To be honest, I was expecting a brand new studio album. The release dates for “Sugar Mountain” and the behemoth of “Archives” have been pinging around the calendar for so long now, it seemed reasonable to suspect that Neil Young had been distracted from his librarian duties once again by a sudden urgent rush of new music: a follow-up to “Looking For A Leader” and its Obama reference in time for the election, perhaps?

We were playing the new album by Fab Moretti and his other band, Little Joy, yesterday, when talk turned somewhat inevitably to The Strokes. The Reviews Ed was saying how much he liked the second Strokes album, and then we were trying to remember much about the third album: he recalled not rating it; I seemed to have fondish memories of about four tracks, but couldn’t remember a single title, let alone a tune.

I’ve just been playing this Art Ensemble Of Chicago thing from 1970 on Soul Jazz, “Les Stances A Sophie”, so it seems logical to follow it up with the fourth duo recording by Steve Reid and Kieran Hebden.

I don’t listen to music in headphones that often, but some kind of meeting nearby has meant the stereo has been switched off this morning, and I’ve been forced to listen to the high-end fuzz attack of Times New Viking up close.

A bit late in the day, but I just got round to reading a couple of things in this morning's Guardian. One is Matt Bolton's piece on the class war in British indie. The other is Alexis Petridis' customarily thought-provoking review of Oasis' "Dig Out Your Soul".

They should have just started a 35-date European tour as guests of The Hold Steady, who pulled all their shows earlier this week due to the hospitalisation of guitarist Tad Kubler. Instead, Philadelphia’s War On Drugs find themselves stranded in London, where they were probably considering busking as an alternative to starving on the capital’s streets before being added at the last minute to tonight’s Club Uncut bill at the Borderline.

This was in a way like returning to the scene of the crime, or something like it.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve seemed to accumulate a pretty impressive bunch of folk and folk-rock reissues on my desk. The most recent to turn up is a straightforward reissue of Anne Briggs’ first self-titled LP, on the excellent Water label out of San Francisco.

One of the worst pieces of music I’ve heard this year, I think, would have to be the Manic Street Preachers’ cover version of Rihanna’s “Umbrella”. It’s part of a grisly tradition: guitar bands – usually some plodders like Biffy Clyro, possibly working at the behest of Jo Whiley – indie-fying a pop hit.

Trying to cover the entirety of Neil Young’s tempestuous 40 year career in a documentary film lasting not much more than 60 minutes is a bit like trying to pour the Atlantic into a bucket, an impossible task, however noble the intentions.