So many friends dropped by to help Warren Zevon on The Wind, his 14th and final album, that the monumental swan song served as the best kind of tribute. Zevon, who succumbed to cancer last summer, generally detested the star-studded homage, anyway. He wanted to be a part of his own tribute, and he was.

Nonetheless, the world was not going to let Zevon get away so easily. And, in truth, many who contributed to The Wind, and to Zevon’s sound generally (Waddy Wachtel, David Lindley and Jorge Calderon), are on board, making this collection a fine coda to The Wind proper.

Calderon was the secret hero of that album, selflessly plodding Zevon through the tough patches and heartily celebrating its victories. His crucial presence here not only lends the project authenticity, but his gorgeous, string-tinged arrangement of “Keep Me In Your Heart” (with Jennifer Warnes) brings the sentiments of The Wind full circle.

The most surprising inclusion is comedian Adam Sandler’s rendition of “Werewolves Of London”. Forgoing its bedrock piano for some dance-step guitar, perhaps gleaned from the song’s proto mid-’70s arrangement (T-Bone Burnett’s version on old Dylan/Rolling Thunder Revue bootlegs), Sandler performs a startlingly demented, parody-free vocal.

The big guns are here as well: Springsteen and Dylan, both in live renditions. Springsteen’s “My Ride’s Here”, the title cut from Zevon’s penultimate album, reinvents the song as border ballad, replete with mellifluous accordion. “Mutineer”, meanwhile, stands as Zevon’s most heartfelt soliloquy?an unbearably radiant love song that was so poignant when performed at his last public appearance. Dylan’s take is typically shadowy and luminous, with Larry Campbell’s pedal-steel cradling the melody like a newborn baby.

The Pixies’comeback has yet to lead them to the studio, but their keening “Ain’t That Pretty At All”, which sounds like it’s beamed in from a far-off galaxy, is revelatory. Zevon’s bored, nihilistic lyric is a perfect foil for Frank Black and Kim Deal, who stomp on the melody through zig-zagging walls of guitars and feedback.

There’s no true clunkers here, though the spectre of different artists and/or songs is tantalising to consider. Pete Yorn is admirable on “Splendid Isolation”, but it could’ve been transcendental in the hands of Neil Young. Jackson Browne’s choice, “Poor Poor Pitiful Me”, itself written as a poke at Browne’s sensitive mid-’70s balladry, is ironic but unimaginative. Meanwhile, immortal cuts?from “Desperados Under The Eaves” to the sociopolitically prescient “The Envoy”?are left sadly unvisited.

For the true Zevon believers, two tracks are essential: “The Wind” and “Studebaker”. Presumably Zevon’s last composition, the former arrived too late for inclusion on the album bearing its name. Here it’s cut by actor Billy Bob Thornton, who delivers its lonely passages in a forlorn baritone. Reminiscent of “Prison Grove”, its setting?the Arizona desert?and spooky, ghostly vibe evoke an unsentimental finality.

“Studebaker”, a late-’60s composition, never materialised on a Zevon album; presumably it’ll appear on Rhino’s forthcoming rarities box set. For now, Warren’s son Jordan (with Jakob Dylan) provides this album’s most magnetic moment. With floating keyboards and Lindley’s slide guitar, Jordan perfectly evokes the sound and grandeur of Warren’s early Elektra material (especially “Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner”). The lyric (“I’m 35 and I haven’t travelled far/And I spent all my money on this misbegotten car”) is songwriting narrative at its finest, a prime example of Browne’s piquant observation that Zevon could “mythologise and satirise in one stroke”.

Sweet will always hold a soft spot in the hearts of power-pop aficionados for Girlfriend (1991), a model of guitar-pop concision that remains a crucial link between Big Star and latterday practitioners like Velvet Crush. But since 1999’s In Reverse, Sweet has purveyed altogether denser, more erudite sonic territory. Living Things, with Van Dyke Parks on keys and accordion (and featuring a potpourri of theremin, harpsichord etc), is as ambitious and compelling as psych-tinged pop gets, a merry-go-round of daring pop hooks housed in inventive swirls of sound. Call it Emitt Rhodes for the 21st century.

