I am writing this on Wednesday 28 July, and I can hardly wait. And we all know where the sun rises first.s.price independent.co.uk. "Ha ha, look at these crazy Japs," the standard line goes, "trying to be like us, but getting it all wrong!" But who is taking the Miki out of whom? It never seems to occur to anyone that maybe "they" know exactly what they are doing, and the joke is on "us". You can see this in the kitschy, fake-Japanese T-shirts sold by websites like Engrish , and you can see it in the depiction of Japan in Sofia Coppola's ludicrously overrated and profoundly xenophobic film Lost in Translation.And you can certainly see it in Western critical discourse regarding Japanese pop acts like The 5,6,7,8s, Shonen Knife, ex-Girl, and the truly bizarre Polysics.

"A Coke? OK..." Later, he almost admonishes the crowd for their booze-fuelled exuberance. "Are you all gonna remember this, or are you too pissed?" I'm sober, and I've forgotten it already.The West has always eyed Japan with a mixture of fear and admiration. One need only look at the Oriental features of baddies in science fiction (Flash Gordon and Star Trek, to name but two examples) to see this psychological process in action: Japanese people were, throughout much of the 20th century, treated - in every sense - as alien.With the gradual rapprochement and resumption of cultural links between East and West since the end of the Second World War (and of imperial-fascist Japan), the fear, on the part of the West, has been replaced by a kind of patronising amusement. But when he announces, "This is about being a fuck-up", before the most furious song of the night (we're talking Mot?ad velocity), it's proof that Coxon reserves his bitterest bile for himself.And we all know what he's talking about. Coxon's well-reported alcoholism was surely as significant a factor in his separation from Albarn and co as any of the time-honoured "musical differences", and it's still apparently a sore subject Midway through the show, somebody hands him a drink "What is this?" he says, examining the glass with suspicion. It took a while to register the ponytails and dreadlocks under their hats, so powerful is the authority of uniform.

Then came a policeman with a flute, and another with a viola, and another with a horn, and the chant of Te lucis ante terminum began. No concession to microphone positions, no concession to perfection of ensemble, or music as a museum art.If updating Britten's Noh-inspired church parable as a modern day murder enquiry is a brave move, making the process of investigation a rite for the loss of a child - with constables as its celebrants and evidence bags as its bread and wine - is even braver. Singing policemen, a tenor soloist in Pythonesque drag, a false audience of parents of missing children, a pack of press photographers and a stage that continually fragments and moves among the audience combine to disconcert. Do you laugh? Do you become angry? Do you cry? Had the playing of Birmingham Contemporary Music Group been less exemplary, had Mark Wilde (Madwoman), Rodney Clarke (Ferryman), Iain Paterson (Traveller), Keel Watson (Abbot), Benjamin Durrant (Spirit) and their chorus showed one scintilla less commitment to tone, text, line and meaning, this could have been a disaster. As it was, Curlew River was, with some significant reservations, one of the most powerful Proms experiences I've enjoyed.So to the reservations.

There are interesting parallels between Vick's post-Glyndebourne work and that of Christopher Alden. Both directors have a remarkable talent for directing choruses: an attention to individual nuances of gesture within a large body of people that is more powerful for being so subtle Both directors interrogate received ideas of presentation. Both have used a second audience of actors as a fun-fair mirror to our own reactions, and both exploit that voyeuristic nexus of hilarity and horror that we feel when watching a tragedy unfold. He can, however, write a truly touching song when he puts his mind to it, as he shows with "Life it Sucks" ("It's painful sitting on my hands, when I want to touch your hair").One track, a blistering B-side, seems to go "Whatever happened to my chart position?/ Oh what I'd give to be a real musician..." and the gossip hound in your head can't help wondering who he's addressing. When he plays a cover version, it's "That's When I Reach for My Revolver" by uber-culty Eighties American band Mission of Burma (also covered by Moby). And there's still a degree of wilfully primitive lo-fi, such as the faux naive gothic blues (with a tiny "g") of "Girl Done Gone", which is not quite in the Jack White class (frankly, who is?).