As part of the Cultural Olympiad, coinciding with London 2012, Bangor's 9bach and Australia's Black Arm Band have forged a cross cultural collaboration that celebrates the common ground of human experience between two communities as geographically polarised as it's possible to get.

The culmination of this, following 9bach's visit to Australia last year, was the Black Arm Band coming over to the UK to perform with 9bach in London and at Y Galeri in Caernarfon.

The collaboration "explores musical connections and the preservation of language and culture through music and song."

"Since working together we have discovered a massive connection between Welsh and Aboriginal people," they say, "from the love we have for families to the belly laughs and same sense of humour.

"The love for our languages, and the fight to preserve them or even retrieve them. Our cultures are strong and connected in many ways, and who we are, and where our families are from are so important!"

It is my honour - and pleasure - to be able to broadcast half an hour of the concert recorded in Caernarfon as a joint exercise between BBC Radio Wales and C2.

Lisa Gwilym's C2 show will also celebrate the concert this Friday night (3 August) - and will feature an exclusive interview with Lisa Jen from 9bach.

Elsewhere in the show, Alan Holmes reminds us of Krystalnacht. Lara Catrin gets dewy-eyed translating Y Blew and Ben Hayes explores The Liverpool Scene.

I play the best cover version in my memory (Sex Hands' version of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci's Mae Merched Yn Neud Gwallt Eu Gilydd) and there is peerless sonic creativity from a whole host of other Welsh artists.

Please send demos/new releases/gig info etc to themysterytour@gmail.com as a high quality mp3/download link.

F**K BUTTONS - 'Olympians ( High Contrast Remix )'
Bristol / Cardiff

SEX HANDS - 'Merched Yn Neud Gwallt Eu Gilydd'
Dwygfylchi / Llanfairfechan / Conwy

EUROS CHILDS - 'Be Be High'
Pembrokeshire

WILD EYES, THE - 'I Look Good On You'
Wrexham / Liverpool

H. HAWKLINE - 'Black Domino Box'
Cardiff

EXIT INTERNATIONAL - 'Chainsaw Song ( Single Version )'
Cardiff

RALPH RIP SH*T - 'Spanish Ass [ Radio Edit ] Featuring Lemonface'
Cardiff

M C SAIZMUNDO - 'Bara Brith'
Caernarfon / Bangor

F. O. E. - 'Constant Pressure'
Wrexham / Liverpool

ALAN HOLMES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor

KRYSTALNACHT - 'Black Train'
Holyhead

BODHI - 'Emanation'
Cardiff

YOKO TEMPLE - 'I Got Chills'
Cardiff

HELEN LOVE - 'Long Hot Summer Pt. 1'
Swansea

RACE HORSES - 'My Year Abroad'
Aberystwyth

GWENNO - 'Ymbelydredd [ Them & Us Remix ]'
Cardiff

ECTOGRAM - 'April Breaming'
Bangor / Ynys Môn

ANNA ROSE CARTER - 'Memory [ Raithe Reworking ]'
Swansea

CAVES - 'Arrow Hits The Ground'
Swansea

Y BANDANA - 'Heno Yn Yr Anglesey'
Caernarfon

MAMIAITH - 'Big Law ( Live )'
Bangor / Australia

MAMIAITH - 'Plentyn ( Live )'
Bangor / Australia

MAMIAITH - 'Nana's Song ( Live )'
Bangor / Australia

MAMIAITH - 'Gildang ( Live )'
Bangor / Australia

MAMIAITH - 'Cariad Mam ( Live )'
Bangor / Australia

KLAUS KINSKI - 'Riffy'
Llanfairfechan

CIAN CIARAN - 'Till I Die'
Bangor

DAVID NEWINGTON - 'Walking In My Dream'
Cardiff

LARA CATRIN - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor / Cardiff

BLEW, Y - 'Maes B'
?

FUTURE OF THE LEFT -'A Failed Olympic Bid'
Cardiff

WITCHES DRUM, THE - 'Climb Aboard The Bus Of Devotion'
Cardiff / London

CONFORMIST - 'Savages Go Modern!'
Dale / Cardiff

ESOTERRA - 'Undertakers Of The Sky'
Cardiff

CASTOR - 'Sirene'
Prestatyn

KAYLA PAINTER - 'Gaaga'
Newport / Bristol / Southampton

BEN HAYES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Ruthin

LIVERPOOL SCENE, THE - 'Universes'
Liverpool

QUIET MARAUDER - 'Shearer, Predator'
Cardiff

REPEATER 64 - 'Guilty 1000 Crimes'
Bridgend / Sweden

Soft-Hearted Scientists' music has been an enduring source of wonder for my ears over the last eight years. They've eschewed every bandwagon that has passed through town, and - like the finest artists - focused solely on their own vision: songs of innocence in spite of the world raging around them.

This three song session was recorded at home - as many of their greatest songs have been over the years. There are few people who know how to wield a 12 string, a Bontempi rhythm section and the most evocative analogue synth sounds with as much skill as Nathan Scientist. A real treat and sanctuary.

Huw Williams comes in to remind us of Sandy -- any facts / memories or recollections of the band would be gratefully received.

Lara Catrin translates some Ty Gwydyr for us.

Ben 'Soundhog' Hayes mourns the passing of Deep Purple's Jon Lord - rock's undisputed king of the Hammond organ.

And in between all of the talking bits, there is excellent music from all over Wales. We have début plays for: Pulse Atlantica, Fflur Dafydd, The Dukes, The Knox, Jack Barnett, Hannah Amy and Memory Clinic.

Please send demos / new releases / all correspondence to: themysterytour@gmail.com (download link or high quality .mp3 preferred, please), or via the BBC Introducing Uploader.

Retweets of the iPlayer link earn you off chance booze tokens (or dandelion and burdock tokens, if you're underage). These can be redeemed if you see me in your local / convenience store.

Next week, an amazing live set and multicultural collaboration between 9Bach & the Black Arm Band recorded at Y Galeri in Caernarfon last week.

Show stats:

• 867 different songs
• 1113 total
• 539 Artists in 30 shows since 1 January 2012
• Songs per show: 37
• Unique artists per show:18
• Welsh: 95%
• Cymraeg: 10%

Many thanks / diolch o galon, Adam Walton.

HARRY KEYWORTH - 'Above The Head'
Hebron, Pembrokeshire

WE'RE NO HEROES - 'Ghost Coast'
Cardiff

SŵNAMI - 'Eira'
Dolgellau

COLORAMA - 'Delaware'
Benllech

EUROS CHILDS - 'I'm Seeing Her Tonight'
Pembrokeshire

DEAF CLUB - 'Moving Still'
Wrexham

HUW WILLIAMS - 'Spoken Contribution'
Swansea

SANDY - 'Bright Lights'
?

SOFT-HEARTED SCIENTISTS - 'Unholy Ghost'
Cardiff

PULSE ATLANTICA - 'Blows My Mind'
Cardiff

JOE BLOW - 'Iguarna Spitz [ Radio Edit ]'
Barry

HALF AVIAN - 'Future Proof'
Mold

HUW M - 'Dyma Lythyr [ Remics Y Pencadlys ]'
Pontypridd

BOY ROYALS, THE - 'Summer's Playground'
Newport

FAMILY OF THE YEAR - 'Diversity'
Wrexham / L.a.

FFLUR DAFYDD - 'Y Ferch Sy'n Licio'r Gaeaf'
Camaerthen

BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE, THE - 'Hang Up ( Radio Edit )'
Rhyl

FUTURE OF THE LEFT - 'Beneath The Waves An Ocean'
Cardiff

BASTIONS - 'Grief Beggar [ Radio 1 Session Version ]'
Anglesey

SOFT-HEARTED SCIENTISTS - 'We'll Go Walking'
Cardiff

DUKES, THE - 'Shifting Sands'
Caldicot

KNOX, THE - 'In My Head'
Cardiff

JACK BARNETT - 'Counting On You'
Cardiff

HANNAH AMY - 'Deer'
Newport

FATHER PUMPKIN - 'Sounds Like...'
Wales

MALCOLM GALES - '1001001'
Swansea

SKINFLICK - 'Becoming Geology'
Bangor

CIAN CIARAN - 'Martina Franca'
Bangor

SUE DENIM - 'Bicycle'
Bangor

WE ARE ANIMAL - 'Indus Seal'
Bethel / Caernarfon

LARA CATRIN - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor / Cardiff

TY GWYDYR - 'Cariad Yn Cryfhau'
Bangor

DAN AMOR - 'Mehefin'
Penmachno

STAGGA - 'Timewarp'
Cardiff

GOLDEN FABLE - 'Sugarloaf'
Ewloe

FJORDS - 'Shinjuku'
Cardiff

MEMORY CLINIC - 'Why Did She Run Far Away?'
Anglesey

BEDFORD FALLS - 'Prick'
Cardiff

SOFT-HEARTED SCIENTISTS - 'Fly Into The Sun'
Cardiff

BEN HAYES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Ruthin

DEEP PURPLE - 'No One Came'
Hertford

Adam, Matt, Pete 1 and Pete 2 (left to right)

I can't believe how much of little consequence I've already written about my long weekend of music. 'Music' should really have been in inverted commas. I haven't talked much about the bands I've seen, have I? This has mostly been about the lengths certain of us are prepared to go to to enjoy our favourite sounds.

