Uncut

Continuing saga of the 'real' Ryan Adams

Midwestern siblings in Britpop homage

Fifth album from enigmatic New York songstress

Both Jim Krewson and Jennie Benford were raised in tradition-steeped communities (in Pennsylvania and Vermont respectively), rebelling into punk before reconnecting with roots years later. Their third album smudges the boundaries of bluegrass and old-time (fixin' a party between Scruggs-style, three-finger banjo and orthodox clawhammer) to strike a picture of high'n' lonesome authenticity. Aided by the Pinetops' propulsively rhythmic playing, the marriage of Benford's clear mountain preen and Krewson's hickory yelp is life-enhancing.

Hailing from the same US stable as The Mendoza Line, the Austin, Texas quartet Shearwater embrace a drowsier strain of melancholy on their second LP—all shuffling shades of piano, picked guitar and stings. Producer Brian (Daniel Johnston) Beattie filters just enough light to ward off any impending claustrophobia, while the contrast between ardent ornithology student Jonathan Meiburg's falsetto and Okkervil River moonlighter Will Robinson Sheff's upbeat crackle adds a subtle duality.

Also released this month...

An animated kiddies' thing which, to my untrained eye, looks scarily like Rugrats, this is set in the African wilderness. And has elephants in it. So you don't need to trouble your inner genius to work out that Peter Gabriel, Youssou N'Dour and Paul Simon will feature. "Father And Daughter" is the latter's first song for a film in 15 years, and he can still turn a lyric and craft a tune like an unlikely deft demi-god. He can even mumble "trust your intuition, it's just like goin'fishin'" and sound wry. It's no "Mrs Robinson" but it's warm as a puma's gums.

New Yorker Carter Burwell scored Velvet Goldmine, which would be a coincidence (see above) if I didn't diligently plan these things ahead. He's also done most of the Coens' movies and, as he beautified Being John Malkovich, lands the return gig on the new Jonze-Kaufman headfuck. His new-school, indie sensibilities show from the dark opening title piece (remixed by Fatboy Slim), and he relishes working with titles like "The Slough Pit Of Creation" and "The Unexpressed Expressed" (who wouldn't?).

Like everyone else, if I crave the society of other adults, I'll have to pretend this is abhorrent. (Really, it's just so-so). Yet, if the Beeb had had the balls to spotlight the rebels in the camp instead of pushing the show into a karaoke niche none of the kids fancied, it could've been more grotesquely compelling than Big Brother's Jade in her porcine pomp. Ainslie, for one, had it in him to be an irritating iconoclast of some pluck, and even the toothsome David was drunkenly bitching like a trouper till he twigged he was actually going to win the thing and played safe.

Unusually potent comeback continues