Earlier this year, the Peter Laughner box set was more than an archive release. Its diligence and scale forced a wholesale reinterpretation of the evolution of America’s punk-era underground scene. What it collected – aurally and in its book – demonstrated Laughner was more of a pivotal figure than he had so far seemed, and that his actions and vision resonate more than four decades on from his death.

Once upon a time – before the nation’s schism – an indie band with dubious reputation espoused the virtues of Albion and invited us on the good ship Arcadia to travel to this Utopia. Things are a bit different now.

In June 1978, the still-extant independent label Cherry Red issued its first record. The seven-inch featured three slices of terse, Buzzcocks-ish art-punk by The Tights. The band were from Great Malvern, Worcestershire – as was the label. They only made one more 45 but Cherry Red – named after a Groundhogs song; the label was founded by local concert promoters – was built to last. Later, Great Malvern spawned Stephen Duffy’s Lilac Time and Blessed Ethel. Jenny Lind and Edward Elgar were local, but this seemed to be it as far as it went for entries on the rock ’n’ roll map.

I can’t look at Rod Stewart without thinking of Barbara, one of the naughtier girls in my third-form class at East Barnet Senior High School. She was tiny, and obsessed with him, her hair cut like his. “Maggie May” was number one, playing from tinny trannies in lunchbreak. It was from Every Picture Tells a Story, the album that established Stewart’s solo career. Barbara was in seventh heaven.

The Barbican, a week before Christmas, and it’s British folk-rock legends Steeleye Span’s last gig of the year, a year in which its vigorous seven-strong line-up – featuring a new recruit in the shape of former Bellowheader Benji Kirkpatrick – celebrated a half century of Span by releasing a strong new album in Est’d 69.

"The nice bloke-ness of Robbie shines through all he does,” David Baddiel commented in a tweet thanking the singer for dedicating his Wembley performance of “I Love My Life” to him. There is no denying it. Williams has that side to him which combines mischief, being game-for-anything, and taking on the mission to entertain the audience. It is his strength.

The queues for Sinéad O’Connor’s first London show in four years curled around the outside of the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Inside and throughout her performance, voices in the crowd shouted their love for a singer whose voice is astounding, at a point in her career when her peers’ singing quality begins to betray age. 

Season’s greetings, vinyl junkies. It’s unfortunate things grew so stinky just as we headed towards the one time when Britain downs tools and disappears to the enjoy itself for a week or two. But let’s try for good will towards all. To help along the way, theartsdesk on Vinyl Christmas 2019 Special takes itself not very seriously, and offers up a selection of cheese and biscuits, alongside a jamboree lucky dip…

Not all One Direction solo albums are created equally, and after Liam Payne's public ostracization for LP1, all eyes are on Harry Styles. His self-titled debut earned some baffling comparisons to David Bowie, so what to expect next?

It is a very rare thing, as Darius Brubeck reflected, to “inherit a hit.” This gig by the pianist and his quartet marked the exact day of the 60th anniversary of the launch of Time Out by his father Dave Brubeck. Time Out was the first million-selling album in jazz, reaching No 2 in the US pop charts. “It was the gateway drug into jazz for a whole generation,” he mused.