A South African man who claims to be a famous Zulu folk singer returned from the dead after being held captive by zombies for the past two years has been detained on suspicion of fraud.

The better half of a poet's life

The best of families fall out, but they don't all get a chance to iron out their differences in front of an audience paying hundreds to see the reconciliation

The first Union Station album since 2004 is, as usual, something to treasure.

Striding onstage in his trademark Wolfie Smith black beret, jeans and shirt, Richard Thompson grins sheepishly at the applause, hefts his powder-blue Stratocaster and makes a few self-deprecating noises about being here at the Festival Hall yet again. It's now almost a second home for Tommo, who curated last year's Meltdown Festival here – and if the place ever needed a house band, they could do far worse than Thompson's current unit, whose members seem able to turn their hands to just about any style, in any metre required.

Mario Pacheco was not a musician, but as a record producer and entrepreneur he was one of the most influential figures within the world of flamenco music in the last 30 years.

The Grade I-listed One Mayfair was built in the early 19th century as St Mark's Church, to service the needs of an aristocratic clientele away from their country seats. Restored following its deconsecration in the Seventies, it makes the perfect venue for a secret gig by one of today's rock aristocracy, Robert Plant CBE, up in London from his Worcestershire home to launch his first album with his new group Band of Joy.

Thirteen new songs recorded with full band and great energy at assorted American venues, in all the favoured Ricardian registers, from sardonic (you can imagine what he has to say about bankers, and how he says it) to harshly elegaic to bleakly whimsical (Sidney Wells is a serial killer, you know!).

Next weekend, the village green comes to London's brutalist Southbank with a three-day celebration of Morris dancing. At least, the village green would be the preconception most people hold of the widely denigrated folk custom, and one that 5,000 Morris dancers aims to dismiss.

The programme for Richard Thompson's Meltdown festival carries a photograph of Thompson in his salad days – taken, probably, in the late Sixties or early Seventies, some time around his founding of Fairport Convention and his marital and musical union with Linda Thompson. A little Nick Drake-like, he gazes wistfully off-shot. It feels iconic. But while for a lot of people Thompson's name might ring a bell, ask them to hum one of his tunes and you'll probably draw a blank.