As Future Of The Left's Andrew Falkous says upon arrival, surveying the vistas of mud and the bedraggled clusters of people trying to have fun in it: "I think you're all insane."

I have rarely felt less sane than I did on the Saturday morning at 2000 Trees. I hadn't slept a wink. Pete 2 snores like a freight train with a broken silencer. I suspect we all have soft palates that reverberate with a sonic boom.

God help the Hen Party who were camping next to us. I'm ashamed every time I think of the pigtailed girl, 'L' plate still stuck to her back, standing outside their tent, talking desperately into her mobile phone that morning: "You won't snore like that, will you Snuggle? If you do, it's all over. I'll either divorce you or stab you."

She finishes the call and her panda-eyed friend puts a consoling arm around her: "They don't all snore like that, Sam."

They both cast the filthiest look in our direction.

So far, we haven't mentioned Matt much, to his consternation. Without Matt, this wouldn't have happened. He was instrumental in me getting my pass. He organised the tent. He's responsible for all of this. Which is why we haven't talked about Matt, much. Plus, at the one moment that I did manage to fall asleep last night, round about 2.30am, Matt stumbled through the tent flap, waking us all up, to regale us with stories about the silent disco he'd been to.

Well, I don't know about you, but when I'm on the precipitous edge of much needed sleep, there are entire university libraries filled with unfathomable research papers that I would rather read than hear about the attractions of a silent disco.

"It's a bit weird, really. I like to be able to hear my music," he concludes, then falls asleep. And starts to snore.

Part eight: The Big Match In The 70s

I wake up out of my non-slumber needing a pee. It's broad daylight and I can hear cursing from the Hen Tent. Probably not a good idea for me to stand in the tent entrance and waggle myself about, then. There is a Tommy Walsh Eco Loo (ie a set of hay bales) behind us... but to get there, I'd need to walk past the Hen Tent. Pete 2 is still ripping up Yellow Pages in his vast nasal caverns so I decide to brave the slope to the portaloos instead.

It's on this psychotropic journey that I realise something is awry with my wellies. My feet are wet and squelchy. The mud is deep but it isn't quite deep enough to have breached the lip. It's a passing observation drowned out by the Wagnerian chorus of voices in my head screaming, with brass on full blast: "GO HOME! GO HOME NOW! YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ANYONE. JUST SNEAK OFF! THIS IS HELL. THIS IS HELL. THIS IS HELL!"

I have deliberately avoided war-like imagery thus far, out of respect; but just know that I've considered it strongly.

After a pee, a coffee and a veggie sausage sandwich from the Wide Awakey Bar (something like that... it's playing calypso, reggae and bossa nova and is as brilliantly wide of the mark a soundtrack to the ceaseless pizzle as the BBC choosing Slayer to bed the highlights of Kate and William's wedding) I feel quasi-human.

I slosh through a couple of miles of mud to the car so I can recharge my phone, 'dry off', restock on Minstrels and listen to a bit of Danny Baker on 5 live. I upload a picture of the site to Twitter. The empty car park has 3G, you see, so that all of the cars can Tweet each other plans as to how they're going to enjoy skidding around and getting stuck in the fields come home time. Vindictive fibreglass bastards!

Falco calls me, probably distressed by the picture I've tweeted: "How is it?"

"Hellish."

Then I try a laugh to soften the horror in my voice, but burst into quiet tears I'm hoping he can't hear. He has to drive here to headline the Cave Stage later.

"Not many people are going home, though," I lie.

Part nine: In The Muud [sic]

Welsh bands are playing today. My duty gland kicks in and I drag myself back to the tent. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Ripley felt like this when Newt fell into the ventilation shaft in Aliens.

Andy, Matt, Pete 1 and Pete 2 are busy cooking breakfast. Matt has a chef's hat on. It's what Viv Stanshall would have done. I look around their grimy faces, fighting adversity with supermarket sausages that are going to need to be incinerated to be edible, on account of the malfunctioning cold box, and I love them all. I hope none of them get food poisoning, though. Especially Andy, because my bed is in his path. The streaks of mud on my sheet from last night are incontrovertible evidence of that.

The first band I want to see are Among Brothers. I try a beer beforehand to see if it helps, and it does. Among Brothers play complex math electro folk pop with more stops and starts than an Alfa Romeo bought at a disreputable auction. They look defiantly wrong in these surroundings. Alex has a jumper on that encompasses all that was right/wrong with the 80s in one fell knitting machine pattern swoop. Its sheer implausibility here threatens to split reality into pastel chevrons.

Their music is similarly ambitious, wrong/right and incongruous. I'm an admirer of their recorded work, very much so, but live - here and now - it's all a little too fussy, too city scenester, for it to elevate me out of my muud. That's how we're spelling 'mood' today, kids.

By all accounts they take flight in the last third of their set. I've baled by that stage to see Bastions. Timetabling two Welsh bands to be on at the same time was always going to cause a headache. But only for me. And I've got a headache anyway.

Pete 1 has never seen Bastions. He comes along on my recommendation. I think. There's a good crowd at the Cave Stage for them. I haven't seen them since Focus Wales in March. Their evangelical post, post hardcore (ie I don't know what the heck to call it) is perfect for this particular morning at this particular festival. It's a communion of noise. Singer Jay joins the audience.

"We're in this together... surviving... we couldn't do this without you and we hope we're going someway to making this weekend worth your effort..." is what he's saying with his actions. What he's screaming is altogether more complex and poetic, but the fundamental message is the same.

The new song they play at the end of the set is slow, grinding, immense and a fascinating progression from their debut album Hospital Corners. Bastions aren't selling out, but they will definitely sell out, if you follow me. They ruin the mud and transform my afternoon. Fantastic.

The rest of my day is transformed by fine Gloucestershire ales. Festivals - good festivals - are all about freedom. I wouldn't dream - truly - of having a drink and a dance in the afternoon of a humdrum day. But here, surrounded by the relatively like-minded, regardless of the mud and the failing wellies, equidistant from an excellent bar and even better stages populated by the kind of bands I shell my money out for, I am happy. I refer you to the first entry in this triumvirate of verbosity for evidence of what an achievement that is.

Part 10: The Pit Against Common Sense

Hundred Reasons

I watch a band called Hundred Reasons, who I'm told were a big deal to good people not so many years ago. The sun comes out. There are people dressed as lemmings trying to lift their lemming-y feet in the mud. A man-size cardboard Lego Indiana Jones slowly disintegrates in the ooze. Hundred Reasons sound like they may have invented Lostprophets and their ilk. I like them much more than I expected to.

I haven't seen 24 either. Or had a Nandos. Maybe I was abducted aliens at the start of the millennium. Or maybe I got married and had a child.

Future Of The Left

And so, Future Of The Left are here. I've already seen Jimmy in trainers he'll never run in again. Falco looks amused and aghast in equal measure in a red pac-a-mac that looks to be outperforming my over-priced Aquadry Water Resistant System. Jack camped here last night. Julia arrived by train.

Dan, their unfathomably young sound engineer ("sound foetus" in band parlance), is here feeling nervous about his first festival gig. He refuses a drink to settle his nerves.

There are folk I recognise from Deeside (all hail Falls!) and Birmingham (take a bow Mr Hartin) and Cardiff and Newport. And what they're most excited about seeing is Future Of The Left. I shan't bang on. I was too happy drunk to absorb any details. I bellowed along all the way through. I loved every second of it. They were loud and ace and make every second of rain and mud and sleeplessness worthwhile.

Dan needn't have worried. He does an excellent job, as always.

Jimmy's childhood friend Marc gets up to play extra guitar and 'kills it'.

Polymers Are Forever is monstrous.

Andy surveys the hundreds squashed in the tent, knee deep in goo, with a perplexed look on his face. He says something to the effect of what he said earlier, but with more feeling and expletives.

"Thank you for coming to see us, for standing in the mud. You're all insane..." something like that.

I think we probably are. But some bands are worth it, and Future Of The Left are one of the very few.

We drink and talk the rest of the night to shreds. Andy and Pete 2 manage to crack a picnic table in half. I get drunk enough to sleep. I wake up hungover and sad to be saying good bye to 2000 Trees. We yurt people commemorate our weekend with an impromptu photo outside the tent.

'YMCA'

The words to that song are surprisingly appropriate.

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I hate recording programmes.

Late night music radio is, first and foremost, about the sounds. Second, it's about we sound dweebs having somewhere to hang out where people aren't going to demand we stick Example on, or ask us where 'the tune' is. And we get to talk to each other.

