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Rock'n'roll's leading dysfunctional couple play their biggest UK shows yet

Astonishingly mature debut from Britain's brainiest new singer-songwriter

Inflammatory debut from much-vaunted Detroit quintet

Dug by both new breed and old (from Horse Stories compatriot Toby Burke to Dylan), Kelly has long been Australia's foremost troubadour since emerging from Melbourne's mid-'70s punk scene with a solo ambition that first flourished on 1985's Post. Produced by Tchad (Tom Waits/American Music Club) Blake, this two-CD follow-up to 2001's Nothing But A Dream is smartly conceived. Disc one rattles and blows like Highway 61 ghost-ridden by Hank Williams, a tumble of bordello piano, pedal-steel and blustery guitars. Disc two is more spare, sort of Time Out Of Mind left out in the rain by Warren Zevon.

Alter-ego of The Be Good Tanyas' Trish Klein and Montreal's ex-Fear Of Drinking singer Allison Russell, Po' Girl dish out an invigorating mess of blues-jazz and country grit. There's enough hair in the harmonies and a looser approach to distinguish the duo from the Tanyas' buffed-up chirpiness, plus plenty of silver-spun beauty. Klein's voice sounds folk-mountain fresh throughout, while Russell drizzles the likes of "Wheels Are Taking Me Away" with sleepy clarinet.

This Chicagoan is unique in being an astonishing violin virtuoso devoting himself almost entirely to pop music. Founding Andrew Bird's Bowl Of Fire in the mid-'90s, his best work (2001's The Swimming Hour) takes in Appalachia, jump-blues and orch-pop in a flash-flood of American tradition. With Mark (Lambchop) Nevers producing, Weather Systems distills that same musical heritage into a new, supple-fresh language of strings, glockenspiel, wurlitzer and tape loops.

Who'da thought Blighty's most provocative new country stars would be holed up in Brighton? This six-piece have already been hailed in some quarters as natural heirs to Lambchop, but there's much more besides. "Her Friend The Rain" and "Living And Dead Singers" (BJ Cole on lap steel) weld '70s Cali-troubadour strum to Clifford TWard's bedsit folksiness, while "Elephants" dissolves into an acid-carousel waltz that's as unsettling as Johnny Dowd.

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