Books about music are always a little troublesome to me. I love books and I love music, but somehow attempts to mix the two are fraught with disappointment. As I've discovered and developed what I think is fairly respectable and eclectic musical taste over the years, I've often dabbled with the surrounding biographies and histories, but they've never quite filled the mysterious gaps for me. To be entirely fair, the reverse is often true too - music written around literature can feel awfully forced at times. I've often wondered though, why I'd develop such an aversion to the typical musical biography - and I think I can finally isolate my distaste: there are only two modes available to the musical biographer - building the mystery or knocking it down. Either drawing ethereal shrouds around a personality or a band, or promising to peel away the layers and leaving them - sometimes unfairly - exposed. Neither seems particularly satisfying to me, and neither produces much in the way of great writing.

However, Stuart David's account of the first year of Belle and Sebastian's stuttering, uncertain existence does neither of these things, and as such, it's an unusually charming and readable account of a band's formative steps. That said, the band doesn't really exist for a good part of the story, at least not outside of the unusually specific vision of David's former bandmate Stuart Murdoch, who is presented as a quietly eccentric but determined bandleader, bringing together a disparate and unlikely bunch of musicians around him to realise his plans. In any other setting, this would sound uncomfortably like the planned assembly of a manufactured band, but set against the backdrop of early 1990s Glasgow with its damp, foggy streets and crumbling bedsits it becomes a much more inspiring tale. Not least because it all seems so incredibly unlikely. As Murdoch's vision solidifies and the strength of his songwriting is slowly recognised, the rest of the band circle in the ever-complicated Glasgow music scene. David himself spends much of the book hedging his bets on a couple of other bands he's playing in finally 'making it' before finding to his surprise that Belle and Sebastian have attracted the attention of the outside world. Indeed almost accidentally the band have achieved what he's been struggling to pull off for years - which isn't always an entirely comfortable feeling for him it seems. As the band's seminal "Tigermilk" is released, the book ends with David wondering how he can have succeeded but failed all at the same time? This sense of quiet bemusement and surprise pervades his writing about the period, with the supporting characters from the government sponsored Beatbox scheme - along with a couple of veteran Glasgow musical luminaries - drawn as itinerant but amusing judges of the band's earliest missteps.

My own entrance to this odd world came a while after the book ends, but the descriptions of Glasgow in the fading years of the last century accord with my own happy, slightly awestruck memories of early visits to the city. Indeed, In The All-Night Café stirred recollections which I didn't realise had become memories just yet: picking up the album in a Birmingham record shop in 1997, buying it on a whim after a good few years of being utterly disillusioned with music, and stepping off the train at Glasgow Central a little later that summer feeling a little nervous and excited to be in the city. David's book is a celebration of these tiny memories - the small, at the time insignificant events which rarely enter musical folklore but seem awfully important to how Belle and Sebastian began. Key to this story is the tension between the two Stuarts - David clearly hugely impressed by Murdoch's innate grasp of melody and songcraft, but equally aware he is compromising his own creative endeavours to be part of the band. The clarity of Murdoch's vision and his urge to be heard by the right people in the right places occasionally jars with David's more traditional time-serving approach to finding recognition. Murdoch is presented as knowing his audience from the outset - understanding the bowlies and their tastes and expectations, and persistently seeking their ears. This utterly does away with the claims of 'wilful obscurity' or 'tweeness' which were sometimes levelled in the press of the day. Murdoch - and ultimately the band which coalesced around him - wanted to be heard and understood despite the prevailing view of how bands ought to form, slog tirelessly away and gradually earn their slice of success in 'rock music'.

Stopping as it does on the very brink of the band's early successes, just before the national recognition which would propel them towards creating two of the finest records of the late 90s, this book feels tantalisingly incomplete. Ultimately, Stuart David's road would soon diverge from the band and his own creative urges would see fruition in his novel 'Nalda Said' and in Looper. So, it's very likely that the next chapter won't be written - or if it is, will be written by a different voice, from a very different viewpoint. So this sits, rather like David's contemporary 'ink polaroids' - tiny chapbooks filled with snippets of descriptive prose - as a charmingly downbeat but amusingly drawn permanent record of fast-moving times, prone to shifting and reshaping to fit history. As he states at the end of the book, the inscription on the reverse of "Tigermilk" stating that the band formed over the course of three days in an all-night café had already begun to collapse into the myth of "one night". It will always be tempting to mythologise a band which, for a brief period during those late years of the last century seemed almost perfect.

But then weren't the Glasgow summers always sunnier back then too?

