Wolf Alice, Albert Hall Manchester, 25th September 2015, 8/10

This audience in Manchester was overwhelmingly youthful, and some critics have argued Wolf Alice has limited appeal beyond their own cohort. Cynics argue they're derivative, and that they've heard it all before; of course ironically in itself this argument is far from original, having been deployed against each successive generation's art. In assimilating 90's shoegaze and grunge influences, they've created an eclectic new sound. Far from lacking coherence, this gives contrast: the very focus that support act Drenge brought to the stage failed to move or interest me. The Derbyshire brothers (expanded for touring) had Wolf Alice's visceral energy, but little of their subtlety, nuance, or gift for melody, instead focussing on rhythm. It has to be said though the audience didn't appear to share my reservations about this act.

Ellie Rowsell's ethereal vocals are an inspired juxtaposition with Wolf Alice's harder instrumental sounds. She could easily have continued with the folk leanings of the band's early days; indeed I hope she may return to her roots in a future side project. Yet now, she's able to command vast festival crowds, and even if the historic Albert Hall didn't quite match Latitude's tent in June for exuberance, there was no shortage of moshing and crowd surfing in Manchester. After all, in Freazy, Ellie exclaims: 'You can join us if you think you're wild'. Thankfully, her voice was at the front of the mix, and her technical team appear to have learnt from the balance problems which ruined their previous show in Manchester for me; and also added a backing vocalist for consistency on this tour.

This is especially fortunate since I appreciate the vulnerability and introspection in Ellie's lyrics: she sings of depression in Silk and anxiety in Soapy Water. Indeed when reviewing My Love Is Cool, Pitchfork commented: 'It's crushing but strangely comforting, like repeated viewings of The Virgin Suicides.' Yet, live, the experience is wholly uplifting, a shared expression of joy and excitement. The dramatic tension is increased by the contrasts in mood, between and within songs. Swallowtail starts as a civilised ballad before exploding into an aural assault, and the final encore Giant Peach becomes thunderous after a soft start. Despite playing 17 songs, including the entire album, the end of the set arrived all too quickly: there's no danger of tedium during this act. Moaning Lisa Smile was perhaps my highlight.

Dating back to 2010, Wolf Alice is far from inexperienced and they astutely toured for three years before finally releasing My Love Is Cool. Yet, it's inspiring to have witnessed their rapid progression during the course of this year, as their confidence and stagecraft has developed through playing larger venues. Ellie has moved on from a bookish aloofness to ably inhabiting more extrovert characters. It's tempting to focus on the lead, with her strong, pure voice and charisma, but I was stood in front of the other founding member, guitarist Joff Oddie, who was utterly committed and displayed an almost manic energy on stage. It's clear that this band means a huge amount to their generation Y audience. I share their excitement, as I also didn't experience indie rock in the early 90's. Yet, even to those who've heard it before, Wolf Alice's talent in songwriting and live performance gives an appeal which transcends age, and an overwhelming sense of hope for the future.

Set List

• My Love Is Cool 
• Your Love's Whore 
• Freazy 
• Bros 
• Soapy Water 
• Lisbon 
• Silk 
• The Wonderwhy 
• Storms 
• Swallowtail 
• Fluffy 
• She 
• Moaning Lisa Smile 
• You're a Germ 

Encore

• Turn to Dust 
• Blush 
• Giant Peach 

TORRES, Deaf Institute Manchester, 22nd September 2015 9/10

I regard Sprinter as one of the strongest albums of 2015, and Torres' performance was the highlight of my first Primavera Festival in Barcelona in June. Performed solo at the end of three days of immersion in music, its poignancy stirred up deep emotions and actually reduced me to tears. Last night in Manchester was to prove different, not least because she brought three fellow musicians. Whereas the support act, Katie Harkin, seemed to be diminished by the absence of her band Sky Larkin, Mackenzie Scott is a powerful communicator in her own right. Sprinter was recorded in Dorset with input from English PJ Harvey collaborator Rob Ellis and Adrian Utley of Portishead. Understandably, the touring band uses different personnel, and I felt drummer Dominic Cipolla  could at times have been more sensitive in accompanying the vocals, though the balance improved after the first few songs.The guitar player Cameron Kapoor stayed in the background, however, and Erin Manning's backing vocals subtly filled out the harmonies.

The tone was serious: in the only intervention from a hushed audience after a song was aborted to retune her guitar, someone suggested she might tell a joke . Mackenzie replied quietly: 'I don't do jokes', and even the lighting was subdued. Talk was limited to the essentials: thanking the audience for coming, introducing the band, and noting she'd performed in Manchester once before. Yet, this reticence was far from incongruous: humour would have shattered the atmosphere. There may be awkward silences on stage, but Torres opens up through deep, nuanced lyrics, singing poignantly of pain, love and religion. In Harshest Light, the culmination of the hour long main set, she refers to The Old Testament name for God, Yahweh; whilst in the title track, my other highlight, she tells of a pastor sent down for pornography. The Exchange was one of two songs from the new album omitted last night: telling of the loss of an adopted child, it's perhaps too harrowing to perform regularly, as a powerful portrayal of loneliness and isolation. It was a pity too that Ferris Wheel, about an reciprocated crush was skipped, though Pitchfork unjustifiably considers it to be long-winded.

