Despite his links with western pop (now further strengthened by the success of his elder daughter, Norah Jones), there were no concessions to non-Indian classical styles here, and none were needed. He stuck to the ragas, explaining their rhythmic structure and the stories behind them ("This was a favourite for a Maharaja taking an afternoon siesta"). Each began with a slow, stately opening, in which he might bend the notes like a blues guitarist, then gradually built up to those wild improvisational duets, or to furious interplay with tabla players Bikram Ghosh and Tanmoy Bose, unleashed at the end for a frantic drum display.-Robin Danzlow.

COLD MOUNTAIN: Mills & Boon meets Greek myth in Anthony Minghella's episodic epic, which takes excellent actors and dunks them in romance so gloopy they drown. Adapted from Charles Frazier's acclaimed novel (an American Civil War-set riff on Homer's Odyssey), it sees Confederate soldier Inman (Jude Law) trekking from the front lines to the town of Cold Mountain to reunite with his would-be lover, Ada (Nicole Kidman). It's a journey full of incident, but no soul. Attempting to avoid his army's lynch mobs and Yankee patrols, Inman encounters both hardship and humour, in the form of a promiscuous priest (Philip Seymour Hoffman), desperate single mum (Natalie Portman), and lusty ladies, among others. Meanwhile, Ada moons around writing him lengthy letters, until the rough'n'ready Ruby (Renée Zellweger) arrives to help her run the farm - and fend off the aggressive advances of Ray Winstone's big-bearded villain. It's war and pieces, as we flick back and forth, scenes enlivened by quality character actors (the brilliant Brendan Gleeson, Giovanni Ribisi) and Zellweger's lively, film-stealing turn. If only Kidman could give her (considerably less interesting) character similar zest. Instead, she pouts her way through the part of Southern Belle, like a child playing dress up. Law (so superb in Minghella's The Talented Mr Ripley) is more impressive as the war-worn veteran. But his most significant achievement is not laughing when required to shout, "Move away from the baby!", in a scene so straight-faced and silly it could be a Monty Python sketch. Together, they are deadly: devoid of the chemistry necessary to make you care. Their vomit-inducing soft-focus longing contrasts oddly with the effective, intelligent use of harsh, shocking violence; their turgid dialogue is even mocked by another character. Yet that cannot excuse it. Every 'moving' moment is suffocated by the stringy score, but nothing troubles the tear ducts. Cold Mountain is so full of hot air, any emotion is blown away - gone, with the wind.

Joyce. Rating: At The Band on the Wall, Manchester.
For a rock musician, the ability to make everything sound easy and effortless is liable to arouse suspicion. For a bossa-nova artist, it's pretty much a prerequisite. As one of the music's major architects, Brazilian singer-songwriter Joyce has spent 35 years in a state of cool sophistication. She was guaranteed a warm reception at Manchester's Band on the Wall, a venue so close to her heart that she wrote a song about it on her last album. But with songs this irresistible, and a band of this calibre, she could probably have coaxed an encore from a Ban the Bossa Nova pressure group. She has 24 albums to her credit, yet she looks young enough to be mistaken for an up-and-coming artist. Joyce and her compatriots were fresh from an appearance at Glastonbury, and they brought with them an aroma of sunshine and festive cheer. Ostensibly here to promote the new album, Just a Little Bit Crazy, they unveiled each glittering song as if it were a heartfelt gift to a well-loved friend. Broadly speaking, the music obeyed all bossa nova's time-honoured qualities: it was feather-light and playful, possessing all the insouciance of birdsong.

But there was no reliance on stylistic cliches, and the songs such as A Banda Maluca and Os Medos pulsed with intriguing harmonies and sly melodic twists. A captivating singer with a pure, bell-like voice, Joyce allowed her contribution to blend into the delicate tapestry of a band performance. Her fellow musicians brought a jazzy sensibility to the material. Drummer Tutty Moreno sprinkled the familiar samba grooves with broken-time cymbal patterns and propulsive polyrhythms, while Teco Cardoso and Nailor Proveta unleashed virtuosic solos from their collective arsenal of woodwind instruments. The flute and clarinet took it in turns to spar with Joyce's vocal lines, occasionally matching her note for note before breaking away into thrilling counterpoint. Joyce allowed herself several passages of relaxed scat-singing, managing to inject a sense of sparkling wit into the dumbest of phrases. The audience didn't know whether to dance or swoon, yet the musicians shed not one drop of sweat. They may have done a smouldering version of A Hard Day's Night, but Joyce and her band looked and sounded as if they were having the easiest night of their lives.-J. Grifth.