Living pretty remotely from where most of the music I enjoy emanates is no new thing for me. Having spent the early 1990s voraciously collecting North American 7" singles, the few trips I could make to the USA and Canada became very precious indeed. Even though I find myself in Scotland far, far more often these days, any attempt to time my visit to coincide with shows by bands I've appreciated from afar is usually pretty futile. One act I've desperately wanted to see for a long time now is Panda Su, not least because despite the lure of near-instant delivery of music to listeners which the internet offers, Su has been sparing in her releases - apparently preferring quality over quantity. The self released "Sticks and Bricks EP" providing a tantalisingly tiny glimpse into just what was possible in the world of Panda Su.

This new EP moves things on dramatically - and just as it's always easier to spot the new haircut of a friend you don't see everyday, the changes are at first very obvious. Firstly the songs appear to have grown in scope and stature - where the first EP seemed all about uncomfortable claustrophobia with just Su Shaw's haunting and laconic vocals to keep the listener from the ever encroaching edge, this record is about spaces and the wider world. But enough remains familiar to draw you deep into these four new songs, not least that wonderfully exotic, half-spoken and half-sung delivery which seems to allow sometimes dark, often challenging lyrics to be presented in a disarmingly simple and innocent way.

Opener "The Bee Song" perfectly illustrates this strange interplay of innocence and violence, with a lyric which is much more complex than the surface initially betrays. With a simple picked guitar melody and clockwork percussion, the song develops it's own lazy shuffle which creates an appropriately summery atmosphere. Droning organ notes and occasional multi-tracked vocal interludes change the atmosphere of the song, bringing it back onto a more personal scale as Su sings "I am lost in a world that fits inside the palm of your hand". Next up, "I Begin" marks a different approach to songcraft from Panda Su with a much more organised narrative form than previous efforts, which often feel like collected snippets of observation or thought. In its construction and phrasing it is strongly reminiscent of the work of I Build Collapsible Mountains which is absolutely no bad thing. However, the traditional singer-songwriter approach is augmented by skittering beats and a shimmer of keyboard sounds which lift the song from it's melancholy melody. Su's vocal here is defiant and strong - particularly on the half-chanted refrain of "I should try to remember, I should try to forget" - but still retains its effortlessly intoxicating quality - not unlike a luxurious yawn on first waking up.

The EP closes with a pair of songs which have been part of the Panda Su live set for some time, finally captured for posterity. "The Alphabet Song" sees Su reciting the alphabet and counting over a fragile guitar melody, against a building electronic backdrop. Letters are associated with apparently random thoughts and events, and often return later in new forms or orders. As she intones the letters - including a curiously alluring pronunciation of "J" which I find myself trying to mimic and utterly failing - the beats and bleeps shimmer and stutter. This simple concept shouldn't produce such an intriguing and enduringly fascinating song. "Facts and Figures" starts with a crunching static track and the now familiar drone of organ under the chiming guitar and glockenspiel. On this track in particular, Su's vocal soars above the music and shows what a remarkable instrument it is in itself - showing it's strength and purity while incongruously stating "...I'm finding out why I'm so weak". By far the loudest and the most overtly complex of the tracks here, this remains a highlight for me after endless listens.

The title of this EP suggests a reinvention of Panda Su and to an extent that's what it represents, however the links with the past - not least in some of the long-performed songs here - are strong. Throughout, Su's highly individual, but infectious delivery remains the trademark, and two EPs in I still feel like I'll never hear enough of this - and I remain desperate to see Panda Su perform. What is certain is that these four deceptively simple and utterly rewarding compositions show a remarkable ability to hit emotional highs and lows, and a truly incredibly talent for songwriting.

Panda Su - Facts and Figures

I can't seem to sit still this month. Sandwiched between two potentially rather tricky days at work, this weekend was likely to be the one when I didn't have anywhere in particular to be. There were a couple of events around the country, but none of great interest or easy to reach - so, having spoken with Mr Spinks earlier in the week I hatched a plan to revisit some old ground and get out and about after all. Getting tickets proved challenging initially, but pretty soon - and after only one disasterous booking error which needed to be sorted with a phonecall or two - the trip was sorted. A visit to Liverpool, travelling via the Stockport to Stalybridge 'ghost train' once again. Or from my perspective, a bloody long way to go for a pint!

A nice easy start to the day - off Highbridge on time, and to Weston where the useful 07:00 would take us directly to Stockport. Breakfast after Weston, and a fairly lazy trip up via Camp Hill. Things got a little busier on the train at Birmingham, but progress was good and we made consistently early arrivals at our stopping points. I almost hate to jinx things here, but my recent experiences with Crosscountry have been very good in terms of timekeeping. I hate to say it because the lack of South West to North West services seems nuts, but perhaps the work to resolve conflicts at New Street is paying off? At a cold and windy, but most importantly dry Stockport there was time to get coffee and add some tickets to Mr Spinks collection - including a few fairly bizarre CDRs to stations on the 'ghost train' route which it was impossible to return to! A fair gathering seemed to be assembling for the trip which has over the years developed something of a cult status, and happily noted a few normals also using the service to avoid the change at Piccadilly. Chatted and snapped a few pictures while we waited for 150223 to depart for Stalybridge.

