and "Fuck Forever" from the Babyshambles era.

The most rock'n'roll moment, however, came at the end. As "Up the Bracket" wound down, Doherty launched into an improvised rendition of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". Barât joined him, sometimes in harmony, occasionally in different keys. Miki Beavis waded in with her violin but Katia de Vidas's keyboard had already been knocked over. By the end Barât was tearing away at the drum kit. The song finished and Doherty threw his Fender Stratocaster into the crowd. The crowd erupted – they knew their hero hadn't really changed a bit.

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@russcoffey

Overleaf: watch Peter Doherty's video for "I Don't Love Anyone (But You're Not Just Anyone)"

Pictured above is Sweden’s Ralph Lundsten. He might look like a guru or mystic but is actually a multi-disciplinary artist most well-known on his home turf for his pioneering electronic music. His first album, 1966’s Elektronmusikstudion Dokumentation 1 (made with Leo Nilson), was issued by national Swedish radio’s own label and recorded at the station’s electronic music studio. Lundsten (born 1936) began making music for soundtracks in the 1950s and has issued at least 38 albums.

In 1970, The Who opened their Live at Leeds album with “Young Man Blues”, a hefty version of a song its composer Mose Allison recorded as “Blues” in 1957. Back then, it was the only vocal track on Back Country Suite, an otherwise instrumental blues-jazz album, the Mississippi-born pianist's debut long player. Allison had moved to New York in 1956 and a string of releases followed. The Who weren’t the only British band cocking an ear: in March 1965 The Yardbirds first recorded Allison's “I’m Not Talking”, plucked by them from 1964’s The Word From Mose.