Uncut

Former Eurythmic's break-up album

Since surfacing from the Detroit underground in 1993, Matthew Smith's outfit have trodden an ever tangential path with infuriating results. Touching all bases from garage rock through prog, psychedelia and beyond requires a deft touch that's often eluded them but, though this record still finds the ground shaking beneath their feet, it's probably their most assured to date.

Southern soul revived with passion

Fine fifth studio album from Mr E

Fourth album from Hounslow's Britpop perennials

Smart-bomb metal and high jinx from Sweden's latest kick-ass export

Though the herd may not acknowledge it, there's a minority of us who, the minute a billion-dollar special effects epic starts doing dizzying digital fairground tricks, lean to wondering whether we shut the fridge door before coming out. Just as the average male can't see household dust, even when it's pointed out, some of us don't get what the fuss is with this CGI lark. So they made someone fly, by cheating, by touching up the evidence. Whoop-ti-doo.

Something of a cult, this. In 1972—that year again—the Brits made a dreadful zombie movie wherein frog-worshipping biker boys commit suicide, then return, undead, to burn up motorways and terrorise old ladies like Beryl Reid outside supermarkets. Fog, satanism and skull helmets, on a budget of around nine quid. The soundtrack, however, by Kes man John Cameron, has changed hands for daft money since, and now appears on CD. It mixes wah-wah rock, choral arias and phased backwards drums for no better reason than that Cameron felt like it.

Blaxploitation movies were suddenly so hot in 1972 that it was deemed a smart idea to bash out—as the title may have tipped you off—a black vampire chiller. It wasn't. It was horrible, in unintended ways. But Gene Page came up with a very appetising soundtrack, which you could happily stick on between Isaac Hayes' Shaft and Marvin Gaye's Trouble Man without anyone noticing too drastic a drop in class.

When we speak of Anton Karas' score to Carol Reed's 1949 classic of dodgy penicillin and cuckoo clocks, we speak of the zither. Most of us couldn't describe a zither if the lives of the Swiss nation depended on it, but the Harry Lime theme is nonchalance personified. Karas—the chap with the zither—was discovered by Reed playing in a Viennese tavern and had no experience, but proved to be an inspired choice.