On arrival, the small horde disembarked and lingered around the unit, safely tucked into the bay platform awaiting it's departure back to Newton Heath having completed it's purpose of keeping a practically closed line legally open. Some local gricers lined up for a group shot and others took snaps of the unit on the buffers. Most had the same idea as we did, and despite my injured knee slowing me down a bit, made the dash under the subway and into the near-legendary Station Buffet to see no less than nine real ales on offer and an already busy bar. Settled on Howard Town's 'Hope' for starters, as I'd enjoyed a pint of their 'Wren's Nest' here on a previous visit. Badgered Mr Spinks into considering the addition of the famous black peas to his chosen lunch. Credit to him for trying them out, and I think quite enjoying them too. They certainly had an interesting effect on him, as moments later he was seen enjoying a half of my next choice, Phoenix Brewery's 'Darth Vader'!

Leaving reluctantly, caught the next Transpennine Express service to Liverpool. Despite being very busy, the spacious Class 185 didn't feel cramped and we had a reasonably comfortable journey via Manchester Piccadilly and the former CLC lines via Warrington Central. Passed a few notable locations, but struck by just how quiet the formerly hectic depot and sidings at Allerton and Edge Hill were. A lone shunter poised above the mainline and some dumped wagons were just about all that indicated the presence of a railway installation at all. Arrival at Lime Street was, as ever, a pleasure. I always feel like I'm at a real, old fashioned, busy station and today was no exception. Wandered a little way into the City, dodging the saturday shoppers. Mr Spinks headed down into Liverpool Central to score some more track, while mindful of my leg I stayed above and found some food having missed lunch in favour of sampling a second beer!

Back to the station in time for the 15:37, a reliveried London Midland Class 350 which looked smart and tidy. We were joined by a group of local girls heading for Birmingham, who despite being rumbled for an attempted ticket scam (and forced to pay up by the patient but firm guard) managed to be quite entertaining most of the way back. They also had a very strange idea of where Coventry was located in relation to our route - and seemed genuinely concerned when it wasn't the next station! A short wait at New Street for another timely and uneventful Crosscountry service back to Bristol. As we sped south, the weather turned first gloomy and then very wet indeed. As we waited for our final connection of the day into a Taunton train, a convoy of locomotives sped through Temple Meads causing Mr Spinks to break into a spirited platform-length sprint! I've always told him that real ale was good for you, and this demonstrates this admirably. All in all, a cracking day out covering lots of old ground and many miles with no problems or delays at all.

Out of work unusually early, after a weirdly elating day where a meeting goes less painfully than expected, I get a message to say two of tomorrow's appeal cases are withdrawn, and the school which went over number last week is magically back down to its Admission Level because a child is emigrating to Australia!

Set off for Bath on the slow stopping train in rather warm sunshine. Amusing fare-dodging incident on board, which I must say the Wessex guard handled professionally and calmly. On arriving, wandered up Manvers Street and decided to try the 'Wife of Bath' restaurant. I've passed this little semi-underground place many many times, and always liked the 'homegrown' look of its signs outside. Turned out to be a friendly, reasonable and very tasty option. Steaks were very good indeed. I'll be going back for sure!

And so to the Pavillion for Lambchop... Arrived to find the huge dancefloor seated for a lecture! In my last 'review' of a Lambchop show I commented on the diversity of the audience, and that was even more in evidence tonight. The usual stubbly young alt-country guys rubbing shoulders with the respectable 'fifty-quid' men.

Support act, The Clientele were treated respectfully. I like their records, which are lush and moody, but in a big hall they were a bit lost and very sparse sounding. Some nice moments (including a cover of 'Tracy had a hard day Sunday').

The ever-increasing orchestra which is Lambchop wasted no time in taking the stage, starting with a quiet and fragile 'My Blue Wave'. One thing that always strikes me is that this huge group of multi-instrumentalists manages to make producing a wonderful noise look so effortless. A few songs from the new records, a few old favourites, even some rock-outs! Deanna played the saxophone a little, and Kurt was in fine voice condsidering this is the tail-end of a longish tour.

Noticed a churchlike reverence in the audience, which felt rather odd. Particularly towards the end, when the bulk of the audience spontaneously left their seats and crowded around the stage - which clearly surprised the band into commenting. An odd gig in that respect. A very much truncated but much requested encore of 'Up With People' and a couple of others, and it was regretably all over.

Weird set-changing shenanigans at Temple Meads on the way home, on the variably timed and always late 1C92! Overall, a rather magical day.