What a year for great British institutions. Sixty years of Elizabeth II, 50 years of James Bond, and a half-century of the Rolling Stones. To recycle an even older cliche, we will never see the like of any of them again.

There is something so otherworldly about Shingai Shoniwa, the vocal powerhouse who fronts Noisettes, that it is unsurprising to see the band play on it. Shoniwa arrived onstage in a blaze of light, in a spinning gold-hooped skirt that seemed to mimic a flying saucer in the chaos, before launching into a storming rendition of the band’s “I Want You Back”. The illusion lasted as long as it took her to kick off her towering gold high heels and attempt a terrible Scottish accent at the end of the first song.

Billy Bragg recently described Jake Bugg as “a teenager with an ear for a good tune and a chip on his shoulder". He was referring to Bugg’s evocations of council estate life, which have invited comparisons to the Arctic Monkeys. Others have sneered at the youngster’s friendship with Noel Gallagher and his unashamedly retro sound. But what’s wrong with being an angry young man with a guitar? Bugg’s major influences span folk-rock written between 1965 and 1975, with a particular emphasis on the work of Donovan. On that count alone, he gets my vote.

Just occasionally an artist hits the truth of the song in such spectacular fashion that it makes you feel with ever greater intensity what it means to be human. Last night, vocalist Sheila Jordan's performance of the Jimmy Webb standard, “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress”, a song she recorded on her 1999 album Jazz Child, achieved exactly that: a shatteringly personal account, bookended by an improvisation on a native American theme, both the pathos and power of the song were extraordinary. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who was wiping away tears.

In 1991, the Basque performance artist Esther Ferrar wrote a letter to modern music’s inventive genius, John Cage, on the future of anarchism.

At the beginning of last night's show, Herbie Hancock looked like he was going to perform with the dignity and serenity befitting a 72-year-old with some 50 years playing experience. The improvisation that launched from a base of Wayne Shorter's “Footprints” was elegant, charming, tasteful and often very beautiful. The synthetic instrumental loops that he triggered via a couple of iPads mounted on his grand piano as backing were unobtrusive to begin with and had a delightfully loose groove.

For the way it combined mercurial, on-the-fly interplay, seismic textural shifts and listening of the highest order, this gig was remarkable. In the space of two continuous sets there wasn't a longueur to be found, such was the incredible union of Black Top #5's boundary-pushing improv and fine-tuned musicianship.

Saxophonist Steve Williamson, trumpeter Byron Wallen and vocalist Cleveland Watkiss joined Black Top founders, pianist Pat Thomas and vibist/sampler Orphy Robinson, to explore the intersection of live instruments and the technology of dub, reggae and dance floor.

Britain has a grudging relationship with country music – we’ve never produced a successful country singer (although the likes of guitarist Albert Lee and several songwriters have prospered in Nashville) and our love for the likes of Johnny Cash is tempered by a contempt for much of what is marketed as country music. I’m often surprised by how  blues, soul and jazz lovers can admit ignorance of a musical form so closely related to other American genres.

You can tell by all the important upper case that the Opening and Closing Ceremonies of the London 2012 Olympic Games were the shows to be seen emoting at. Emeli Sandé can make the unique boast that she performed on both bills. That’s quite a badge of honour for a musician whose debut album Our Version of Events was released only in February, and whose songwriting career has been at least as much about supplying hits to talent-show graduates.

The moody lights and the smoke make it look like Melody Gardot is emerging from the swamp, probably somewhere near New Orleans, as she begins her set singing a capella. Her walking stick and shades (the result of a bad accident in 2003) only add to the initial feeling that she is the spiritual heir, if not the actual misbegotten daughter of a figure like Dr John, the Night Tripper. As an ex-fashion student, she oozes style, no bad thing in a jazz world that often equates scruffiness with authenticity.