ULTRAVOX, Playhouse Theatre, Edinburgh

SOARING synthesiser lines, drums that sound like they were built by robots . . . yep, the '80s are well and truly back.

Peeling back to a time before boy bands, Britpop, grunge and even acid house, Midge Ure has rallied the troops to Reap The Wild Wind once more.

The last time he shared a stage with Warren Cann, Billy Currie and Chris Cross was at Live Aid in 1985.

But from the first synth pulses of 10-minute instrumental opener Astradyne, it's clear that the first night of Ultravox's Return To Eden reunion tour is set to be a memorable affair.

Despite the two-decade lay-off, they blow the cobwebs away in style, proving they've lost none of the grace and power that made them electronic pop's front-runners.

Behind the drum kit, Cann lays down a typically metronomic beat while Cross (playing a guitar that looks suspiciously like a relic from 1982's cripplingly expensive Quartet tour) delivers industrial-strength basslines.

Meanwhile Currie and Ure - who've obviously forgotten about the differences that made the band's split so bloody - show what they lack in youth and hair they more than make up for in virtuoso musical ability.

Tonight is a perfect reminder, however, of their days as one of pop's most dependable hit factories. Hymn, All Stood Still and Dancing With Tears In My Eyes all sound as fresh as they did in their heyday though, predictably, Vienna is the set's most spine-tingling moment.

Currie breaks out the violin again for a cracking version of The Thin Wall, fiddling while behind him the band burns.

The guitar hero shapes that Ure learned during his days with Rich Kids and Thin Lizzy are in full force too as he rips out solos with breathtaking ease.

His voice also stands up to the gruelling two- hour workout, though when he croons "ashes of memory still aglow, only for you" on Vision Of Blue, it's evident that there's no romantic like an old romantic.

It ends with all four of them laying into snare drums stage-front during an extended version of The Voice.

And when they finally leave the stage, to a deafening ovation, they look pretty overwhelmed by the emotion of it all. They're not the only ones.

RONNIE GURR

THE VIEW, Zenith Avenue, Munich

FACING a crowd of 6,000 German fans - here for tonight's headliners Mando Diao - Tayside's favourite indie tearaways have their work cut out.

But they rise to the challenge with a supercharged set that's as sharp and to the point as any they've played in their short career.

"Nobody here will be able to understand our accents," grins bassist Kieren Webster, clearly forgetting that, even back home in Scotland, most folk outside of Dundee's Dryburgh struggle to comprehend them.

Tonight, however, the music speaks for itself as the band romp through the highlights of new album Which Bitch?

Shock Horror sounds stunning, Pete Reilly's guitar ringing out across the entire arena while Stevie Morrison hammers out that galloping drumbeat. And old favourites like Wasted Little DJs and Superstar Tradesman are drilled out with impeccable tightness.

Shorn of the ramshackle, art-of-falling-apart performances that they've sometimes been prone to over here - partly the result of having a crowd of mates messing around at the side of the stage, partly the consequence of too much vodka and Red Bull - songs like Same Jeans and Skag Trendy have new life breathed into them.

Swedish rockers Diao (think early Oasis but with a string of Euro No1s) are clearly impressed, inviting the four-piece for a backstage bevvy.

But on this form, they should be worried that The View have got their chart-conquering ways in their sights.

JOE MILLER

SHARON SHANNON & SHANE McGOWAN, Ironworks, Inverness

"THERE'S only one Shane McGowan," chants the sell-out crowd in anticipation of the legendary Pogues frontman.

Before he saunters onto the stage however, it's down to the main act - award-winning Irish chanteuse Sharon - to keep the audience on their toes. And that she does.

Flashing an infectious smile, she guides her band through an eclectic mix of traditional accordion and fiddle music with occasional forays further afield - like the sparkle of reggae that eases its way into the epic crescendos of the stunning Flyodesq.

With McGowan by now firmly attached to the microphone, Irish Rover goes down an absolute storm.

Rainy Night in Soho is pretty special too - his voice may drift to the wrong side of gravelly sometimes but there's no denying he's a compelling performer who can hold a crowd in the palm of his hand. And though he delivers a rousing climax in the shape of Dirty Old Town, the evening's highlight is - what else? - Fairytale Of New York.

PAUL CAMPBELL

LADY MERCEDES, Cafe Drummond, Aberdeen

SPORTING a look that's reminiscent of Supergrass's Gaz Coombes, frontman Brett McIntosh steers his band through the highways and byways of modern music.

At times, he sings like Liam Gallagher might if he'd grown up within spitting distance of the Mississippi Delta. At others, his band swerves from sounding like Cream having a punch-up with Deep Purple to something that's not a million miles away from The Charlatans.

Songs like Hey Alleycat and Shot Dead Boogie, meanwhile, are deep, rootsy, blues-inspired affairs that motor along.

As you'd expect, they can play a bit too - guitarist Leigh Collingbourne delivers an astonishing solo on Disco Biscuit Dolly for example. On this evidence they've far outpaced 2004's Red Light Fever album.

DAVE CRAIG

POLLY SCATTERGOOD, Captain's Rest, Glasgow

SPENDING your teenage years at the Brit School can be a curse or a blessing; its roll-call of alumni may read like the Top Ten on any given week, but it's easy to find yourself the butt of high-minded critical snipes when you're interested in something more than simple unit-shifting.

Kooky songstress Polly Scattergood was clearly put on this earth to do something other than warble wine-bar soul to the masses - it's just not quite clear what.

One minute she's hunched solo over a piano, throatily whispering the lyrics to an untitled new song, the next she's cooing airy- but-unfulfilling pop like Please Don't Touch. Only on the shockingly bleak, almost Nick Cave-esque, Number 24 does she hit her stride, but by then it's too little, too late.

BARRY NICOLSON

ESSER, King Tut's, Glasgow

THE first thing you notice about Ben Esser isn't his lairy, chart-friendly ska-pop, or even his unbelievably pristine beige chinos, it's his vertical, gravity-defying quiff. It's so impressive, it's in danger of overshadowing his music. Going by first impressions, he gives off the air of someone who's spent too much time in the trendier parts of London, to tragic effect.

Actually listen to the songs, however, and things start to make sense. Pitched in the poppy middle ground between The Streets and The Specials, songs like I Love You are naggingly infectious, while the Muddy Waters-esque grind of Leaving Town admirably attempts to reintroduce the blues to mainstream music.

He can be infuriatingly hit-and-miss, but when it's done right - as on Work It Out or the baggy closer Headlock - it's hard to resist.

BARRY NICOLSON

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