Recorded with a little help from The Damned’s Rat Scabies and The Clash’s Mick Jones (revisiting The Specials’ “Do Nothing”), you have to admire Staple’s nerve for further boasting a “Leadbelly duet”?specifically a sampled ragga rave-up of “Cow Cow Yicky” that sounds a bit like Rednex’s “Cotton Eye Joe”. The rest, to Staple’s credit, retains some of the spirit of 1979’s The Specials in its balance of sober social commentary, like the anti-drugs skank “Pressure”, and daft knees-up rocksteady.

While there’s something a touch dated and perhaps na

Unbowed following his tepidly received debut, pint-sized chain-smoking rapper Gold Chains (aka Topher LaFata) returns with a startling album of high-spirited pick ‘n’ mix pop that reminds us why we first fell for the charismatic MC three years ago. Perhaps it’s new cohort Sue Cie’s B-52s-ish influence, or micro-house guru Vladislav Delay’s sympathetic production, but there’s a breezy, confident swagger to When The World…, suggesting LaFata was, until now, a frustrated pop star in search of a suitable medium. With addictive punk-funk highlights “California Nites” and “Show Us Your Heart”, however, Gold Chains is still very much a contender.

Best known as the moody male half of reluctant electroclash pin-ups Miss Kittin & The Hacker, Michel Amato has always appeared happiest producing and DJing searing melodic electro. Hardly an innovator, on Reves Mechaniques Amato updates sounds and ideas developed by Detroit minimalists Dopplereffekt (“Sequenced Life”) and Belgian new-beaters Front 242 (“The Brutalist”). His old sparring partner Kittin graces “Masterplan”, a superbly curdled revision of their “Frank Sinatra”Euro-disco hit, while dreamy synth lullabies “Electronic Snowflakes”and “Sleeping Machines” reveal this rave stalwart’s romantic side. A well-rounded effort.

Sally Timms is not the first to present an album of songs written by men reinterpreted from a female perspective?Tori Amos did similar with 2001’s “Strange Little Girls”. Produced by Johnny Dowd, there’s a sparse and spooky sound to Timms’ versions of Mark Eitzel’s “Corporal Chalkie”, Ryan Adams’ “Fools We Are As Men” and half a dozen other songs about war, marriage and abandonment. But you’re left wondering quite what point she’s trying to make other than the simplistic old clich

It’s impossible for Callier to cut a duff record, such is his luxuriant ooze of a voice. And, though this follow-up to 2002’s Speak Your Peace is the first self-produced album of his 40-year career, the stylings and subtle nuances remain the same, blowing effortless smoke rings of late-night soul-jazz. And there lies the rub. Beautiful as it is?including a wonderfully free interpretation of The Beatles’ “And I Love Her”? you crave for him to strip back the cocktail piano, stretch out, isolate himself in more naked settings. There’s a masterpiece waiting to be hard-won.

The brainchild of Black Mountain’s Stephen McBean, this remarkable record was apparently conceived on a Colorado freeway at dawn while high on trucker speed. The premise is hardly unique?a Velvets chug spiked with MBV fuzz-drone?but McBean bathes it all in peep-show neon, electric pulse and raging libido in tow. Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret for the Tindersticks crowd. Standout is the noirish one-night fling of “Tourist In Your Town”, but chunks are torn off Joy Division’s “Atmosphere”, alongside the Bo Diddley bleat of “Sweet ’69” and “I (Fuck) Mountains”‘ aching throb. A cult classic in the making.

For every band that’s copying The Libertines, there are plenty more still lurking in Coldplay’s shadow. Take Alaska. While undoubtedly bleaker and darker than Chris Martin and co, their slow-burning gloom fits loosely within the vogue for epic emotionalism (see Elbow, Doves et al). When this is as affecting as it is on “All The Dead Astronauts”, this is hardly a problem. They also have a surprising range?narcotic drone-rock, crepuscular slowcore and creepy interludes figure among the rolling anthems.