Admittedly, 90% of that dialogue comes from me... but I have the microphone fader and in all honesty, even if we were in a real, physical room together it'd probably pan out similarly.

But I had to record this week's show - and forego the Twitter banter - to camp in a field full of mud in Cheltenham.

Those experiences are detailed - at great length - elsewhere.

So, I thought I'd make this show as special as I could in the restrictive circumstances and I have cobbled together... I mean 'fashioned'... a Best of Welsh Music 2012 SO FAR. A half term report, if you like.

It's entirely my point of view. I haven't tried to be democratic. Sod that for a game of soldiers. These are my favourite sounds of 2012 so far. Feel free to tell me what you would like to have heard.

My major omission - there's always one - is Soundhog's Whole Lotta Helter Skelter bootleg. Just plain forgot it.

You should hear plenty of gems and other stuff that'll annoy the hell out of you.

Yesterday's feelings of dislocation have been supplanted by urgency. I need: a sleeping bag, batteries for my torch, a waterproof coat, beer, tobacco (to trade with the camp guards), a rucksack, cheap wellies (I'll only wear them once, what could possibly go wrong with a welly?)...

Muddy site at 2000 Trees

Here are the things I forget that eventually prove to be necessary: toilet roll, antibacterial gel, portable shower, canoe, waders, camping chair, Prozac, Tazer for fellow campers singing Queen's Don't Stop Me Now at 4:14am, waterproof trousers, waterproof underpants, waterproof world.

I hate camping. I'm not overtly fond of festivals - mostly the people who go to festivals, but don't judge me for being so judgmental. I'm very happy for them to give themselves botulism in a field, in their jolly braids and oxymoronic dreadlocks, juggling falafel and playing obscure drums until the magic mushrooms wear off at 4.57am - just so long as I don't have to join them.

I used to go to a lot of festivals. I was forced to work at them by my first producer. She'd prod me awake at 8am, drag me into the backstage area at Glastonbury and frogmarch the likes of Richard Ashcroft and Thom Yorke up to me for interrogation. It rather put me off the whole affair.

To me, the UK's biggest and most mind-expanding festival sites were nothing more than massive open-plan offices with treacherous portaloos. It's only recently that I realised some people go to festivals to enjoy the experience; not everyone is there to try and corner Public Enemy in the back of a tour bus.

My shopping expedition goes well. I pay particular attention to the waterproof coat.

"It's worth paying a little more for this one," says the very helpful assistant. "It has an Aquadry Water Resistant System."

I've heard it occasionally rains at festivals so - despite the awe-inspiring price - that's the one I go for. I text my mate Andy who is already on site.

"Do I need wellies?"

"Yes, you need wellies."

I wouldn't be seen dead in wellies, and - in general life, mincing about at gigs or tramping pavements to pick my daughter up from school, I don't need wellies. I choose the cheapest ones. Once again, and with more verve, what could possibly go wrong with a pair of wellies?

The school visit goes well. I look serviceably professional.

"And what do you do Mr Walton?"

"I work with young people." Well, it's not exactly a lie, is it?

Part four: Travels With Myself, No Other.

I don't leave my house until 3:30pm. This means I have missed Gallops. I won't even have a chance to offer them a feeble apology because they flew to China hours after their set. There's a story worth pursuing in there somewhere - a better one than this, no doubt.

The last time I went to Cheltenham I was rock climbing a long time ago. I know it's (vaguely) south of where I live so I hit the A49 and trundle through Oswestry and Shrewsbury, getting hypnotised by the backsides of a million Ifor Williams trailers. Bridgnorth seems to be the next logical step followed by the surprisingly picturesque Kidderminster.

I sing along to my Future Of The Left CD (I do a mean Goals In Slow Motion), munch Minstrels, and lose concentration. None too suddenly I'm lost. The signs all point to places that sound like characters from Middlemarch: Chaddesley Corbett, Honeybourne, Lickey End and Hanley Child. I have no idea where I am.

Google Maps is useless because there is no 3G signal. I stop to ask a man dressed as a human cannonball.

"Do you know the way to Cheltenham?"

"No, sorry. Are you lost?"

"Stopping my car to ask a stranger for directions is something of a clue, no?"

It all gets a bit unfinished Kafka. After endless minutes of twisty, turny lanes all the same, I spot a sign for Worcester which in turn begets a sign for Gloucester, and despite another half an hour of being flummoxed by Cheltenham's road 'system' I find myself on a long narrow lane that I think may lead to the festival. There are no signs, though. This is unusual for a festival. Normally there are as many signs as stragglers clogging the lanes in various states of cider-induced disrepair.

P'raps I've come on the wrong weekend. That would explain a lot.

My fears are allayed by a pair of luminous stewards who appear in front of me with welcoming smiles and clear directions to the car park.

"Is it muddy in there?"

"It's not too bad," but the smile cracks for just long enough for me to realise that I'll need my wellies. Oh well, they were only £4.95 - and they'll be as good as any.

Part five: 2000 Trees (It'd Only Take Two Matches... But They'd Have To Be Waterproof Ones).

That joke (the one about the matches) is from Jimmy 'Future of the Left 2nd Guitar' Watkins. Much as I'm tempted to steal credit for it, he can run much faster than me. And you. And most impalas.

2000 Trees is an independent festival that has been running in the beautiful Gloucestershire countryside for the last five summers. It has a strong ethic of supporting the best underground UK bands.

There are no corporate sponsors blighting the landscape or compromising the philosophy. Everything - from the weekend tickets to the very excellent, locally sourced food stalls - is fairly priced. This integrity and commitment to quality is one of the reasons that in a summer of multiple festival cancellations and failures, 2000 Trees has managed to sell out.

The mud starts at the edge of the car park. Initially it's a source of some amusement.

"Well, I'm at a UK festival. Of course there will be some mud. Just enter into the spirit of things Walton. Pretend it's chocolate sauce... at least it's not raining."

At which point, of course, it starts raining.

My friends and I are staying in a bell tent. Most of the people we've told about this have comedically hyphenated a word onto the end of the word 'bell' to describe the kind of people they imagine stay in bell tents at festivals. Oh, ha ha! Still, with the sky condensing all around me I was very glad I didn't have to pitch anything in the unfolding maelstrom.

Friends located - I notice a long-hard-battle-lost look in the red rims of their eyes. Andy - a veteran of 400 festivals last summer alone - laughs at my mud horror. Matt - who has been on wristbands all afternoon - suggests the bar. The two Petes concur. I don't need much in the way of persuasion - and we squelch down a hill that is fast metamorphosing into a sewage rendition of Ski Sunday.

Transpires that my Aquadry Water Resistant System is only resistant to moist breath. I'm soaked through by the time we get to the bar. Still, it's really nice in here. They serve a local cider called Badger's Bottom, and the people are all damn fine and smiley.

One becomes two... two becomes three... three becomes four... and by that stage we're all laughing at the rain and the mud. Hell, some people are rolling in it! Ah, the indomitable British spirit! Could you imagine the sun-kissed Californian denizens of Coachella showing such defiance and gumption?

I wish I hadn't mentioned 'sun-kissed Californian'.

A couple of hours in and I still haven't seen a band. Well, I saw two songs from the new line-up of Gallows through the tent flap of a rammed Cave Stage. Their new singer looks like Buster Bloodvessel but sounds like a castrato Godzilla. A rivulet starts to run down my neck and the small of my back so I return to the bar.

65 Days Of Static

Part six: 65 Days of Static.

I tell Pete 1 that I need to go and see a band. Leeds' Pulled Apart By Horses are on in a big tent. However I've seen Pulled Apart By Horses before, so Pete 1, Pete 2, Andy and I brave the open, main arena. Due to all day drinking, Pete 1, Pete 2 and Andy are functioning some distance south of compos mentis.

None of them bring waterproof clothes with them. And the rain is coming down Lions and Irish Wolfhounds. Andy decides the bar is the best vantage point. Pete 1 stands with me in the monsoon. Pete 2 disappears.

The minute the band start playing, the rain turns into gem-encrusted butterflies. Or maybe that was a mildly hallucinogenic property of the cider. 65 Days of Static are expansive and instrumental. They're Sigur Ros minus the falsetto or ubiquity. Their music fills your head with glittering pocket symphonies. When people stretch their music over such vast canvases, sometimes it's hard to feel the humanity in it. But not 65 Days of Static, and not here in the luminous deluge.

They're a perfect accompaniment to this superabundance of H2O. Pete 1 and I are verging on the ecstatic. To such an extent that Pete 1 holds a mite of a girl's massive umbrella for her so that she can rest her arm and have a little dance. Many such acts of spontaneous kindness are happening across the site. That's probably why they give out so many free condoms. Well, it's one way to keep warm.

