And in other news...

To bring things up to date:

• Dexys played a great show at the Dome on Thursday: more than a little bonkers, but great. They did the whole of the new album, One Day I'm Going To Soar, with various theatrical bits along the way, and then a selection of oldies including 'Come On Eileen' and 'Until I Believe In My Soul'. Strong playing from the band, with Jim Paterson's trombone featuring strongly in the arrangements; Kevin Rowland and Pete Williams striding around the stage like a rap posse one minute and hamming it up in full-on am-dram the next. (If I was going to do a full review, the headline would be 'From Gangsta To Gang Show...')

• serendipitously, one of my all-time favourite songs, Dusty Springfield's version of 'Breakfast In Bed' was played over the PA at the Dome in between the burlesque dancer (don't ask...) and the band's appearance, and then I find that none other than Wussy have recorded it too. Out now, on what I am sure will be a deeply desirable split 7" in a series of tributes to writer Eddie Hinton that is being put out by the estimable Shake It Records, and winging its way from Cincinnati as I type.

• on the subject of desirable records, Eat Lights Become Lights have a new album which should be on the shopping list of all right-thinking vinyl fetishists. You will recall that last year's Autopia hit the heady heights of #8 in the Eden On The Line Records Of The Year. The new release is Heavy Electrics: sounds fine, though maybe not as immediately engrossing as its predecessor, and looks amazing, with a great sleeve and the disc pressed in three colours. Well done, Dom at Great Pop Supplement.

• And finally, my long-awaited (by me, at least) book about Van Morrison is with the printers. Saint Dominic's Flashback will be available next month in paperback and on Kindle. Watch this space for more details.

Wussy Day

'Chuck thinks that if something doesn't sound right you should stomp on a distortion pedal and make it ten times louder,' explains Wussy's Lisa Walker.

'Sometimes it works...' is the response from her partner in crime, Chuck Cleaver.

And he's right. The pair blend gorgeous melodies and great lyrics with a fine propensity for squalling noise. This, for me, is what rock & roll is supposed to be all about: a passionate racket veined with vision and beauty.

I'd turned up at Brixton's Windmill expecting the full five piece line-up of the band but found that only the two singer-songwriters had made the trip from Cincinnati. But that was never going to be a cue for some sort of laidback, acoustic performance...

In fact, it was an advantage in this intimate venue. The sound guys seemed to be having trouble getting the vocals loud enough over the bass and drums of openers Slowgun and then American Werewolf Academy - in the latter's set, even a harmonica blasting into frontman Aaron Thedford's vocal mic was barely audible. I would have hated for Wussy's wondrous words and harmonies to have gone the same way. But I needn't have worried: they come through loud and clear.

The two of them are here promoting a European-only compilation, Buckeye, drawn from four or five releases across the Atlantic over the last seven years, and there is something of a greatest hits feel to their set, with a whole clutch of songs jammed into their hour or so, any one of which would be a career highlight for most other songwriters: 'Airborne', 'Crooked', 'Maglite', 'Grand Champion Steer', 'Pulverized'... Classic songs just keep on coming.

There's a fascinating chemistry between the duo. Walker is keen to emphasise that they're no longer a couple offstage. 'But there's no real hate,' adds Cleaver, prompting the response: 'I'm not so sure...'

Lisa spends the set alternately grimacing at unexpected musical interventions and beaming at some of the many points when the big man undoubtedly pulls it off. The prickly intimacy in the way their voices and guitars entwine is something special and testifies to deep familiarity with each other's approach. 'We formed the band about 10 years ago,' says Walker. 'I was just an embryo; Chuck was already 50.

This isn't supposed to be slick music and when Lisa apologises for something that was rougher than she'd have liked, a guy in the audience shouts 'Remember Neil Young: ragged glory'. That's not a bad analogy: Wussy have a similar inclination to just go for it in performance and see what comes out; and a similar ability to veer between muscle and bruised vulnerability. As well as songs that stand up in that sort of exalted company.

I'm taken again tonight by the subtlety and beauty of many of those songs, alongside the energy and drive. 'Motorcycle' in particular gets its hooks in my brain, drawing on both the physical (small town, humdrum life) and the spiritual (flashes of the Rapture) to build the power of its yearning for escape:

16 motorcycles just today.

And if they offered I would take it:

A free ride out of this place.

And I would sit right on the back

Without a helmet on,

One day you'll see.

There's something very special going on here: do catch the tour if you can, and give the records a try.

Meanwhile, they're clearly thrilled to be in London and relishing some local experiences, though the double decker buses are not entirely suited to Chuck's ample frame... 'and they smell funny,' he added in a disappointed tone. 'They only smell funny,' came the immediate rejoinder, 'because of your bag of curry'.

A non-couple, but joined at the hip.

Wussy Eve

The next installment in a pretty amazing 10 days of live music comes tomorrow with Wussy at the Brixton Windmill (followed by Dexys back in Brighton on Thursday).

