George Bellows, A Stag at Sharkey's, 1917

The American Scene chronicles American printmaking from the early 1900’s through to 1960, a timeframe of vast economic, political and social change. The vibrancy of the Jazz Age was culled by the crippling Depression, before the Second World War consumed all, and the post-war period slowly clawed away at regaining stability. All of which is detailed by this very real, very gritty exhibition.

Beginning with the urban, everyday etchings of John Sloan and the dark, brutal works of George Bellows in the early 1900’s, we are confronted with a harsh reality of violent American gutter life, from grubby prize-fighting to chaotic asylum wards and overcrowded high-rise tenements. It is a very savage, yet very honest, portrayal, as much engrossing as it is gruesome.

Cloud-piercing skyscrapers embodied the construction of the Modernist, industrial ideal in the 1910’s, especially the formidable, angular skyline of New York City. Louis Lozowick and Charles Sheeler’s precise, geometric representations of the Big Apple underpin the enormity and scale of such a bold industrial programme.

The optimism of the 1920’s, however, was swept aside following the Wall Street Crash of 1929, as the country itself crashed into economic hardship. Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal programme, however, in particular the Works Progress Administration, promoted the worth of the graphic arts, and commissioned the outlay of socially-centred prints, aimed at recording the economic plight and championing its recovery. We are thus presented with representations of both bleak working conditions, and bright illustrations of hope and prosperity.

The epic struggle of The Second World War demanded patriotic support, and printmaking was employed to promote the necessity and virtue of the war effort. Colourful nationalistic pride boasted of American might and the assurance of victory.

Following the realism and horror of war, abstract expressionism was elevated as a creative escape. The spontaneity of the works of Jackson Pollock offered a new, exciting release from the drudgery of the Depression and the war, honouring the experimental above the ordered.

This shift is outlined brilliantly by The American Scene, an exhibition that not only reflects the social conditions of the time, but doggedly drags us in to experience them ourselves. We feel the grittiness of underground city life, witness the sorrow of the Depression and sense the patriotism of the Second World War. It is an engaging, sometimes sombre, sometimes exciting, timeline of real American life, dark and dirty, yet passionate and busy.

Claude Cahun, Self Portrait, 1927

Angels of Anarchy is a bold, flagrant celebration of female surrealism, proudly bursting out from the shackles tightened by its overbearing male counterpart. For, whilst male surrealism challenged order in art, it accepted domestic tradition. This exhibition unearths the abundance of female surrealist creativity that thus simmered beneath the surface from the 1930s onwards. Works by renowned artists such as Frida Kahlo, Meret Oppenheim and Lee Miller chart the subsequent rise of the surrealist woman.

Split into themes, the exhibition guides you from the seemingly benign, restrictive ‘a woman’s place is in the home’ ideal to a fantasy, dream-like escape. It is an adventure wherein the norms of female subservience are subtly challenged and then aggressively dismissed.

Portrait / Self Portrait is a theme that mocks the notion of the passivity of women, instead offering a variety of photographs and paintings that promote the complexity and fluidity of the female body and mind. Still Life gnaws at the usual banality of still life subject matter. Here, bowls of fruit, upon closer inspection, transform into mucky female genitalia, fiercely biting at the objectification of women. In Landscape, again, erotic body parts are teasingly merged into mountain ranges and deserts, whilst Interior, in which dark and dingy confinements reflect the confinement of the home, is laced with brazen anatomical hint.

Fantasy, however, is the last step of the journey, representing the liberation and potential of the opened female mind. It mixes folklore and myth to provide a stirring and unexpected finale to a collection that was in danger of becoming a little too stern and repetitive. It is a burst of colour that perhaps highlights the exposure of female surrealism that Angels of Anarchy here affords.

The exhibition offers a different side to surrealism. Little mention is given to Picasso or Dali, so those wishing to discover the core of the movement may be best advised to search elsewhere. What it does provide, however, is a glimpse into a background movement that challenged misogynistic artistic norms. And what is surrealism, after all, if not a defiance of the ordinary and accepted?

Album is the sun-soaked, whimsical debut offering from Californian duo Christopher Owens and Chet “JR” White, aka, Girls. It flits between chirpy and downtrodden melancholy, resulting in a relaxed psychedelic record bristling with summertime angst. It is effortless San-Francisco folk-pop that whistles along breezily and chirpily.

