A hazy Sunday, a crowd held in rapt devotion, four solemn voices coiling into harmonic shapes that could only have been crafted by the Almighty. Even without the astonishing array of preacherly beards — the Ezekiel; the Dostoevsky; the Beelzebub — the Fleet Foxes’ performance at the Roundhouse felt more like an act of worship than a rock’n’roll gig. When, after a particularly heartbreaking solo turn, the lead singer Robin Pecknold gazed into the middle distance and gesticulated in an upwards motion, my wife turned to me and wondered: “Is he … pointing towards God?”

“I think he’s asking the sound man to turn his guitar up,” I replied. But actually, what did I know?

There’s a definite religious bent to the bands that are striking a chord right now. The Kings of Leon, newly crowned best international band at the Brit Awards, supposedly grew up as the children of a travelling evangelist and still milk the story to add to their mystique. Arcade Fire earned the unofficial title of the best live act in the world with a show that is positively pentecostal. Then there is that nagging rumour that Bono is actually Christ himself, but I was unable to confirm or deny this at the time of writing.

I daresay about 80 per cent of the Fleet Foxes crowd would not be seen dead in a church. A devotion to indie music tends to go hand in hand with a disregard for religion; when hotly tipped American band Cold War Kids revealed they were born-again Christians a couple of years ago, they immediately lost half of their fanbase.
It comes down to how you style it — when the five members of Fleet Foxes chant in unison “You run with the devil”, as if they are engaged in some collective act of will to shut out Satan through sheer selfless sincerity, the Roundhouse was hushed into silence.

London can seem a pretty unholy place most of the time. On the way home from the gig I came inches from being brained by a bendy bus, and, I confess, I felt little consolation that the would-be instrument of my death had the words “There’s probably no god. Now stop worrying and enjoy life” written on the side of it. Is it any wonder that we now seek out that affirmative, communal experience that religion once provided in concert halls and stadia?

Mind you, I’m not sure how to explain the boisterous section of the crowd who persistently asked the band to play something from High School Musical. Perhaps that’s just the indie form of speaking in tongues.

After the Brit Awards, many stars repaired to Shepherd's Bush Empire for the War Child charity concert. On this auspicious occaision, Coldplay's Chris Martin made up for his band's snub at the hands of the jury by appearing on stage not only with Bono but also with Brandon Flowers of the Killers and also Gary Barlow from Take That! Imagine if a bomb went off then and there! What hope would the African children have then?

Ogling this astonishing quartet, I wonder: what is the collective noun for a group of artists of such diverse and massive talent? An ebullience of pop stars? A supernova of pop stars? A git of pop stars? Suggestions please!

I was supposed to be out clinking glasses and tossing repartée with the Kings of Leon at the captain's table. Alas, I was struck down by a virus and spent the day trying to keep my insides in and cursing the rolling world. No, too much to risk - I did not wish to emit upon the Followill Bros and their celebrity friends. So I repaired to my bunk and watched the Brits unfurl through the medium of ITV, gripped by a fever-dream, begging for mercy. Strange visions began to fill my cabin...

... Duffy rode a bicycle through my very consciousness, spilling Diet Coke all over my sense of integrity ... the gross large head of Neil Tennant thanked me archly again and again and again ... Satan disguised as Matthew Horne danced with gross exuberance to Always On My Mind ... James Corden and Gary Barlow bundled me ... a man named Guy Gravy cuddled me better ... Brandon Flowers off of the Killers revisited the pet shops of his youth and lifted the kennel to reveal: Bono ... Lady GaGa did a pole dance, the pole was celebrity itself ... Tom Jones revealed himself to be the father of Duffy right there and then on stage, the mother was... Stacey off of Gavin and Stacey! ... Kylie smiled, sadly... and all was black.

...Clawing through the flotsam of the wreckage, I alighted on a lonely strip of land, and pulled myself from the mire to gather my breath. After some time on this bleak beach - who knows how many hours passed as diverse recollections lapped the shore like the corpses of so many lost comrades? - reason began to return to me. I wondered whether Elbow did not win the Brit Award simply on the back of winning the Mercury Award and they surely only won the Mercury Award because singer Guy Garvey is a nice chap with a nice radio show on 6Music. I wondered how Duffy's providence will compare with those of thrice-winners Scissor Sisters and the Darkness. I wondered whether the Tings Tings and Estelle found much to say and I wondered whether all this would be enough, enough to save the British music industry and our very souls!

And then the good ship Girls Aloud hoved into view, the pale breast of Nicola at its figurehead, the cackles of the merry crew resounding over the inky black waters. I climbed aboard and set sail for a happier place altogether.

*Thanks to a bout of gastroenteritis and Tales of the Black Freighter for providing me with the meat for this dream

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone - the Muzak corporation has gone bust. The telephone must be cut off, naturally, as there is now no music to listen to when you’re put on call waiting. Cruel world!

Actually, I confess, I thought Muzak was simply a disparaging term. Who knew there was an actual company? I now picture a serene factory somewhere in 1950’s Iowa, painted pastel colours, where slick young men called Zack and Hal cruise in in bubble cars, cause flutters in the typing pool and repair to their laboratories to experiment with stylophones and zoetropes...