Just getting in the mood with a very nice duo-session Chuck Cleaver and Lisa Walker did for Marc Riley yesterday and available here. Marc is somewhat annoying, but three excellent songs...

Meg Baird and Jason Steel, West Hill Hall

It's great when you go to see an old hero and know all the songs. It's also great to hear fine, new, unfamiliar music - particularly in an intimate setting.

So, 48 hours after Patti Smith wowed a couple of thousand of us at the Brighton Dome, I was one of maybe 50 up the road at the West Hill Community Hall - where my kids went to a toddlers' playgroup, where the stage lighting is provided by two old standard lamps, and where Michael Chapman played an amazing show earlier this year.

And Michael it was who led me to Meg Baird. She has a lovely version of his 'No Song To Sing' on the Oh Michael, Look What You've Done: Friends Play Michael Chapman compilation, which is shaping up to feature strongly in my favourite records of 2012.

And that was all I knew when I bought the tickets, other than that she had played in Espers, an American folk band who have never really grabbed my attention.

What a voice: clear and pure with effortless power, influenced - as I see the critics note and she herself acknowledges - by the sound of the English folk revival (Celia Humphris of Trees, Jacqui McShee, Shirley Collins are in the mix), but with a tone and style which is very much her own. Her largely fingerpicking guitar style is also distinctive and provides a solid and reliable platform for the songs.

She seems very shy. Singing always with her eyes closed, barely moving, taking several numbers before starting to say anything to the audience. But she warms into it and communicates a real charm: flashing delighted smiles at the end of the songs, which she seems surprised to find are greeted with rapturous applause. (I came away clutching a copy of her Seasons On Earth album, the sleeve of which has four photos of her, three of which hide her face entirely and the last has an eyes-closed semi-profile as she smiles at her dog... We like you too, Meg!)

She was supported by Jason Steel, a remarkable guitar and banjo player from Yorkshire, who also writes a mean song and sings with a light, true voice. He is remarkable for the way that he will leave space in his arrangements and allow the pace to drop, trusting the music to proceed according to its own internal logic. It works: spellbindingly.

He tells some funny and affecting stories, and quotes John Fahey - who is one definite reference point for the music, along with old, weird folk (from both sides of the Atlantic) and blues. But I also caught some flashes of early Paul Simon and (as my partner pointed out) Jeff Buckley in his songs. Fahey's advice was always to finish with a hymn and Jason gave us two, including a great reading of 'Satan, Your Kingdom Must Come Down'.

I came away with a handsome piece of vinyl from him, too - his very nicely packaged The Weight of Care album (numbered 242 of 250 - phew, just made it...). I'm going to enjoy getting to know both of my acquisitions.

A lovely, mellow evening: and the stars seemed particularly bright, walking home.

Patti Smith and Bob Dylan's 'Tempest'

I'm running out of superlatives for Patti Smith. I haven't seen her play a better show than the glorious couple of hours she delivered at Brighton's Dome last night.

She and her band have been on the road for several months now, on the back of their excellent Banga album. The musicians are tight, assured and powerful - and anything but jaded. She is supremely confident and self-aware, singing and moving superbly, seemingly relaxed and in her element. As the show progresses, she switches easily between communicating girlish glee - in telling a host of stories from her seaside stay and then upstaging Lenny Kaye's Nuggets medley by sitting on the edge of the stage swinging her feet and waving to the audience - and delivering a series of mesmerising performances.

She ranged widely across her back catalogue, with some older, obscurer selections like 'Distant Fingers' and 'Free Money' mixed in with new material like 'Fuji-San' and 'Banga' - the latter featuring her son Jackson reprising the dog noises he contributed on the record. And there were extraordinary readings of a series of classics - 'Redondo Beach', 'Pissing In A River', 'Because The Night', 'Gloria' and finally - and unbeatably - 'Rock 'n' Roll Nigger'. She spelled out Pussy Riot's name at the end of 'Gloria' and returned to their cause in the electrifying climax of the set - convinced and convincing in her determination that people do indeed have the power 'to redeem the work of fools'.

Heading home happily I couldn't help reflecting on an afternoon spent listening to Bob Dylan's Tempest. He is five years older than Patti, but there is a gulf now which feels an awful lot wider.

His is an old man's album: a perfectly decent and listenable one, but with nothing particularly new to communicate, and a fair amount of padding and verbal clumsiness in amongst the one-liners and flashes of wit, which remind us of why we're still listening to him. Inevitably, it isn't quite as good as some of the 5-star reviews suggest: it is an unavoidable fact that Bob does not sing or write as well as he used to. I certainly do not dismiss late-period Dylan and I love the fact that he is still out there doing his thing. But I can't say I return to his recent albums that often, despite some classy playing and treasurable moments, and I no longer rush to get tickets to see him live.

In contrast, I don't think it is an exaggeration to say that Patti, at 65, is an artist in her prime, vital and compelling. I'm already wondering when I can see her again. A US tour with Neil Young? Hmm...