The undoubted highlights are album opener ‘Lust for Life’, a poppy, blissful ode to teenage insecurity, and “Hellhole Ratrace”, a lengthy, sober plea for better times. Whilst the remaining songs never quite scale the heights of these heartbroken peaks, the album skips along nice and prettily, and Owens’ broken lyrics and Elvis Costello-like delivery sit happily above Beach Boys-esque harmonies.

Rumour has it that Owens, as a child, was once a member of the Children of God cult, where allegations of child abuse have since been whispered. Owens ran away from the group when he was sixteen, explaining, perhaps, his vulnerable and yearning demeanour. It is the influence of the Golden State, however, that looms largest over Album. It’s hippy, laid-back vibe could only be conjured from a surrounding so idyllic. As such, it is the perfect Summer drenched record.

Unearth Dig! at pitchfork.com this week

Available for free, for one week only, thanks to pitchfork.com, is the engrossing 2004 documentary Dig!, a raucous insight into the egotistical, self-aggrandising, yet ultimately spell-binding profiles of The Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols. Filmmaker Ondi Timoner collated almost seven years worth of material, stretched across both bands, charting the simultaneous rise of the Dandys and the dramatic self-destruction of the BJM, as both endeavoured, with drastically differing success, to revolutionise the money-manacled, market-driven music industry.

At its core, Dig! parallels the careers of the bands front men, the scuppered genius of the BJM’s Anton Newcombe, and Courtney Taylor-Taylor, the Dandys self-obsessed, image-conscious talisman. Beginning their respective careers as friends and peers, both seem seduced by the others charms, yet obsessed by the success of each others band. As the Dandys take off, Newcombe appears begrudgingly jealous of Taylor-Taylor’s exposure, whilst Taylor-Taylor remains constantly in awe of Newcombe’s boundless and effortless creativity. As the Dandys tour Europe, playing to thousands of expectant fans, the BJM scuttle across America in a battered van, performing for mere tens of bemused, beer-drenched barflys.

Yet, it is Newcombe who is the pivotal anti-hero throughout. An unashamedly, devastatingly talented musician, he is as equally obnoxious as he is compelling. A rampant heroin addiction overshadows his intense charisma. His self-prophesising selfishness outweighs his musical prolificacy. Whether he be attacking his band mates on stage or fighting his girlfriend at home, Newcombe seems hell-bent on destroying not only his bands chances at stardom, but his personal relationships too. It is a touching portrayal of a man so consumed in his own warped rock n’ roll cliché that his talent is kept at arms length from mass circulation.

At once engaging, funny and traumatic, Dig! is a must-see for any aspiring musicians looking to break into the industry, but wanting to also keep their musical morals intact. If you don’t catch Dig! at pitchfork.com this week, be sure to unearth this buried treasure in the very near future.

A welcome addition to the cluster of vintage stores sprouting up around Manchester’s Northern Quarter, Blue Rinse is a neat, compact, beneath-the-pavement shop peeping out onto Tib Street. It stocks all of the essential ingredients of the formulaic retro offering, similar to, say, Ryan’s Vintage, but minus the clutter. Split almost in half between pretty dresses and accessories for the ladies, and funky indie and sport chic for the lads, it is a cosy setting for both trendy boys and girls to root out hidden gems.

Alongside the mandatory neckerchiefs and plimsoles, there are to be unearthed quirky printed tees (Michael Jackson and The Modern Lovers being particularly hip), beside stretchy patterned vests and even sleeveless denim jackets. The shop is smartly compartmentalised, and so is simple to navigate, yet chaotic enough to add that necessary rock n’ roll tinge.

The original Blue Rinse shop was established in Leeds in 1997, cottoning on to the idea that a rise in cheap, conveyor belt clothing was harnessing within the cunning fashionista a desire for the return of the classic and sustainable vintage ideal. It has thus pioneered the vintage revival that has engulfed the last decade, and now, luckily for us, has decided to disperse its troops across to Manchester. Not only does Blue Rinse advocate vintage, it has also adopted the notion of ‘re-made’ clothing, in essence the transformation of vintage garments into new designs, and ‘new clothing’, which is the use of contemporary fabrics to create its own unique lines.