We retrieve Andy from the bar where he's spent the set studiously reminding himself how the local ales taste. His hard work has made for unsteady feet. He does a strange dance in the beer tent before tumbling over and taking out a table and a reveller. Our climb back to the tent, up a slow moving mud flow that would make for a National Geographic documentary, is interrupted by Andy's repeated insistence on falling headfirst into it.

He grips onto a pole halfway up the slope as if his life depends on it. He has a mad smile on his splattered face. He looks like a chocolate mousse gone feral.

"You're OK, you're still cool," says Pete 1, convincingly... for a downright lie.

"This... is... great!" says Andy.

And you know what? Despite everything - including a new and unexpected squishy sensation in my welly boots, it is.

Part 7 to denouement tomorrow. Will include actual mention of Welsh artists. Probably.

Shirt-tucked-in parents are dismissed with a scowl from behind my imaginary John Cale sunglasses. They're asking about Ofsted scores - I want to know if anyone who has left the school got played on 6 Music or written about by Drowned In Sound.

I may not have added anything of worth to my CV in 20 years, but I do have a double professorship in Unsuitable Trousers and Dogmatic Refusal To Grow Up.

It's just the image of what happens to those knackered old lions when their paws get too slow for hunting that is proving harder to shake. It's the only time my David Attenborough impersonation sounds halfway convincing.

So, the sensible work goes elsewhere. I'm the guy who plays the weird sounds late on a Saturday night.

I love those weird sounds. Clearly I'm a martyr to my cause; everything I do, I do it for those of you who make music that is repelled by supermarket shelves. That has been number one in my hit parade for 1,000 weeks and counting.

Oh, I do it for money too. And sometimes free records. And because it's an excellent way to fill the hours between waking and lying awake fretting about 'context'.

Part two is 'The Night Before'. I'm supposed to be at 2000 Trees festival in Cheltenham now but I've had a science show to record, and there is an appointment to see another local school in the morning (Future Of The Left's You Need Satan t-shirt duly ironed and laid out on the Ikea ottoman).

I look at my watch at 3pm and realise I have already missed Straight Lines - one of the Welsh contingent at the festival that I'm most looking forward to.

I badgered the people behind 2000 Trees for a pass. It's an independent festival, not a subsidised, corporate orgy. I told them I would use the pass to watch as many bands as I could and do what was in my power to spread the word about them and their fine festival. Already that feels like something of a lie.

Half Avian

So I troop over to my local venue to alleviate the guilt with a few stouts and a couple of conveniently placed Welsh bands. Half Avian grew out of the discarded cogs and liberated springs of Mechanical Owl.

Mold wasn't born yesterday and talk of its cultural renaissance was probably greatly exaggerated by me in these very pages in previous years.There have always been artists in Mold. The renaissance, if there really has been one, was in people willing to shine a light on it and - maybe - stake a claim in it.

If you're gold prospecting for interesting new sounds, Klondike joy abounds in the relaxed electronic eddies of Half Avian's music. It's a soulful mist, blown along by Mike's lovelorn voice. Such is the subtlety on show, it's difficult to get a grasp on any individual songs - but it's a fine and rather wonderful debut. If you can do a couple of dimensions as well as this, there's no need to over complicate the project. It worked well for Monet, after all.

Ah, Pseuds' Corner... I'm an honorary member after multiple sentences like the end of the preceding paragraph.

DRKMTR are next. They're Sophie McKeand and Andy Garside (The Absurd), Steve Nicholls and Steff Owens (Camera) and Sophie Ballamy.

Individually excellent people, involved in some of the projects that have most excited me - musically (Camera, Sophie Ballamy) and logistically (the events The Absurd have brought to Mold) - in recent years. But this leaves me cold and unengaged.

It's a dodecahedron of Pseuds' Corners welded together with limited grace and perfunctory imagination. Sophie's poetry is delivered in an unflattering monotone that is at odds with her imagery, at odds with her imagery. There is a lot of repetition. A lot of repetition. A LOT of repetition.

Musically it's all a bit ploddy and predictable: off duty bankers jamming in 4/4 time. I hear a few eastern scales that would might have sounded outre to a passenger on the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test in 1966 or on a Doors b-side - but not here in 2012.

Steve cooks up textures from his iPad and pedals but they're a little spice-less. If you're going to flirt with the experimental, tie it down and get all Marquis De Sade with it. This was Five-ish Shades of Grey. I really, truly, honestly wish I had something more positive to say about it.

Matters improve considerably when Sophie picks up her ukulele for one track. Steff plays the drums with his hands and DRKMTR prove that there are evocative climes at the edge of the po-faced doldrums they, for the most part, becalm themselves in.

On this track's evidence, they're an intriguing prospect brave enough to try something different, just not brave enough to be different enough - yet. I'll illustrate each of those 'enoughs' with a melodramatic wave of my right hand.

There are banks of salvaged screens on stage, manipulated by Andy and his laptop. The imagery dislocates and is the most arresting aspect of the performance. It still has a whiff of the third-hand about it. I imagine that is the point: images recycled from various sources displayed on obsolescent screens.

The Butthole Surfers had TV sets on stage showing a sex change operation upside down and in reverse 25 years ago. If you aspire to the avant garde, it is incumbent on you to be thrilling and original, to push the envelope, not to just lick it gently.

Their move. Despite this experience, I look forward to it.

Part three is 'tomorrow'... a long drive to a valley filled with mud golems, music, unfathomably flat and deadly cider and friends amplified by adversity.

I go home and feel aggrieved with myself for not hearing much that was positive in DRKMTR's set. I put the Future Of The Left t-shirt away and iron a shirt. I wonder what I'll say when tomorrow morning's headmistress asks me what I do.

"I'm training to be an accountant" is the falsehood I polish up as my head hits the pillow.

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The festival features a broad swathe of Welsh-singing and thinking musical performers, from established names like Meic Stevens, Heather Jones and Gruff Rhys, through to much newer bands like Sŵnami and Creision Hud.

On this week's programme, I spoke to Gruff Rhys about the important contribution Cymdeithas Yr Iaith has made over the years in support of Welsh music.

This coming weekend Cymdeithas Yr Iaith Gymraeg celebrate their 50th birthday - and, particularly, 50 years of their proactive support for Welsh language music - with a momentous festival in Pontrhydfendigaid.

Hanner Cant features a 'who's who' of the finest Welsh-thinking musical minds of the last half century, from legends like Meic Stevens, Gruff Rhys and Heather Jones through to new artists like Sen Segur and Y Bandana. Gruff Rhys talks to us about the important contribution Cymdeithas has made to Welsh culture.

We preview the Welsh artists who will be appearing at next weekend's 2000 Trees Festival in Cheltenham.

Sam Harries, manager of Newport's Le Pub, tells us about how this vitally important venue is under threat of closure, and what is being done to try and save it.

Alan Holmes peers back into producer David Wrench's intriguing past.

Lara Catrin translates some Trwbador for us.

Ben Hayes inspires us with homemade, Frankenstein synthesisers courtesy of Tonto's Expanding Head Band.

And there is mind-expanding music, lots of it, including début plays for Exclusivo, Indigo Sky, White Noise and Tsunami.

Demos/new releases/gig info etc to themysterytour@gmail.com, please.

WITCHES DRUM, THE - 'Watch The Freaks Lose It'
Cardiff / London

WOODEN SHJIPS - 'Black Smoke Rise'
San Francisco

CIAN CIARAN - 'You And Me [ Radio Edit ]'
Bangor

P L O AND RALPH RIP SH*T - 'Hold That [ Clean Edit ]'
Cardiff

HOWL GRIFF - 'Fragile Diamond'
Aberystwyth

CERI FROST - 'A Walk In The Park'
Cardiff

HUW M - 'Martha A Mair [ Remics Trwbador ]'
Pontypridd

EXCLUSIVO - 'Black And White'
Swansea

ALAN HOLMES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor

NID MADAGASCAR - 'Psychotic'
Bangor

SUE DENIM - 'Bicycle'
Bangor

EUROS CHILDS - 'That's Better'
Pembrokeshire

VAN DYKE PARKS - 'Vine Street'
U S A

WOLVES - 'Divide'
Deeside

BASTIONS - 'Augury'
Anglesey

AMONG BROTHERS - 'Keep'
Cardiff / Aberdare

STRAIGHT LINES - 'Empty Chest'
Pontypridd / Pyle

GALLOPS - 'G Is For Jaile'
Wrexham

FUTURE OF THE LEFT - 'I Am The Least Of Your Problems ( Album Version )'
Cardiff

Y NIWL - 'Dauddegtri'
Gwynedd

OLIVIA TREMOR CONTROL - 'Jumping Fences'
U S A

GRUFF RHYS - 'Interview About Hanner Cant'
Bethesda

MEIC STEVENS - 'Dau Rhosyn Coch'
Solva

COLORAMA - 'V Moyn T'
Benllech

BWGAN, Y - 'Gwaelod Y Byd'
Porthmadog / Caernarfon

SWITCH FUSION - 'Anchor'
Llanberis

9BACH - 'Plentyn Galeri ( Featuring Black Arm Band )'
Bangor

LOVING CUP, THE - 'Nothing Lasts Forever'
Connah's Quay

OSIAN RHYS - 'Long Time Gone'
Llanystumdwy

FAMILY OF THE YEAR - 'Diversity'
Wrexham / L.a.

