It was while promoting 2002’s re-recorded orchestral anthology Travelogue that Joni Mitchell made her stroppy exit from the “corrupt cesspool” of the music biz. One of the greatest songwriters of the 20th century?as visionary as Dylan, as poetic as Cohen, as concise as Lennon ?she quit, protesting her inability to continue in what she perceived as the dumbed-down epoch of Britney and Aguilera. “What would I do?” she sighed. “Show my tits? Grab my crotch? Get hair extensions and a choreographer?”

Which begs the question why, two years later, has she decided to compile her own best-of? Dreamland is the first such retrospective collection since 1994’s Hits and Misses pairing, and in the wake of those comments it carries ominous implications. Is this a confirmation of her resignation by way of an authorised musical obituary? Or a dispatch from a one-woman picket line to remind the big fish in the cesspool just what they’re missing?

If Mitchell’s scorn is in any way motivated by guilt for the flood of ‘Junior Joni’ cash cows foisted on us by major labels, then Dreamland emphasises her singular genius. Significantly, the title track is fulled from 1977’s underrated masterpiece Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter, an album still to receive a UK CD release. When holidaying in Jamaica in ’78, Joni played it to ex-Pistol John Lydon and his rasta entourage, one of whom complimented her that the tribal rhythms of “Dreamland” made him “want to eat white people”. It’s hard to imagine Norah Jones inducing similar cannibalistic urges which, in essence, is this collection’s triumph. It highlights the real Joni, not the misappropriated Joni who serves as lazy industry shorthand when discussing the Jacob’s Creek-sponsored Jewels and Meluas trying, in vain, to emulate the bruised relationship confessionals of 1971’s Blue.

Naturally, Blue and her earlier coffee-shop folk roots are here ?no “Woodstock”, though it’s surprising she’s actually chosen the albatross of 1970’s “Big Yellow Taxi”. However, it’s her increasingly sophisticated mid-’70s prime that rightly dominates, from ’74’s Court And Spark through The Hissing Of Summer Lawns’ jazz suffusions and the desolate beauty of 1976’s Hejira. Post ’77, there’s little beyond the cranky inclusion of ’88’s marginally ghastly Billy Idol duet “Dancin’ Clown”, a brace from 1991’s unexpected muse recovery Night Ride Home and three of those latter-day classical interpretations ?not ideal, but the brooding lyricism of “Amelia” and “Both Sides Now” remain devastating regardless of any philharmonic makeover. If this collection tells us anything about what’s going on in the retired Ms Mitchell’s head, it’s that behind her non-negotiable cynicism towards the industry there’s still a healthy recognition of her own contribution to its last 35 years. Until she can be convinced otherwise, the by no means definitive?but thoroughly representative?Dreamland underlines just what a loss she really is.

Spiritual heir to Gram Parsons, Yoakam was a similarly-transplanted southerner who fetched up in Los Angeles, riding the tip of the early-’80s new country swell. As honky tonk rocker, his sound was tougher than Parsons (“Guitars, Cadillacs”, “Please, Please Baby”) but equally as devastating when taking it slow (“I Sang Dixie”).

Compressing the Reprise years onto just one disc is fraught?nothing from 1995’s excellent Gone album, and why bother with the naff hicksterism of Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love”? ? but the inclusion of the 1988 Buck Owens duet “Streets Of Bakersfield” partly redeems this misnomered collection.

The 1983 debut album from south London’s answer to The Runaways is guaranteed to raise a smile, although that was presumably not the band’s intention. Unfortunately, the joke of three teenage girls trying to out-gross Lemmy wears thin rather quickly. It’s not that they can’t rock?merely that they need better material than this. Tellingly, the best moment is a cover of Gary Glitter’s “I Didn’t Know I Loved You (Till Saw You Rock’n’Roll)”.

By the time Newley made these two albums in ’71 and ’72 respectively, his pop heyday was a decade behind him. At a time when his most famous mimic, David Bowie, was rivalling Bolan as the biggest rock star in Britain (significantly, only after dropping the Newley-inspired quavering twang of his “Laughing Gnome” years), Tony lagged behind with this odd brace of LPs featuring songs originally penned for Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory and rummy ballads asking “Will I ever learn to eat organic food?” Hunky Dory these ain’t.