To sum up, Blue Rinse is an exciting new little fixture on the Northern Quarter’s trendy streets, adding to an already burgeoning vintage scene but bringing its own dynamic ideas and honourable values. A sure-fire hit pocketed away within the fashion epicentre of Manchester city centre.

Griffiths gets to grips with his role as Harpagon

The set may be dusty and downbeat, yet the performances in The Miser are spritely and splendid. The play races along through two hours of relentless laughter with breathless energy. The fulcrum of Robert Cogo-Fawcett and Braham Murray’s adaptation of the late 17^th Century French comedy, is Harpagon, brilliantly and overwhelmingly brought to life by Derek Griffiths, who grumpily stalks the bleached-wooded floor boards, terrorising both cast and audience members alike. Simon Gregor provides a lighter, cheekier touch as the frenzied valet, La Flache, himself leaping and bounding about the stage with equal vigour.

The energetic performances, of those two in particular, offset handsomely against the sparse backdrop and powdered and tatty, yet effortlessly stylish, costume. Designer Ashley Martin-Davies has remarkably juxtaposed bleak, colour-drained dress with a spiky, New Romantic-influenced exuberance. It looks as though the characters have spent the afternoon excitedly dusting down old chalkboards in preparation for a night at an eccentric ball dance. It offers a punky elegance to a brittle background.

The story centres upon Harpagon, a wealthy scrooge, obsessed by money and insensitive to the feelings of others. Especially, it transpires, to those of his son, Cleante, and daughter, Elise. Cleante wishes to marry the beautiful Marianne, whilst Elise has fallen for the cunning steward, Valere. Harpagon, however, is more concerned with marriage dowries than wedded bliss, and has chosen for his daughter the prosperous Signor Anselme, and has cherry-picked the lovely Marianne for himself. Thus follows a series of shocking twists and hilarious consequences, all maneuvered by the powerful Harpagon.

Only the slightly silly and bemusing conclusion deflects from the overall vibrancy of this comedy, accompanied by rather stale and misinformed performances by the statuesque Tim Barlow as Signor Anselme, and the laborious Julian Chargrin as dopey chef Jaques. Chagrin is reminiscent of gormless Nanny in TV cartoon Duckula compared to fleet-footed Gregor and the mesmerising Griffiths.

Nevertheless, The Miser is a triumphant addition to the Royal Exchange this year, extolling juvenile farce and mixing it with offbeat glamour. It is a ferocious rollercoaster on which you’ll be glad to ride.

Glitter rained down upon Friendly Fires and into a sea of swooning, bedazzled fans as ‘Paris’ brought to a close a remarkable show, a three-pronged attack by a clutch of excellent new bands.

Such now is the allure of the St Albans four-piece that the sizeable Kentish Town Forum was crammed full of hip-swingers, eager to absorb the bullets expertly shot by Friendly Fires. “They’ll be out for us,” bellowed energetic frontman Ed Macfarlane, and out in our droves, we certainly were. Whilst an insurmountable queue for the bar was a no-go, a bustle into the centre of the jostling stage-front was a must. Personal favourites ‘White Diamonds’ and ‘On Board’ pumped and thronged, whilst massive singles ‘Jump in the Pool’ and ‘Skeleton Boy’ shuddered and reverberated across the baying crowd like rolling thunder. Faultless.

Headband-ed hipsters Hockey topped the undercard. On this performance, however, it cannot be long before these frantic fellows are headlining their own glitzy gigs. ‘Learn to Lose’ is a sprinkly, funky Rapture/Razorlight romp, and ‘Too Fake’ is their first sauntering, snarling single. Hopefully it’ll be the first of many. Expect big things from these pretty Portland punks.

Crisis? What crisis? There’s certainly not one as far as the laid-back boys of Boy Crisis are concerned. Their lackadaisical appearance is matched by their sleazy, sexy beats, shone no brighter than on awesome track ‘L’homme’. Atmospheric synths coy and giggle throughout. “You can do me like Bruce Springsteen” titillates one line in ‘Dressed to Digress’. Aces.

Three magical bands for £15? Climb on, climb on board!

Tottering up the steps of Manchester’s Deaf Institute, I wondered whether the experience of a Saturday night silent disco would force my skinny legs skating around the dance floor, or sullenly shuffling back out of the joint. For the third collaboration between mighty Manchester nightlife stalwarts Revolver and Up the Racket, sees them testing the water of a medium usually reserved for muddy midnight festival nutters, or half-full, internet-concocted train station rendezvous.