GWENNO - 'Astoria'
Cardiff

GWENNO - 'Despenser'
Cardiff

LARA CATRIN - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor / Cardiff

TRWBADOR - 'Deffro Ar Y Llawr'
Carmarthen / Cardiff

60FT DOLLS - 'New Loafers'
Newport

SAM HARRIES - LE PUB - 'Interview About Save Le Pub'
Newport

KITTY COWELL - 'Run Young Boy Featuring Jordan James'
Newport / Cardiff

INDIGO SKY - 'I Am Not Here'
Denbigh

WHITE NOISE - 'Propane'
Pontypool

TSUNAMI - 'Boy In A Skirt'
Mold

BEN HAYES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Ruthin

TONTO'S EXPANDING HEAD BAND - 'It's About Time'
?

This week, Radio 1 and C2's Huw Stephens comes in to tell us about the Green Man Unsigned competition, an opportunity for an unsigned artist to open the internationally renowned Green Man Festival, this August in Glanusk.

I preview the forthcoming Hanner Cant festival - a momentous celebration of the Welsh Language Society's 50th birthday and the support they have given Welsh language thinking artists in that period.

Many of Wales' finest artists will congregate in the historic pavilion in Pontrhydfendigaid, west Wales on 13-14 July for Hanner Cant. And tickets are ridiculously cheap, considering the amazing line-up: Gruff Rhys/Heather Jones/Y Niwl/Tecwyn Ifan/Colorama/Meic Stevens/Llwybr Llaethog and many more.

The Pooh Sticks' Huw Williams comes along to tell us about one of the cheesiest, but nevertheless fascinating, records it's ever been my dubious pleasure to play.

Ben Hayes introduces us to The Norman Haines Band.

And there is a lot of new Welsh music, bristling with ideas and amazing sounds. We have new tracks from Euros Childs, Family Of The Year and Knickers and there are début plays for No Ceremony ///, Wolfchild, Tonfedd Oren, Soundwire, The Decoys, Crying Wolf Club and Gorilla Fight Mansion.

Please send demos/new releases/gig info/any correspondence to themysterytour@gmail.com (music as a high quality mp3 or download link, please).

COLORAMA - 'Do The Pump'
Benllech

FAMILY OF THE YEAR - 'Diversity'
Wrexham/LA

NO CEREMONY /// - 'Hold On Me'
Manchester/Wales

HEHFU - 'Flame'
Caerphilly

KNICKERS - 'Les Cactus'
London/Cardiff Distribution

LASH, THE - 'Shame'
Newport

EUROS CHILDS - 'That's Better'
Pembrokeshire

FALCON LAKE - 'All I Want'
Newport/Cardiff

WOLFCHILD - 'Mickey Mouse Clubbed'
Cwmbran

SHY AND THE FIGHT - 'Breaks'
Chester/Llangollen

HUW WILLIAMS - 'Spoken Contribution'
Swansea

PAUL DAMIAN - 'How To Say Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyndrobllantysiliogogogoch'
Wales

SUGAR - 'Tilted'
Minneapolis, U S A

FUTURE OF THE LEFT - 'Goals In Slow Motion'
Cardiff

PISSED JEANS - 'False Jesii, Pt. 2'
Allentown, U. S. A.

LLEUWEN - 'Cawell Fach Y Galon'
Bangor

GRUFF RHYS - 'Pwdin Wy'
Bethesda

Y NIWL - 'Dauddegpump'
Gwynedd

CRASH DISCO - 'Lemon Juice'
Bangor

9BACH - 'Cariad Cyntaf'
Bangor

LLWYBR LLAETHOG - 'Mera Desh ( Remix )'
Blaenau Ffestiniog/Cardiff

MARTIN CARR - 'I Will Build A Road'
Cardiff

PHIL DAVIES & THE NINJASMOKEBOMBS - 'Souls'
Llangefni

JOY FORMIDABLE, THE - 'A Heavy Abacus'
Mold

COLORAMA - 'Winner'
Benllech

TONFEDD OREN - 'Tonfedd Oren'
Wales

SOUNDWIRE - 'Set In Steel'
Swansea

OUT OF THE WOODS - 'Sitting By The Fire'
Swansea

ASH AND THE OAK, THE - 'Jigsaw'
Newport

INC . A - 'Adiran's Wall'
Cardiff

HUW STEPHENS - 'Interview About Green Man Unsigned'
Cardiff/London

ADELINES, THE - 'Little Games'
Swansea

TRWBADOR - 'Deffro Ar Y Llawr'
Camarthen/Cardiff

THREE PAIRS OF SHOES - 'From Wics To Burs'
Cardiff

DECOYS, THE - 'Wait'
Pontypool

APTA - 'Rise'
Wales

CRYING WOLF CLUB - 'I Am The Architect'
Pontypridd

GORILLA FIGHT MANSION - 'Pass The Bottle'
Llanelli

BEYOND THE WIZARD'S SLEEVE - 'Door To Tomorrow'
London/Pembrokeshire

BEN HAYES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Ruthin

NORMAN HAINES BAND, THE - 'Den Of Iniquity'
?

PANABRITE - 'Cirrus'
Seattle/Welsh Label

My escapades are detailed elsewhere on this blog. On the old school ferry back, lightly frayed and subtly seasick, I interviewed the band about the tour and their new album, The Plot Against Common Sense.

It is one of the albums of the year. It's certainly my 'album of the year'. I went out there as a fan. Don't expect objectivity or Paxman-esque probing.

Here's the interview, minus musical interludes/tracks from the album. You're cordially invited to buy that yourself to fill in the blanks.

Part one:

Part two:

Part three:

Part four:

Part five:

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The show is a fist of defiance in the face of the booze aliens who attempted to kidnap me in Cardiff on Thursday afternoon. My feeling is they come from a musically barren planet and are jealous of Wales' sonic riches (little 'r').

Despite their attempts to poison me, keep me up all night and break my voice (by forcing me to answer - in order - all of the most inane questions I've ever asked in interviews... it was a long night) I tricked them and escaped, all so I could bring you this week's show. As I said, a fist of defiance. Well, a collection of fascinating Welsh sounds... but 'fist of defiance' sounds sexier.

So - despite an obviously damaged brain - I bring you first time plays for Oakesy, Beyond the Wizard's Sleeve, Inc.A, Audio Additive, Secateurs, Don Kool, Ryan Elis and Tom Ash.

Green Man Festival's Fiona Stewart talks about the imminent excellence of Busk On The Usk - Green Gartside, Jon Langford, Cate Le Bon, Anna Calvi and many more all appearing for free this coming Saturday in Newport (you still need to claim a free ticket to attend).

Alan Holmes celebrates the polymathic and idiosyncratic Mark Windows.

Lara Catrin translates something naive and wonderful from Y Nhw.

Ben Hayes gets all tweedily excited by The Searchers.

Please send fascinating sounds as a high quality mp3 or download link to: themysterytour@gmail.com.

More sleep, this week. No booze aliens. I showed them.

GWENNO - 'Ymbelydredd'
Cardiff

ECTOGRAM - 'Out Of Storks'
Bangor / Ynys Môn

BEYOND THE WIZARD'S SLEEVE - 'Door To Tomorrow'
London / Pembrokeshire

RALPH RIP SHIT - 'Something [ Radio Edit ]'
Cardiff

GOLDEN FABLE - 'Sugarloaf'
Ewloe

OAKESY - 'Lazer Whippin''
Colwyn Bay

BRIGHT LIGHT BRIGHT LIGHT - 'A New Word To Say'
Neath

ALAN HOLMES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor

MARK WINDOWS - 'Wardrobe Of Wonder'
Bangor

SCHOOL, THE - 'It's Not The Same'
Cardiff

JOSHUA CAOLE - 'Farewell My Dear'
Cardiff

INC . A - 'Faust'
Cardiff

CATE LE BON - 'Cyrk'
Penboyr

FIONA STEWART - 'Busk On The Usk Interview'
London / Wales

BOY ROYALS, THE - 'Voice Of The Future'
Newport

Y NIWL - 'Dauddegpedwar'
Gwynedd

SŵNAMI - 'Mynd A Dod'
Dolgellau

CAMPER VAN BEETHOVEN - 'Take The Skinheads Bowling'
California, U.s.a

FUTURE OF THE LEFT - 'Notes On Achieving Orbit [ Radio Edit ]'
Cardiff

DENUO - 'Dreamless'
Penmaenmawr

AUDIO ADDITIVE - 'Dub Diversion'
Swansea

CIAN CIARAN - 'Martina Franca'
Bangor

SECATEURS - 'Unlucky Charm'
Deeside

SECRETAIRE - 'Prick On The Racetrack'
Rhyl / Manchester

JEWELLERS - 'Sing Trees'
Newport

LOWLAND HUNDRED, THE - 'Cae'r Wyddno'
Aberystwyth

LARA CATRIN - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor / Cardiff

Y NHW - 'Siwsi'
?