The pacing was masterly: Torres gave them room to breathe, taking risks to accommodate her expression. Whereas the Primavera solo set was a concentrated, spontaneous outpouring of emotion, this could feel like more calculated, conscious art: I was even occasionally reminded of St Vincent's sheer theatrical intensity. Consequence of Sound talks of 'the fire she breathes when she sings'. Time in church choirs as a child must have aided the development of a powerful, sonorous voice. Torres sounds as comfortable with the grungy, angry rock of Strange Hellos as on the more languid opener Mother Earth, Father God from her self titled début. This was written in 2012 whilst she was still a student at a Christian university in Nashville. Whilst well received, it has taken a second strong release for this artist to gain the wider attention she warrants.

Torres shows her independent spirit in opening and closing with songs from her lesser known album, boldly concluding with the minimal, introverted November Baby. As a performer, she's the antithesis of bland or routine, though there's a sense of work in progress, giving rise to excitement about her potential. Like fellow Brooklyn singer Sharon Van Etten, she's one of the most emotionally draining acts I've experienced. The deep rooted sadness, insecurity, and vulnerability makes for a transformational work of art. At times, unrestrained fury spills over, but her brief smiles to the audience give hope that expressing suffering is proving cathartic. At heart, Torres is a dichotomy between sadness and anger, and as introversion gives way to outward expression, I'm fascinated to see which direction this amazingly gifted singer takes in future.

Set List

• Mother Earth, Father God
• New Skin
• Cowboy Guilt
• Sprinter
• Proper Polish Welcome
• Son, You Are No Island
• Strange Hellos
• Honey
• The Harshest Light
• November Baby (encore)

Florence + Machine, Manchester Arena September 18th 2015 9/10

I'm not usually drawn to arena shows, craving intimacy, and the evening started problematically. A bizarre problem with the venue's new seating meant that I missed most of The Staves' set, despite arriving 45 minutes before their stage time. The Watford sisters' star is in the ascendency, progressing from playing The Deaf Institute last autumn to Manchester's much larger Albert Hall next month. Yet, support slots in larger venues are often disheartening experiences: I remember that scant attention was paid to Haim when they supported Florence on her Ceremonials tour in December 2012 in Liverpool. Alas, chatter overwhelmed The Staves' gorgeous vocal harmonies, as a portion of the audience apparently decided that they were more interested in talking to their neighbours than experiencing new music. I arrived in my new seat just before the start of Florence's set, irritated I'd had to get involved in a protracted complaint with Manchester Arena, and annoyed I'd forgotten my camera (hence for the first time here posting photographs taken on a smart phone). Fortunately, live music once again proved  transformational.

The set opened in spirited fashion with What The Water Gave Me, followed by Ship To Wreck, but it took Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up) from her first album to transport me. Florence urged the audience to 'get as high as you can!' delighting us by running around the edge of the arena; suddenly the size of the venue telescoped. It's fascinating that Florence Welch is such a adept communicator on stage: she sounds almost reserved between songs, being the middle class daughter of a Harvard educated professor of Renaissance Studies (thus explaining her moniker). Yet, she's able to channel art for mass appeal, engaging an audience of non-specialists by dancing barefoot with almost demonic energy. This movement reached its pinnacle in the close of How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful. Such is her enthusiasm that she broke her foot leaping off the stage at Coachella in April, though fortuitously recovered in time to stand in for Dave Grohl as a widely acclaimed Glastonbury head liner.

Despite this, The Guardian said of that festival: her "behaviour.. wobbles perilously along the line that separates the grandiose gesture from ridiculousness." Excess can surely be excused when the indifference towards the support act here demonstrates the challenge of engaging 21,000 people in various stages of inebriation and interest in music. So, in the joyous Dog Days Are Over, Florence asked the audience to participate by each removing an item of clothing. In addition to totally committed stagecraft, the past two albums were conceived orchestrally with grandiose spaces in mind. Indeed, The Machine justified their title with tight, totally committed accompaniment, the six backing musicians deploying harp, organ, brass, guitar and drums. Ignoring the five backing singers, she cited the lack of choir as an excuse to once again involve us in joining the singing of Shake It Off.

Florence has personal significance in being only the second popular musician I came to appreciate in 2010, when a chance meeting on a train to the Arctic allowed my musical horizons to expand exponentially. Back then, my classical sensibilities led to concerns about her security of pitch: as it happens her vocals now sound faultless. Key to her appeal, though, is that the theatrical flair of her performance channels authentic, personal emotions. She sings of dark subjects, such as relationship breakdown, and has dealt with depression. Florence therefore has a deep understanding of the importance of art as both an escape, and a means of coming to terms with a difficult world. As the 90 minute set all too quickly drew to a close with the encores What Kind of Man and Drumming Song, there was a sense of release of negative feelings, and an almost religious shared experience of altered reality: it's no coincidence the last album was named Ceremonials.