The proposal for a 60’s pop/northern soul and catchy, contemporary indie silent disco, therefore, is a brave one.

Lucky, then, that the proposal was championed, for the night was truly amazing.

Beneath the spin of the dangling disco ball, bequiffed teddy boys fluttered about the room, unfazed as the headphones flattened their tops, rubbing shoulders with smouldering, cheerily cheek-boned ladies, spinning and bouncing upon tiny plimsolls, to the music beating inside and against their jubilant ear drums.

And it was the music, moreover, that ensured this fantastic dizziness of the dance floor. Friendly Fires fired into one chap’s head whilst The Supremes swooned into somebody else’s. The result was a pulsating dance floor, jigging wildly to uplifting, rhythmic dance delights.

And that’s not to mention the fun to be had by removing your headphones and listening to the warble and tangle of tuneless voices, or witnessing the silly jives and taps of silent dancing!

The more the Racket Upped, the more the room excitedly Revolved.

Looking forward to the next one? Yeah Yeah Yeah!

Defining Constructivism showcases the avant-garde works of Russian artists Aleksandr Rodchenko (1891-1956) and Liubov Popova (1889-1924), two pivotal figures in the outbreak of Constructivism, an experiment that followed the Russian Revolution and sought to dismantle the old order of classic art. Artistic beauty was trampled by mass produced, constructed, industrial works. Painting was abandoned in favour of photography, advertising, film and graphics.

The subject matter is sharp and mettlesome, the visual experience is foreboding and impressive. It frogmarches you through 12 rooms, outlining Rodchenko and Popova’s progression from abstract painting to graphic designs. It forces you to encounter illustrations, 3D objects, and even cinema along the way. It proves a powerful reminder of muscular early communism.

This was art for the people, not the individual. The artists wanted the work to look and feel like it had been manufactured, as though it was a factory product. The result was sharp, angular and aggressive art that varied from bold adverts for state products to violent political magazines. Art no longer separated people, it bound them together.

The exhibition not only recalls the forcefulness of early communism, but also its innocence. Hindsight unravels to us the deficiencies that the communist system couldn’t hide, but this artwork presents us with an insight into its initial euphoria and boundless potential.

It is a grand, adventurous and optimistic throw back. It represents the widespread belief in a new way of life. Soviet Russia had disbanded Tsarist Imperialism and the people had taken centre stage. Defining Constructivism powerfully illustrates this shift. Art was no longer the prerogative of the bourgouise, rather the necessity of the proletariat.

Chilling, perhaps, to witness this work knowing of the consequences of the system it promoted, but equally, if not more so, fascinating because of it. Defining Constructivism offers the visitor a peek into a period of history when people exuberantly believed their lives to be changing forever.

Timely, then, that the exhibition should surface during this current economic downturn. The capitalist banking system has been brought to its knees and many ponder the efficiency and sustainability of the capitalist principle. Disillusion with capitalism inevitably leads to a harking for an alternative. Defining Constructivism presents the most famous alternative at its dynamic, youthful best.

Instantly recognisable, and highly influential, the Constructivist style used sharp angles and block lines to create a powerful and imposing look. Striking, vivid colour, mish-mashed with photo-montage and brash typography, to unleash affecting and unforgettable images. Rich colour aligns itself aside robust messages.

Social, political, and historical significance are each reason enough to visit Defining Constructivism. That the exhibition is visually stunning is a terrific bonus. Mechanical and considered pieces line the walls, industrial yet engaging. It can be at once charming and harrowing. The 12 room lay out requires persistence and willing, but rewards with an interactive, dominating experience: educational yet enthralling.

Common, Common, a brash and funky bar situated in the heart of Manchester’s unapologetically cool Northern Quarter, automatically justifies itself as the ideal place to meet Richard Roberts, a front-running street artist emerging from the Manchester scene. The walls are plastered from floor to ceiling with artwork, a new exhibition occupying the venue every few months, as artists are invited in to daub the place as they see fit. Roberts’ own work, I’m to learn, even graces the outside wall of the snazzy nightspot. It all adds up to a colourful, quirky setting for an interview with a colourful and quirky character.