AL LEWIS - 'Lines Upon The Sand'
Abersoch

KITTY COWELL - 'The World'
Newport / Cardiff

DON KOOL - 'Seperatly 2getha'
Aberdare / Cardiff

JAMES MCARTHUR - 'Roll Another'
Mold

HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY, THE - 'Caroline'
Brighton / Welsh Label

SHE RIPPED - 'Ultra - Social Happy Man'
Treorchy

GULP - 'Game Love'
Cardiff

JAUGE - 'Y Do I'
Newport

RYAN ELIS - 'Whampin''
South Wales

ANGUS POWELL - 'Special'
Wales

BEN HAYES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Ruthin

SEARCHERS, THE - 'Second Hand Dealer'
Liverpool

TOM ASH - 'Rain'
Saundersfoot

No fancy dan, double glazing salesman speak to dress this week's show up.

It is what it is: 40-ish pieces of prime new music - the vast majority of which has roots, leaves and branches in Wales.

Enjoy/mwynha! Many thanks/diolch o galon.

JOANNA GRUESOME - 'Sweater'
Cardiff

CALIFORNIA JR. - 'Oh, Sharky Shark'
Wrexham

MARTIN CARR - 'Sailor'
Cardiff

BAREFOOT DANCE OF THE SEA - 'The Build - A - House Song'
Cardiff

HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY, THE - 'Caroline'
Brighton / Welsh Label

TYRANNOSAURUS DEAD - 'Dead Bodies'
Brighton / Welsh Label

HENRY'S FUNERAL SHOE - 'Dog Scratch Ear'
Ystrad Mynach

WHALES - 'Puck Rock'
Bangor

BRIGHT LIGHT BRIGHT LIGHT - 'Grace'
Neath

SCIENCE BASTARD - 'A Different Same'
Newport

FEVER FEVER - 'The Chair'
Norwich

FUTURE OF THE LEFT - 'I Am The Least Of Your Problems ( Album Version )'
Cardiff

Y NIWL - 'Dauddegtri [ E P Version ]'
Gwynedd

Y NIWL - 'Dauddegdau [ E P Version ]'
Gwynedd

Y NIWL - 'Undegnaw [ E P Version ]'
Gwynedd

GRUFF RHYS - 'Ni Yw Y Byd'
Bethesda

HUW WILLIAMS - 'Spoken Contribution'
Swansea

FRIENDS - 'This Is The Start'
Anglesey

LUNGWAH - 'A Silent Pain ( Remains )'
Bangor

HARRY KEYWORTH - 'Knew That Day ( Pulse Atlantica Remix )'
Hebron, Pembrokeshire

KING OF CATS - 'Dr Strangelove'
Oxford / Welsh Label

POLEDO - 'Dark Brown'
Oxford / Welsh Label

ELECTRIC WEDDING - 'My Universe ( System Mix )'
Llanfairfechan

WE'RE NO HEROES - 'Ghost Coast'
Cardiff

MILLION WAY - 'Your Circuitry ( Feat. Mr J Top )'
Penarth

HOI! - 'Twist Of Fate'
Swansea

BLUEBELL - 'Normal Heights ( Golden Fable Remix )'
Unknown / Ewloe Remixers

CIAN CIARAN - 'Martina Franca'
Bangor

BROKEN MOODS FOR HOUSE KITES - 'Cross - Grained And Patulous'
Milford Haven / Cardiff

EMILY C. SMITH - 'Fight Against You'
Nuneaton / Welsh Producer

HOWL GRIFF - 'Fragile Diamond'
Aberystwyth

PULCO - 'Keeping The Glass Half Full'
Bangor

JON LANGFORD & SKULL ORCHARD - 'Tubby Brothers ( Featuring The Burlington Welsh Male Voice Chorus )'
Newport

SCRITTI POLITTI - 'Skank Bloc Bologna'
Cardiff

LARA CATRIN - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor / Cardiff

OSIAN RHYS - 'A Oes 'na Le ( I Oeri Gwers Fy Nghalon )'
Llanystumdwy

TACSI - 'Kingdom'
Bangor

FUTURE OF THE LEFT - 'Rubber Animals'
Cardiff

BEN HAYES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Ruthin

GILES, GILES AND FRIPP - 'She Is Loaded'
London

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, an esteemed music journalist mailed me asking why the artist he was then representing, something noodly and sub-Gong from west Wales, weren't getting airplay on my show when Future Of The Left were?

His band (he wasn't in them, just acting as their advocate) were, he said, selling tens of thousands of albums worldwide, yet barely merited a mention on my show. Future Of The Left, on the other hand, sold an awful lot fewer albums, yet I'd genuflect all over them, and would probably lavish airplay on them breaking wind, if they'd let me.

I hadn't really seen things from his perspective before. I did the right thing and questioned myself rigourously, doing the whole good cop/bad cop thing:

"There's nothing wrong with unquestioningly fawning over a band, Adam - I can call you Adam, can't I? Would you like a cigarette? Just tell us all about it and we can go home..."

"You pathetic slaaaag, Walton! If you climbed any further inside their backsides the BBC'd have to install a studio up there so you could do your crummy, sycophantic bumlick of a show without ever having to listen to anything else. ADMIT IT OR I'LL BELT YOUR FACE OFF!"

It's OK - I'm part psychopathic Gemini.

So, I listened to his band/then I listened to Future Of The Left's album of that time - Travels With Myself And Another - and I realised I was indubitably right, and I've slept soundly (over this, at least) ever since.

The journalist in question - let's call him Colin because it is, indeed, his name - isn't going to like this week's programme much, I fear.

It centres on an in-depth interview about Future Of The Left's phenomenal new album The Plot Against Common Sense.

It is a phenomenal album. It's phenomenal that they managed to record it and get it released at all, after line-up changes; three years' worth of perfunctory, unromantic struggle; three years of steadfast refusal to compromise; three years of temping in anaesthetising jobs; three years of occasionally wondering whether it was all worth it, and - no doubt - whether it would be easier if they went a bit sub-Gong and moved to west Wales.

Mostly it's phenomenal because that three years of frustration has 15 shades of holy hell beaten out of it on this album. 15 (well, 16, without wishing to spoil the ending) songs of defiance, vitriolic resignation, hard-earned wisdom, barbed tunes and lyrical genius. Dedicating an hour of this show to that album, and the excellent people who've made it, is the least I could do.

So, I paid to go to Belgium to see them as a birthday present to myself and interviewed them to death on the ferry back home.

It's a band interview. We hear from all members of the band. Jack says "funk" and it is ace.

Contrast in this week's show comes from a shimmering and utterly beautiful live set from Richard James. Dare I say it's even better than his recent album Pictures In The Morning? There's just something magical about the atmosphere of the recording. Truly wonderful. I do hope you enjoy it.

Elsewhere, Alan Holmes treats us to something on the verge of being forgotten from north Wales, from The Kaseo Kid. And Ben Hayes trots in tweedily with musical inspiration from elsewhere.

Please send demos/new releases/recommendations/law-suits etc to themysterytour@gmail.com. A high quality mp3 or download link is preferred, please.

Many thanks/diolch o galon. I hope you enjoy the ride - well, the ferry journey.

Future Of The Left - 'Goals In Slow Motion'
Cardiff

VESTALS, THE - 'Perfect Pain'
Cardiff

CATE LE BON - 'Falcon Eyed'
Penboyr

MOWBIRD - 'Thank You, You Are Revolting'
Wrexham

SEX HANDS - 'Gay Marriage'
Dwygfylchi/Llanfairfechan/Conwy

IRMA VEP - 'What's That In Your Mouth? ( Album Version )'
Llanfairfechan

Future Of The Left - 'European Interview 2012 Pt. 1'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'Beneath The Waves An Ocean'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'European Interview 2012 Pt. 2'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'I Am The Least Of Your Problems ( Album Version )'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'European Interview 2012 Pt. 3'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'Cosmo's Ladder [ Album Version ]'
Cardiff

HALF MAN HALF BISCUIT - 'Depressed Beyond Tablets'
Birkenhead

ALAN HOLMES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Bangor

KASEO KID, THE - 'Trendy Nightspots'
Bangor

MARTIN CARR - 'I Will Build A Road'
Cardiff

GULP - 'Game Love'
Cardiff

RICHARD JAMES - 'All Gone [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Baby Blue [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Say It Ain't No Lie [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Cariad Y Wawr [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Down To My Heart [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Shake My Heart [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Familiar Roads [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Sinners And Movers [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

RICHARD JAMES - 'Yes My Love Died [ Live At Crackling Vinyl ]'
Croes - Y - Ceiliog

EUROS CHILDS - 'Spin That Girl Around [ Single Version ]'
Pembrokeshire

Future Of The Left - 'European Interview 2012 Pt. 4'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'Sorry Dad, I Was Late For The Riots'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'European Interview 2012 Pt. 5'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'Podcast Extract'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'European Interview 2012 Pt. 6'
Cardiff

Future Of The Left - 'Notes On Achieving Orbit [ Radio Edit ]'
Cardiff

BEN HAYES - 'Spoken Contribution'
Ruthin

PANABRITE - 'Station'
Seattle/Welsh Label

Embarrassed at my lack of nous, and over-compensating wildly to demonstrate that I'm not 'past it' in front of youthful tour manager Gordon, I try to drink him under the table. It's unwise to try this with Glaswegians. Some stereotypes aren't monotypes for reasons of actual human cabling.

