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"It's been one of the greatest experiences of my life, playing my first international show for you," said the Canadian actor-rapper Drake, towards the end of his set, before pointing out that unidentified timekeepers were warning that he had run over. "I waited my whole life for this," he said, "so if they wanna fine me, if they wanna penalise me, I don't care." It was only half-past ten, though, so there seemed little danger of his turning into a pumpkin.

So blank she almost fades to white, so slender she almost disappears from view, Rihanna is the archetypal modern pop star: the spindly skeleton of an umb-er-ella-ella-ella over which any canvas can be stretched.

Celebrating his recent appointment as "Creative Chairman" of Priority Records, Snoop Dogg has managed to release an album whose overall meagre level of creativity makes one wonder how he'll work out in his new position.

Of all the talent-show turns unearthed in the past decade, Leona Lewis is the only one to have parlayed the opportunity, when it knocked, into a significant international career; and judging by this safe, careful follow-up to the multi-platinum Spirit, she's not taking any unnecessary chances that might prematurely derail that career. She might admirably refer to the original Greek myth – in which an unrequited lover pines away till just her voice remained – in explaining the album's title, but one doesn't have to be a complete cynic to place a more prosaic interpretation on Echo, so closely does it stick to its predecessor's formula.

Once upon a time, Mariah Carey's albums had infantile titles like Butterfly, Rainbow, Glitter and Charmbracelet – sickly-sweet enough to be some pre-teen cartoon superheroine line-up.

Seaside Special was never like this: two Mr Punches leer over the stage from posters either side, a circus ringmaster opens proceedings, yet big-top glitter and knockabout humour are way off the agenda.

We have a date with destiny but Will Oldham is walking out of his central London hotel just as I'm going in. "Gonna get a better cup of coffee than they serve here and I'll be right back," he says, strolling out on to Tottenham Court Road. Twenty-five minutes later, Oldham returns. He is not, it seems, a man to take his beverages lightly.

Hesitant and bashful, UK R'n'B's latest hope must be more confident in the studios of America's hottest producers than at this Yorkshire venue's learner stage. At least, Taio Cruz's CV emphasises his accomplishments behind the mixing desk more than in his slowly burgeoning solo career.

Few acts epitomise the failings of corporate pop as completely as Ashlee Simpson, one of those insubstantial presences who seem to emanate from the industry like marsh-gas, shape-shifting to fit whatever trends briefly catch the public ear, then evaporating to leave only a lingering whiff of inauthenticity.