THEY’RE ONE OF ROCK’S classic marginal bands, the resonance of whose name far outweighs recognition of their work. Everyone’s heard of them, but few have heard their work. Give this a spin, though, and you won’t be so sure. This excellent little compilation, timed to coincide with a new Bill Nelson post-Deluxe band autumn tour and biog, is pregnant with snippets that filled rock radio in the ’70s? “Ships In The Night”, “Sister Seagull”?and were endlessly touted by the likes of Johnny Walker and Alan Freeman as the next big thing.

You can hear why?taut, self-referential art pop with enough nods to metal and prog stylings? notably in leader Nelson’s blistering guitar work?to appeal across the board. Add a memorably literate imagistic discourse of an imagined future of Art Deco and Nelson’s sublime gift for evocation and it should have been all so simple. People might even have overlooked Nelson’s grotesque glam barnet and the awful Sunburst Finish LP cover from ’76.

But punk wasn’t a forgiving phenomenon, and Deluxe were swept away by a movement whose more imaginative survivors might have felt considerable affinity with them (Bauhaus and Scritti Politti spring to mind). And there remains the suspicion that the smart-alecky eclecticism of Nelson’s vision might have been a little too smart to win the band a niche market.

For too long, this band have been termed a bunch of Roxy wannabes. This album, obviously the work of someone musically and lexically literate, gives the lie to that. Any song whose guitar lines are as ecstatic as those on “Maid In Heaven” was created by an unlucky band whose leader was unfortunate enough to choose Isherwood as his muse when Tolkien was the bard of choice. Go out and rediscover them. Now.

Now his vast tome on monolithic Europe is finally complete, Julian Cope has, rather sweetly, redirected his Odinist energies to his personal ancient history. Zoology is, belatedly, a kind of musical companion to his 1994 autobiography Head-On, tracing the Teardrops’ unsteady evolution from organ-drenched psych-punks to cavalier pop outsiders. Sixteen band members are psychically battered in the process, but the results are frequently magical: a belligerent live version of “Sleeping Gas”; a sepulchrally gloomy demo of “You Disappear From View” that is, according to Cope, “recorded as it should have sounded before the group got their mitts on it”. Best of all, he magnanimously exhumes a clammy, intense take on “Books” by A Shallow Madness, the Teardrops forerunners fronted by Ian McCulloch. McCulloch sounds agitated and imperious. Within weeks, Cope had sacked him.

First choice Led Zep frontman and Hendrix’s jamming chum, Reid was almost lost in the midst of a Brit blue-eyed soul fraternity that included Burdon, Cocker, Fame, Farlowe, Marriott, Winwood, Stewart and Morrison. But before relocating Stateside, he confirmed his outstanding talent during his appearance at the 1970 Isle Of Wight Festival. Here, with David Lindley on all things stringed, there’s a ’70s West Coast feel not just to his own songs (“Silver White Light”, “Things To Try” etc) but during a feisty cover of Dylan’s “To Be Alone With You”

Possessing abundant technical gifts and delivering his doleful acerbic observations in a hybridised Yorkshire Yankee growl, Michael Chapman remains one of the most underrated singer-songwriters of the not-quite-folk-not-quite-rock boom of the early ’70s.

Hopefully a complete reissue series of his Harvest output is on the cards. In the meantime, the earliest portions of this compilation remind you that, in full flow, he was as feisty and hilarious a stage performer as John Martyn. Unfortunately the lacklustre later material, recorded with an equally lacklustre band, does him little justice.

Long before he was 2.5cc, Graham Gouldman penned a clutch of classic English pop songs for the likes of The Yardbirds (“For Your Love”) and Herman’s Hermits (“No Milk Today”). Rendered in a pleasingly plaintive style and boasting state-of-the-’60s-art baroque’n’roll arrangements from future Zep bassist John Paul Jones, Gouldman’s songs evoke a time when lyricists could still write cute little domestic vignettes full of everyday imagery and girl-next-door yearning without a shred of self-consciousness. As competent and assured in their way as the hit versions.