I learn that the modern guitar set-up (Gordon is guitar tech for Biffy Clyro, too) is of a complexity that would give CERN's scientists a headache. I hear about experiences in India that make me gape. I learn more about the strange discrepancy between artist earnings and the earnings those of us who feed off artists make. We have a thoughtful pint and then get assailed by a coked-up nutter who's very proud of his jacket.

The next time I see Gordon, he's on stage in Manchester checking Falco's guitar, a few nights later. This time the venue - part goldfish bowl/part Victorian music hall/part surreal wall of retro speakers - is rammed and getting rammed-er. It's hot. The audience is an edifying mixture of ages and haircuts. Some people are sat in a glass booth that looks like a sociological experiment. Unlike Belgium, there is a palpable sense of excitement in the room. Manchester get Future Of The Left. There is talk about the new album:

"Mate, it's the best thing they've done..." says one guy to another eyeing the album up at the merchandise stall.

It is, that. It expands the horizons of their previous albums, detailing aspects of our times without a whiff of ape or retro. Future Of The Left are the least obsequious band I have ever come across, they don't doff their cap to anyone. That's quite something in an almost entirely second-hand musical landscape.

Their DNA is quite a tangle: strands of Gang of Four, Chris Morris, Wire, Les Savy Fav, Stereolab, Half Man Half Biscuit may all figure somewhere - but the fingerprints aren't clear, just smudges overwhelmed by the fierce pattern of the main structure.

I miss the name of the first band on. They seem pretty good, but I only hear a song and a half. I see all of Fever Fever's set, though. My Tweet afterwards sums the experience up with a rare succinctness:

"Really enjoyed Fever Fever. Toy box Sleater-Kinney. Scuzzy, fresh and well good fun."

They're a three piece who play fuzzy and wiry songs that are twisty dark alleys filled with surprises and occasional daggers. nascent Pavement might have sounded a little like this if they'd had fewer testicles.

Future Of The Left aren't short of testicles: metaphorically nor anatomically. It takes balls to challenge the cosy, self-gratifying snoozefest that constitutes UK music in 2012. Radio stations that purport to support new music seemingly do so with all of the bravery and imagination of a stale flannel. In fact, that's unfair. At least stale flannels are a breeding ground for cultures of bacteria, that's more culture than is evidenced by the ear-friendly, lissom, twinkly folkishness busy being inoffensive on playlists throughout the land.

We have a lot of Radio 2s. Like number twos, but stinking up and clogging the airwaves.

(I like Radio 2, by the way. It's the fact that most other alternatives aren't really that much of an alternative to it that is galling. Paul Weller, for example, is not the future of UK music, and hasn't been since 1978.)

Anyway...

As with Belgium, the gig begins with a breathless segue of Arming Eritrea/Chin Music/Small Bones, Small Bodies and Beneath The Waves An Ocean. Unlike Belgium, the earth's crust threatens to crack open, such is the sense of intense "this is freakin' ace"-ness amongst the audience. Every distorted bass note, shattered chord (just not - generally - chords you'd find in any human chord book), pummelled drum and vocal exhortation is battered back by the audience. It's the give and take, the ebb and flow, the dialogue necessary for a great Future Of The Left gig. In some ways, their gigs are a little like DJ sets - infinitely more musically involved of course - similar from the point of view that audience participation is necessary to elevate proceedings to that whole other level.

You can sit down listening to Bombay Bicycle Club or Fleet Foxes. We talked a lot about sitting down yesterday. You can't sit down and watch Future Of The Left. It's hard enough listening to them in the privacy of your own home without getting tremors and palpitations.

Four songs in, and all three different albums have been represented. When you consider that the band also play a couple of mclusky classics (To Hell With Good Intentions and Lightsabre), it's evident what an incredibly strong back catalogue they can choose their set from.

By my reckoning, only six songs from the new album, The Plot Against Common Sense, get played tonight. It makes sense to not overwhelm an audience with new, unfamiliar material. They get the balance just right. It's remarkable to think how much better - even - this set will be when Notes On Achieving Orbit, Goals In Slow Motion and Cosmo's Ladder get added to it. If they get added to it.

Banter, or baiting - depending on who within the massed ranks is brave or stupid enough to open their mouth, between Future Of The Left and their audience has been a de rigeur part of their live experience. Back when they toured Travels With Myself And Another, Falco and Kelson would spend a good proportion of the set dealing with hecklers like a combine harvester's blades deals with dormice - if the dormice concerned were stupid enough to wear a Reverend and the Makers t-shirt to the gig, or dress in a pig outfit - to the general amusement of all concerned. But the two gigs I've witnessed this week have been much sharper in musical focus. In Belgium that was understandable. Verbal interplay with an audience in a foreign land creates more awkward pauses than are comfortable at a rock show.

However the same focus is also evident in Manchester. Stage asides, while still hilarious - Falco's love letter to Phil Collins before You Need Satan, for example - are just that, hilarious asides. It's all about the band. There are few distractions.

The band's ambidextrousness is on full show. Whether it's the fuzzy, fragged up sound of the Juno or the distorted, harmonised guitar riffs, the sound is apocalyptically exciting (well, I'd be excited come the ever end - so long as I had a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster to hand).

There are fists in the air for Satan, which is a sentence I'm hoping will be wilfully misconstrued somewhere. Falco's voice has more settings than a posh microwave. It does singing, shouty-singing, shouting, screaming, all the way up to demonic exorcism (I always thought this setting was reserved for moments when he forgets the words, but they seem to occur in the same places in the same songs. Maybe he doesn't know all of the words? It's taken me 20 years to learn the verse and chorus to Days by The Kinks, so I shouldn't cast stones. Not from this palatial greenhouse next to a quarry stocked with ample supplies of fist shaped rocks, I shouldn't.

It's tremendous and thrilling - and I'm in need of more adult adverbs in order to not make that statement sound like something out of Horse and Hound.

I Am The Least Of Your Problems is surf punk with vocals like the crest of an armageddon shock wave. To Hell With Good Intentions is a cacaphonously simple nursery rhyme for clever kids with sticky tape on their NHS glasses. Polymers starts off as fruitily as this band have ever sounded - Queen dethroned - and morphs into the most evocative coda this side of the big bang - Can lathering Stereolab synths while Falco turns something haiku-like about the ecology of the oceans into a mantra of cosmic import.

Robocop 4 kicks cinema's predilection for sequels in the shins with a riff that tears up Californian tectonic plates and tips Hollywood into the abyss. All helped along by the mighty strength of André the Giant.

Coldplay are playing elsewhere in Manchester tonight. My wife went to see them in London a couple of weeks ago. She shows me footage on YouTube. Everyone in the audience is filming the gig so that they can show it to their friends on YouTube. The gimps. No one raises a bloody iPhone in idiocy tonight. You come to a gig like this to live in the moment. The communion here is about the amazing noise this most excellent of bands makes, and the feeling that you aren't alone in feeling short-changed by the shameless, transparent machinations of the invidious, the greedy and the corporate. There is more to life than share prices, more to music than a phone vote on a Saturday evening. More to a gig than watching it through your smartphone.

Trying to watch the sparks coming off the band and the audience as the last triumvirate of songs is blasted into our torsos, through anything other than your own eyes, will result in permanent idiocy.

"Your brain will stick like that," to paraphrase half-a-dozen of my aunties.

adeadenemyalwayssmellsgood is lo fi, even lower case, death funk that has more in common with Parliament than it does with Kasabian. Lightsabre melts every mind within hearing distance and Lapsed Catholics, for the second gig running, is the point at which I have to go for a pee. I miss Jimmy and guitar crowdsurfing over the heads of the audience like an errant saint, connected by a curly umbilical cord to his God of Noise (all hail Marshall!)

I miss Jimmy doing this but have used some - only some - poetic license in attempting to paint the picture for you.