I hoped to learn of Roberts’ own personal story, yet to also discover his views of graffiti as a wider genre, especially following the recent arrest of street artist Shepard Fairey, the man responsible for the red, white and blue ‘Hope’ posters that formed the backdrop for Barack Obama’s presidential campaign. Mr Fairey was arrested for property damage, yet his work is being proudly displayed at the prestigious Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston.

“It’s silly to me”, laughs Roberts, “it’s not as if he [Fairey] is some kid going round tagging random property. He has been endorsed by the most powerful man in the world! His work should be appreciated, not vilified. He’s not destroying things, he’s creating them.”

Public regard for street art, on the other hand, is not so clear cut. Whilst many admire the complexity and aestheticism of the practice, many more dismiss it as a needless nuisance.

Roberts himself, certainly appears the archetypal grungy graffiti artist. Low-slung baseball cap hangs casually above a mopped, tangled beard. A baggy t-shirt droops lazily over clumpy combat trousers. His scruffy appearance, however, contrasts sharply with his precise and elegant artwork.

I myself have already become accustomed to some of his more celebrated endeavours. He performed live at the Manchester Eurocultured street festival in the summer of 2008, under his alias Ruse. Alongside other talented illustrators, he conspired to transform New Wakefield Street into a whirling mass of intricate colour. His spiky graffiti can also be seen emblazoned across shop shutters throughout the Northern Quarter, and, one that he’s especially proud of, surrounding the entrance door to South nightclub. “Yeah, that one’s cool. It’s quite an iconic Manchester indie club, and the entrance was even used in a photo advert for Harley Davidson. There’s a big motorcycle parked in front of South, with my artwork virtually filling up the rest of the space. It’s great!”

It transpires that he’s also travelled with his work, partaking in the prestigious Dot The Eyes exhibition in Copenhagen, “absolutely awesome city”, alongside some “very drunken, very funny”, trips to Austria and Dublin. He works on a variety of canvasses for smaller graphics too, including sheet metal and wood. He has designed tattoos and decorated trainers, including work on a campaign for New Balance.

Some of the work that he finds most gratifying, however, is that which benefits others. In February 2009, he orchestrated a workshop for a Primary School in Burnley, which resulted in a wall of the playground being transformed from ugly grey brick to a “kind of psychedelic zoo with animals playing in a band”. He grins, “the nippers designed all the characters and even helped with the fills.” In November 2008 he painted a van for the Youth Contact Team, a mobile unit branch of the Manchester Youth Arts Network, an outreach programme that believes all young people should have access to art of some form.

“Doing those kind of jobs is really rewarding,” he ponders, “usually communities look down on things like graffiti, so it’s great to have people encouraging you and giving you positive feedback. Working with kids is brilliant. They’re so creative and fun, it kind of brings out the big kid in you. They respond really well to fun activities. It’s cool when you think that you’ve brought out the artistic sides in kids who might not get the chance to show it otherwise.”

It’s this positive shine of graffiti that Roberts is keen to stress. “I can understand people getting annoyed about graffiti, especially if it’s on their property or in their neighbourhood, and I agree that a lot of it can be tacky and ugly, but there’s so much more to it than scallies with spray cans. It’s a valid art form and just as valid as any other. When done with skill and passion, it can be incredible. Just look at Banksy, his work is selling for thousands of pounds nowadays. It’s obvious that it’s a popular activity. I get lots of people congratulating me on my work at shows, which is ace. It proves that people like it and can understand the artistic merit.”

This brings us neatly back round to the issue of Shepard Fairey. “His [Fairey’s] work is mint. It can proudly stand up next to any art form in the world as far as I’m concerned. He shouldn’t be treated like a criminal. It’s like the DPM crew in London all over again.” The DPM crew, I’m animatedly told, are a gang of South London graffiti artists that were jailed for defacing public property in July 2008. As they were locked up, their work was hung up at the Anonymous Gallery Project in New York, in a display entitled DPM – Exhibit A, which unashamedly flaunted both the convicts’ artwork and criminal charge sheets side by side.

Both cases highlight the ever-strained divide between people’s opinions regarding street art. For Roberts, however, the artistry of the spray can is undoubted. “With graffiti, you don’t have to visit a gallery or a museum to see brilliant art. More often than not, people will come across it by accident. I love the fact that some random person might check out my graffiti on his way to work. It could even brighten up his morning. It might…” he giggles, “Even inspire him to be creative.”