The real Muzak corporation has in fact been “Creating Experiences” with remarkable dedication for some time according to their website: “Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. Seventy-five years and counting”. Surely in contravention of emplyment laws? Wikipedia informs me that the concept of mood music was patented in the 1920s by the sinister-sounding Major General George O. Squier, who thought - correctly - that bland, noodly melodies, piped into malls would spread calm. In the 1930s, Muzak (the name was inspired by the made up word “Kodak”, Squier having a peculiar admiration for the -ak suffix) aggressively pushed their product - the Major General was military man after all - and even claimed that it would increase productivity in offices. The company’s greatest coup came when NASA awarded them a contract to pipe their noise into the cabin of Apollo XI to calm down its stressed astronauts - much as in nuclear power stations, the interior is painted a soothing pale green colour.

Leaving aside the corporate history, though, what interests me is this. Surely, according to the 1,000 monkeys with 1,000 typewriters theory, in all those 75 years of composing melodies 24/7, one technician in one of those clammy studios must have accidently stumbled upon something halfway decent? In fact, it’s mathematically impossible that 4,602,150 hours of slaving over 12 notes should not yield something pleasurable, even magical. What a comforting though - that somewhere in an elevator in Minneapolis, in a spa in Dubai, in a mall in Uppsala, the secret chord is making itself heard. Just think...

Browsing Muzak’s current product lines - the company has been granted a brief reprieve by lenders so these aural solutions are still available for the time being - reveals a more mundane mix. There’s the expected (“Acoustic Crossroads”; “Fiesta Mexicana“; Nu-Lounge); there’s the oblique (Cashmere; Perimeter; Varsity); and there’s the downright strange (“Shag Beach” - perhaps where porn producers turn?). Why does no one want these quality experiences anymore? I suppose in the age of Jose Gonzalez, Morcheeba and the entire genre of “comedown” music, they just lost their USP.

Back in January, we were treated to a lot of articles predicting who was going to be hot in 2009. Perhaps the writers of such round-ups had only belatedly got round to reading my earlier post when they announced that this would be the year in which women take over from men as the dominant force in pop? Either way, a lot of dissimilar musicians were lumped together on the basis of their chromosomes. Note how I said chromosomes and not something smutty. That's quality blogging.

Anyway, two of these oft-cited women now have albums on our shelves and this coincidence, plus a draught of folly, thus compels me to compare and contrast the output of Lady GaGa (left) and Emmy the Great (below right). One is an electro-strumpet currently to be seen cavorting around London in a pair of panties. The other is a classy folk-singer from London by way of Hong Kong with a subversive line in lyrics about sex at funerals. Which is more sexist, I wonder: to note their similarities, or their differences?

In truth, my critical faculites alighted on Lady GaGa only when I stuck that picture up to the left and removed themselves shortly thereafter. I do recall that she complained at her record company, Universal, not for forcing her into very small outfits, but rather for encouraging her out of them, like an outraged aunt. She's crazy like that, a bit like that Madonna when she was young. Not post-feminist, exactly, maybe alter-feminist?

Only did you know how Emma Lee Moss of hip folk act Emmy the Great won her first record deal? Her then manager simply sent off a picture of her. No music. And it's funny - much as I quite like her album, you only have to drop by any of your local open mic nights to hear lyrics as "cutting" and "real" as hers supposedly are, only the women singing them aren't usually as attractive. And you thought indie labels were above things like that?

Team GB did the nation proud at the Grammys last night.

Chris Martin was elated after he led Coldplay to victory in the cockless fours class. The quartet won a hotly contested "song of the year" event with their effort Viva La Vida, while simultaneously dashing to victory in the "rock album of the Year" race, also for Viva la Vida, but the album Viva la Vida as opposed to the song.

"We feel so grateful to be here. I'm going to tear up", said Martin, before citing the example of Usain Bolt and his dashing victory in both 100m and 200m at the Beijing Olympics as the inspiration for Coldplay's double coup.

There was more to cheer in the rock fives category, in which Thom Yorke and his patriotic quintet Radiohead won "best alternative album" for In Rainbows. The quintet have are expected to cash in with all the concomitant Strictly Come Dancing, Question of Sport and Buckingham Palace appearances that attend such success.

But the performance of the day came from veteran Robert Plant, who won not only the "album of the year" dash with his mixed doubles partner Alison Krauss (for Rising Sand), but also "record of the year" (for Please Read the Letter). Speculation is now rife as to whether real-life romance is blossoming between the two, but Plant just said "I am now in training for the Brits - you don't have time for romance!" Krauss now has 26 Grammys to her name, making her the most decorated female in the history of the competition, but who cares? She's not a member of Team GB.

Further Brit success came in the shape of Welsh girl Duffy, a surprise winner in the "best pop vocal album" race and her ladies' singles rival Adele, who won two awards including "best new artist". Britain is now second in the medals table, behind the USA.

The only sour note came when certain specators questioned whether fringe events such as "best vocal polka" and "best country duet", dominated again by the Americans, would not benefit from more funding from The Department for Culture, Media and Sport, with a view to increasing the medal count for 2010. "There are so many cheap Grammys up for grabs that it detracts from the real blue riband events such as best album, best rock album and best rock vocal" said a spokesman.

One sarcastic blogger, noting also the ridiculously parochial coverage of the Bafta, questioned whether it is really to anyone's benefit to report on awards ceremonies as if they were sporting events. "I kind of prefer American music anyway", he said, before being deported for treason.