Mine is not the most objective voice when it comes to Future Of The Left, but this gig was all the big shiny adjectives - brilliant, awesome, amazing, remarkable - strung together with a zillion volts shot through them until the message is beamed far and wide, to every corner of our shabby isle, focusing particular attention on the dullard tastemakers who'd rather play us an old piece of Clash to signify our times than a new piece of Future Of The Left.

I have seen only a few gigs of comparable, primal excellence, in my long-ish life. What a privilege.

More beer is drunk. I feel sad that this will be the last time I see Dan (Williams - excellent young sound engineer/occasional lad) and Gordon (shandy drinker/great anecdotalist/brilliant tour manager). I'll invent excuses to come to Cardiff and see the band, even if they aren't gigging. They're friends, friends who happen to be in one of the last bastions of musical individuality and excellence of our times.

It's fitting that this review should just tail off back to the humdrum and the traffic jams of Coldplay fans trying to get out of Manchester. They've got their YouTube footage, I've got memories that will burn until my last brain cell goes out.

I win.

It took Granny Walton a week to get home. No wonder she subsequently preferred a trip to Blackpool rather than a jaunt over the channel.

I tell Future Of The Left's Andrew Falkous and Julia Ruzicka this story stood on a square somewhere in the middle of Brussels. They're getting as much of a taste for the city as they can before they get drawn into the vortex of interviews, soundchecks, then more interviews, to coincide with tonight's gig at the VK.

This jaunt is my 41st birthday present to myself. I'm a great gift giver - a historic European city I've never visited and some of my favourite music-making human beings; is much better than a billion pairs of socks or a basket of melodramatic cheese the size of the Titanic, you bet.

Some time between soundcheck and meal-time, we go for a wander in the neighbourhood surrounding the venue. There's Falco, me, Jimmy Watkins (Masters in second guitar, doing a PhD in Taping Bottles of Stella To The Forehead), Dan (specialising in inordinate youth and excellence of sound) and Gordon (Glaswegian tour manager, completing his Professorship in Streetwise and the Correct Way to Pronounce Certain Swear Words).

Our carefree amble, replete with Jimmy trying to out-dribble the local kids (pride only saved by his legendary speed - an unfair advantage to resort to when you're playing seven-year-olds) soon loses the spring in its collective step. Men are arguing and pushing each other on street corners. There's a strong whiff of anxiety colouring the aromas of spice and old sewer.

It's only when we return to the venue that we learn that there have been riots in this area for the two nights preceding our arrival. A Belgian woman had been arrested for wearing a full burkah. Apparently, dressing up however you like, and believing whatever you want, is illegal in the home of the European Parliament.

I'm told it's just coincidence that the second time a Walton comes to the city, there is civil unrest. Well, wouldn't it make you paranoid?

The venue provide us with excellent soup, a comical amount of bread, and something with chicken in it. A local journalist tells us more about the riots (in retrospect, we learn it was a bit of stone throwing - the word 'riot' seems somewhat out of proportion with the reality, but - hell - my Flemish isn't great at distinguishing between different levels of social disorder, so I will let her off).

There is sitting around. I have learnt that there is a lot of sitting around for touring bands. The Joy Formidable did a lot of sitting in America. Future Of The Left are also sitting. Maybe it only seems to be a disproportionate amount of sitting? After all, we all sit around a lot, don't we? Regardless of whether we're in an excellent band, or not. On occasion, I notice that they stand up, or walk to the fridge - shaped like a big can of beer... clever - but they sit down again, eventually. The rock lifestyle doesn't seem to be much about the things I've been led to believe by endless hagiographies and rockumentaries. No drugs, no illicit sexual activities, fewer pasties. Lots of sitting.

But sitting isn't entirely benign. I sit on my six-month-old Galaxy SII, at which point it breaks like a cream cracker. Rock and bloody roll.

Here endeth my anthropological study of Future Of The Left's touring habits. They're very much like the rest of us, just exponentially better with four string guitars, lyrical intrigue, bass swinging and in-tune shouting.

Jimmy writes 'LADS' on his forearm in permanent marker in a show of defiance against all the sitting. It's his shared joke with Dan and Gordon. If they see, or do, something young, unfettered and masculine, something that'd make a politically correct editor at the BBC wince, it's greeted with a round robin of "Lads!", "Yeah, lads innit?", "That's lads for you."

I can't join in. I'm a father of uptight age. Every time they say "lads" I whisper "dads" to myself as a hex to ward off their bad influence. I can't even open a bottle of free beer with a lighter. The shame.

I watch a little of the support band. They seem OK. They're Belgian - I think they were Belgian - but they address the audience in English. It's a trilingual country - and that raises interesting political sensitivities. Far better, in some circumstances, to speak in English than risk upsetting someone by speaking Flemish in their face, if they're a French speaker. There's an unfortunate, un-PC joke in that sentence somewhere.

Lads!

Then we're wandering through the venue's downstairs innards trying to find the stage.

"This is like Spinal Tap," I say.

"Everything on tour's like Spinal Tap," says Jimmy.

This is the first time I've seen 'the new' line-up of Future Of The Left. Last time I watched them - getting dragged off stage at the Wales Millennium Centre in Cardiff, for having the audacity to sing their songs using exactly the same lyrics as recorded on all of their publicly available albums, Jimmy had just been added to the line-up. Julia is the newest addition, but only from my perspective. They've toured Oz and made a (truly) fantastic album in the interim.

The set begins with Arming Eritrea. That has to be the most insidious, slipstream of an opening riff in all contemporary music? I expect the audience to erupt, or explode, or at least jump up and down a lot... but they don't, really. Heads are nodded. Some feet are tapped. Hands get clapped at appropriate moments. It's like being at a gig with a roomful of me's. I didn't sign up for this!

By all accounts, Belgian audiences are - and I appreciate that this is a gross generalisation - a little standoffish and reserved. I'm sure there are individual members who wrestle panthers before bed, but they're keeping themselves pretty quiet tonight. Which is a shame, because the band are tight and wide and a multitude of other contradictory adjectives I'd like to use to convey the opinion of 'most excellent'.

Julia's rolling style brings a propulsive momentum to the whole set, exemplified by the remarkable new song, Beneath The Waves An Ocean. Jimmy brings flashing sabres of extra guitar, brilliantly delivered co-vocals, inordinate confidence.

"Why has he got LAOS written on his arm?" someone asks me.

"His family are from the Far East."

Oh, and a surreal otherness to proceedings.

Jack drums with a power, intelligence and lyricism (and I do mean 'lyricism') so rare, I wonder why I hadn't noticed it as much as I should have done before.

And Andrew is the phosphorescent core of it all. Whereas in the latter stages of the last line-up (Kelson, Falco, Egglestone), Future Of The Left - as a live experience - had become something of a red giant... massive sounding, awe-inspiring, but a little flabby around the edges (too much talking, however hilarious it frequently was). This is a white dwarf. By that I mean all of the energy and excellence has been focused, tightened, worked and beaten into an hour-or-so of sound, humour, song and fury that has no equal.

The fact that all of this flaring electromagnetic aceness is getting sucked into the black hole of the Belgian audience - who take much more than they give, which is their prerogative of course - makes this show a seven rather than a 10.

No doubt the curtailed public transport services (due to 'the riots') have affected attendance (it's still a good turn-out). But there's something lacking - and it ain't down to the band. They play so well, I soon lose any frustration with the crowd in the awesome storm of noise. Highlights: The Lords Hates A Coward, Sheena Is A T-Shirt Salesman, To Hell With Good Intentions, Failed Olympic Bid, I Am The Least Of Your Problems... but, you know, I saw an even better show in Manchester a couple of nights later - with a crowd who'd turned up to lose themselves in a rock show - so, I'll save the specifics for that review.

Somewhat strangely a whole other, mental audience replace the supine one for the last two songs. Lightsabre Costcutting Blues (not its title, but I wouldn't want the Daily Mail to have any more ammunition to fire at my beloved BBC) and Lapsed Catholics wake the throng like cattle prods.

I go for a wee before the end. I've been crossing my bladder for 20 minutes and I'm old, now. I need a wee, or a chewy toffee, after an hour of standing up.

Post gig we drink a few beers, load the van (at which point I demonstrate a certain amount of usefulness in the carrying-things-and-guarding-the-van department... I've found my level!). CDs, t-shirts and records are sold. We forget the 'merch board' and drive 15-ish miles to a hotel that thinks it's a holiday camp disguised as a prison.

We sit down for a bit and then lie down and sleep for a bit more. Sitting feels much more rock n roll after a gig than before. P'raps it's the whiskey in my hand or the thrill of having seen one of the best bands in the (certainly, *my*) world.

Tomorrow there is a long drive, a ferry, an interview and a chance for the band to reacquaint themselves with wives, girlfriends and cats back in Cardiff.

I go to bed having been forced to drink an unprofessional amount of beer by Gordon. My last thought is a fleeting regret that I'd given up on the rock 'n' roll dream when I did. The regret is quickly replaced by a real sense of gratitude and privilege that I know such excellent people and such an incredible band.