Son of a preacher man
Raplh Ellison died with his second novel incomplete. But does Juneteenth, the book produced from the 2,000 pages of notes he left behind, measure up to Invisible Man?
Never mind the past
The number of rock drummers who've realised they were destined for headier things at the front of the stage can be counted on two fingers: Phil Collins and Dave Grohl. But while Collins is an international brand in his own right, Grohl's name will forever be appended with the words "formerly of Nirvana". Although he's been singing and playing guitar with the Foo Fighters since 1995 - nearly as long as his time with Nirvana - he's yet to produce that distinctive album that makes you forget his pedigree. Luckily for him, a good third of the people flailing around the moshpit on Thursday were too young to remember his previous incarnation, which may be what he's counting on.
A grand tragedy
Some admirers regard Billy Budd as Britten's greatest opera, the finest fusion of his musical and dramatic crafts. It's certainly the bleakest and least forgiving, and the most powerful exploration of his constant obsession with the corruption, and in this case destruction, of innocence. But whether it's finer than either Peter Grimes or The Turn of the Screw is debatable.
Last writes
Legendary American author Ralph Ellison died leaving 2,000 pages of jumbled up notes for a second novel, but no instructions on how to put it together. A friend decided to finish the job for him. The critics wish he hadn't. Gary Younge on the literary minefield of posthumous publishing
Mourning Glory
The Mission are back; can the goth revival be far behind? The crowd at a packed Astoria had de-mothballed the velveteen-and-bootstraps couture, grafted mournful expressions onto their pallid, painted faces and slipped into shockhead wigs.
Martial art forms
Union Dance Company are a funding body's dream. Not only have they sustained a quiet but committed mixed-race hiring policy for the past 14 years, but they've learned a special astuteness in tapping into the all-elusive, all-desirable youth audience.
Shadow of the master
Edna O'Brien's new play is clearly written under the influence: the influence, that is, of Chekhov, whom she eloquently describes as "the ghost who steals into our consciousness for all time". I wish he'd stolen into her consciousness a little more.
A little bit of everything
It's testimony to the programming of the Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival that it resists the temptation to provide glib answers to questions of music's millennial development. Instead, with debuts by Chinese ensembles alongside premieres from Georges Aperghis and Guo Wenjing, the thread running through the whole programme is an enthusiastic eclecticism.
Playhouse
If you want to see really interesting theatre for children, you should go and see work for the under-fives. No, let me put that another way. If you want to see really interesting theatre for anyone, go and see work for the under-fives.
Sinewy sax postbop
John Coltrane certainly upped the expressive ante for saxophone players, but in doing so he inadvertently encouraged some of them to blather on endlessly. So for sax fans seeking relief from horn-players who harangue them without mercy for hours, Manu Dibango might be the answer.
Preparation for Paris
Next weekend the Cité de la Musique in Paris opens its doors to the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra and its past and present music directors, Simon Rattle and Sakari Oramo.
The taming of a visceral metaphor
Two years ago at the Edinburgh Traverse Mike Cullen's play about memories of child abuse had a raw sledge-hammer power. Totally re-directed and re-cast, with film star Catherine McCormack as the interventionist therapist, it now seems both less intellectually loaded and less emotionally exciting.