Unfairly consigned to a historical footnote, Handsome is?give or take the outr

From Duran Duran to Robbie Williams via New Pop, folk-rock and cash-in Britpop, Duffy’s career is not short of its curious ups and downs. But strangest of all may be the fact that he made his best album in collaboration with avant-yob Nigel Kennedy. Relishing a prog sheen after the austerity of The Lilac Time, Duffy’s witty, pretty Revolver-songs (“Natalie” and “Totem” are featherlight knock-outs) are strung between Kennedy’s psycho-classical “Transitoires”, and the result is an affecting, beguiling and seamless suite of neuroses, new roses and elegant heartache.

At 79, Scott continues to perform, despite suffering a minor heart attack on stage last year. Diagnosed with an hormonal deficiency in his teens that prevented his voice dropping, he turned the abnormality into an otherworldly asset. This handsome collection draws together selections recorded for several labels over five decades for the first time. What stands out is the awesome continuity, the angelic tone that held Marvin and Stevie in thrall, casting its spell into the 21st century. He’s too good to remain a cognoscenti secret.

Lists are crass. But let’s take a straw poll on Britain’s greatest ever female singer anyway. Dusty Springfield, Kate Bush and Norma Waterson all have strong claims. Then there’s Polly Harvey, Lisa Stansfield, Katie Melua… OK, that last name’s not a serious suggestion. But it illustrates the poverty of the shortlist. Over the years, Britain has not only failed to produce home-grown giants to rival Ella, Aretha and Nina, but we’ve even struggled to come up with our own Janis, Madonna or even Alanis. Yet by the time you’ve finished listening to these five CDs, you should conclude that there is one name among the ranks of British female vocalists who outclasses them all.

Sandy Denny started out as just another frumpy folk singer with an unusually pure voice. But she ended up as our answer to Joan Baez, Grace Slick and Joni Mitchell all rolled into one. The 88 tracks here are brilliantly selected to showcase both the breathtaking diversity and remarkable consistency of her talent.

She had an intuitive feel for traditional English ballads (“Tam Lin”, “A Sailor’s Life”, “Banks Of The Nile”). But she could also do justice to the songbooks of Leonard Cohen (“Bird On A Wire”) and Bob Dylan (“Si Tu Dois Partir”). She could rock (Buddy Holly’s “Learning The Game”, Little Feat’s “Easy to Slip”) and she could sing country (the unreleased “Silver Threads”, “Golden Needles” from the Fotheringay sessions). And on songs such as “Who Knows Where The Time Goes?”, “The Sea” and “No More Sad Refrains”, she proved she was a songwriter of some ability. Yet, by 1978, at the age of 31, she was dead.

The best of Denny’s widely available work with Fairport Convention, Fotheringay and solo is well represented. But almost a third of the tracks are previously unreleased, while another 17 have been difficult to track down until now. Among the most desirable gems are a wondrous version of Anne Briggs’ “Go Your Way My Love”, “Sir Patrick Spens” from a 1969 Peel session, and some extraordinary solo home demos of Denny originals such as “One Way Donkey Ride”, “All Our Days” and “The Music Weaver”?her tribute to the great Richard Thompson.

Just one complaint. Denny’s duet with Robert Plant on “The Battle Of Evermore” from Led Zeppelin IV would have been a valuable adornment. Yet, even without this, A Boxful Of Treasures?with suitably sumptuous packaging to reflect its title?is still a contender for most significant retrospective of the year.

While U2, fellow members of the mid ’70s Dublin clique known as Lypton Village, went on to become “the world’s biggest band” TM, the Village’s co-founders Virgin Prunes? led by Gavin Friday?pursued a far darker, experimental escape route. Their first four singles, collected as A New Form Of Beauty, make for brutally uncomfortable listening, though Colin Newman of Wire softens the edges on follow-up If I Die…. Her