Who would have predicted that the year’s most thrilling and inventive ‘British’ album would in fact be delivered by a Montreal aesthete and his band? Had anyone in Britain actually heard of The Dears, would they have bet on the corpse of Britpop being reanimated and reconfigured by frontman Murray Lightburn, a cocksure Dickensian rogue who looks like he’s gone 10 rounds with life and been knocked down in each? Would they even have dared to suggest that this palest of white boy’s music could be (whisper it) hijacked by a black intellectual maverick?

The Dears are all about breaking conventions, and when you’re taking on the sacred cows of indie pop, you’d better be as good as you think you are. The Dears take as their touchstones The Smiths and mid-’90s Blur, a doubly dangerous thing to do when Lightburn’s vocals recall both Morrissey and Damon Albarn. Fortunately, The Dears are frequently even better than they believe, for the most part able to outrun these ghosts and bust through the structural constraints their influences impose, seemingly fearless in their pursuit of music of true pathos, gravity and swagger. This is seriously literate stuff, and all the better for it.

From the outset it’s clear that Lightburn’s intentions are precocious, crediting himself here as sole writer, producer and director. It’s his role as “director”?in the cinematic sense?that sets No Cities Left apart as he seeks to create a record that carries a narrative, both musical and lyrical, without becoming a turgid concept album. At times they do suffer from the weight of their inspirations?”Lost In The Plot” sounds worryingly like Gene?and, were this the film it dreams of, it would benefit from an intermission. But at its finest?”Pinned Together, Falling Apart”‘s blood-curdling denials of love lost, “Never Destroy Us” hurtling towards its unexpected and desperate d

This gloriously frazzled album is the finest work to date from Andy Meecham, half of hip house duo Chicken Lips and one-time Bizarre Inc member. Composed on vintage analogue hardware and propelled by generous Krautrock grooves, Aimee Tallulah Is Hypnotised could be the freewheeling soundtrack to a William Burroughs-penned lysergic head-movie helmed by John Carpenter. Meecham skilfully steers this enjoyably indulgent romp through disco, radiophonica and flute-fried psychedelia without ever losing focus, proving, on the addled odysseys “Watching Flying Body Parts” and “SH3A”, that a cracking tune always wins out. Magnificent, man.

The multi-million-selling soul charlatan cobbles together refried chunks of The Isleys, Stevie Wonder and Timmy Thomas and… it’s fantastic. Happy People is an extraordinarily buoyant record, giving off irresistible party vibes and forcing you to step like it’s 1989 and Jam & Lewis (rather than Kanye or The Neptunes) are the names to drop. He’s the black Strokes: you’ve heard it before, but it’s fun to hear again. U Saved Me is lumpy ballads full of guff about “faith” and “spirit”, but that first album, with its contrived between-tracks atmosphere and banter, is a curning, crackling, can’t-keep-still classic.

For his new band project, Mick Fleetwood uses players better known behind the scenes, rather than making it a star-studded affair. Whatever the label says, this is essentially singer/guitarist Todd Smallwood’s album. He has a hand in writing all but one of the songs, Fleetwood taking co-credit only on the drum-fuelled “Passion” which, we’re sad to relate, is no Tusk. “No Borders” drags on board Fleetwood’s long-time partner John McVie and lost Mac slide guitarist Jeremy Spencer. It’s a nod to his past on an album that might actually have been exhumed from incarceration 30 years ago. Well intentioned, well executed, but for Fleetwood Mac completists only.

Unlike the bulk of Planet Mu’s abrasive buzz-saw output, Special Forces is a carefully measured yet heartfelt album that owes a great deal to the neo-psych whimsy of The Flaming Lips and early Aphex Twin. Mostly instrumental with a few mournful vocal tracks, it’s reminiscent, too, of Mu label boss Mike

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One fears their career will be forever hindered by the ascension of The Flaming Lips, but the Stars may find, in compensation, that their long-standing association with the now notorious Toerag Studios lends them shadowy cool. Vastly underrated, they refract the spirit of Double Indemnity through originally twisted shades of Morricone, Hazlewood, Tindersticks and the Mary Chain. Max D