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Since it’s hard?and possibly verboten?to say a bad word about Tom Waits, unholy shaman of whacked-out Americana, I’ll content myself with expressing a few mild reservations. From the startling departure of Swordfishtrombones?over 20 years old now?Tom’s every subsequent move has been worth following with avid fascination. But with 2002’s simultaneously released Alice and Blood Money, it seemed he was veering off into wilfully art-wank Hal Willner territory. The marvellous Mule Variations from 1999 at least leavened its moments of gruff weirdness with plaintively unaffected piano ballads like “Pony”. Now here comes Tom with a new album that features no piano at all, just a cacophonous brew of ‘human beat-box’, threadbare Larry Taylor bass and jagged Marc Ribot geetar.

Waits is still taking more risks than most US ‘singer-songwriters’ of his generation, and parts of this album rock righteously. It’s just that some of Waits’musical modes?the Fat Possum stomp of “Shake It”, the Tod Browning gallery that is “Circus”, the sepulchral loungecore of “Dead And Lovely”?have been done before, and much better. By him. The templates for Real Gone?”Temptation”, “Such A Scream”, “Lowside Of The Road” et al?were altogether more satisfying. Hearing those marvels reprised in “Don’t Go Into That Barn” and “Baby Gonna Leave Me” suggests that Waits is chasing his own musical tail.

What does redeem Real Gone is a small clutch of songs that stick their political necks out. The eight-minute “Sins Of My Father”, with its fretless banjo and muted rock-steady groove, alludes none too obliquely to George W and the Florida rigging, while the warped Afro-Cuban groove of “Hoist That Rag” hints strongly at the Bush administration’s jingoist warmongering. But the most affecting song is saved for last. “Day After Tomorrow” is almost out of place here, so plain and unalloyed is its message in the form of a letter written home from the war front. Are you listening, Rumsfeld? A whole album in the vein of “Day…” might be the most radical thing Tom Waits could do next. One from the heart, in other words.

When Nancy Sinatra performed in Oslo in 2002, Norwegian newspaper VG carried a front-page photo with the headline “Tragic”. Yet when she performed this year at Morrissey’s Meltdown in London, a wander through the auditorium during the legendary “These Boots Were Made For Walking”elicited scenes reminiscent of a walkabout by Robbie Williams. Style rules over substance, in the capital at least. And it’s undoubtedly style rather than content that’s on show on this quasi-comeback album, for which she dresses herself in the musical equivalent of the finest threads. Here the songs are penned by veterans like Bono, Jon Spencer, Thurston Moore and, of course, her unlikely neighbour Morrissey. Nancy has often rested on others’ laurels, whether her father’s or writers like Lee Hazlewood’s, and this time is no different. It’s easy to forget, given how iconoclastic Nancy is these days, that her standing centres upon only a small amount of music. Certainly she made many records, but few are memorable.

Here she’s once again dependent upon her collaborators, and the truth is that few can match the skills it took to draw the best out of her. Calexico and Jarvis Cocker fare best simply by apeing Hazlewood, though Thurston Moore’s contribution is striking by sounding like nothing else she’s ever done (though like most of what he has done). But much of the album lacks cohesion, and even seems lazy: Bono and The Edge’s tune was originally written for Ol’ Blue Eyes himself. There’s no trading on Dad’s reputation here, then… It’s left to the relatively unknown Reno to rescue things with “Bossman”, its massive chorus finally allowing Nancy to display some character, and “About A Fire”, which echoes? & The Mysterians'”96 Tears”. That this is the only uncredited song on the promotional CD seems to emphasise that Nancy doesn’t know where her strengths lie.

For a while back there, Nottingham’s kosmic jammers Six By Seven seemed keen to set the controls for the heart of the sun and drift off into some kind of ever-expanding post-rock ionosphere. But they pulled back towards epic guitar territory with The Way I Feel Today two years ago, and their snappily titled fourth album continues the same trajectory towards super-heavy shoegazing of the Spiritualized/Valentines school. Rich in grand lysergic drones, fuzz-pedal overload and drowsy thunder, 04 remains as ’60s-fixated as any number of second-stage festival regulars. But Chris Olley redeems these trad tendencies with mighty sunbursts such as “Ocean” and “There Is A Ghost”.

Having spent the millennium thus far producing The Coral, The Zutons and laughing all the way to the bank whenever there’s a major international football tournament, the Lightning Seed returns. Not a Britpop hit in earshot, mind. Instead we get polished, introspective acoustic minstreldom with similar tunes to Badly Drawn Boy, particularly the Bewilderbeast-ly “Smoke Rings”. The psychedelic scallies that he’s been hanging around with in recent times also leave their trace, both physically as guest musicians and spiritually on the skunk-skank of “Always Knocking”. All in all, an admirable comeback.

Though not quite the out-and-out classic that Lekman’s three prior EPs seemed to promise, …Dog is still superior fare. Both vocally and lyrically, there’s much of Stephin Merritt in the hangdog croon and deadpan wit, keening wryly at a world forever pissing on his parade. Musically, it makes sticky bedsit dream-clouds of lounge, Vegas, folk and chamber pop. Try the finger-poppin’ Andy Williams-meets-Jonathan Richman a cappella of “Do You Remember The Riots?”, “You Are The Light” (where Caesar’s Palace and ’60s French pop get wiggy) or the mordant Scott Walker fancy of “The Cold Swedish Winter”.

Buoyed by the success of last year’s Biography hits collection, the 20 million-selling Stansfield sought out Horn to give her career a lift. Reining in the excesses of his style, the producer highlights Stansfield’s dependably no-nonsense approach. Her smouldering version of Prefab Sprout’s “When Loves Break Down”?complete with a new McAloon-penned verse?is an unexpected highlight. The chattering rhythms and glacial touches on the title track are representative of how Horn enlivens the material; in these bespoke settings, her honesty and directness are hard to dislike.

The Montreal-based electro-pop duo Chromeo arrive bearing an impressive CV: discovered by DJ Tiga; remixed by both Output chief Trevor Jackson and f

Remember when Michael Portillo told us that a reformed Tory Party had found a warm place in its heart for gays and single mums? Well, something similar is going on in mainstream country right now. Nobody votes for the hat acts any more, so Nashville has gone faux-progressive with Big & Rich’s improbable mix of honky tonk and hip hop, novelty songs such as “Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy)” and outrageous stage act. It’s a shameless gimmick, but not without merit, based on formidable musicianship and clever songcraft. The duo’s John Rich (once of lame country act Lonestar) turns up again writing half the songs on the debut by Gretchen Wilson, whose album and single “Redneck Woman” both recently topped the US country charts. And guess what? Halfway through the album, Wilson starts hick-hop rapping, too. Yet for all the new attitude, it remains mainstream Nashville, just as the Tory Party is still full of hangers and floggers.

Backed into a cult corner here, Cranes remain mythic enigmas abroad, where their streams of sadness and panoramic lurches of power grace adoring throngs. Ali Shaw sings of love, astronauts, snowflakes and the mysteries of time and space with well-honed eccentricity.

(CR)

Whatever Dolly grabs your trolley?the cake-slapped rhinestone self-parody, honky tonk angel or latterday roots revivalist?it’s all represented here. Recorded in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee in December 2002, it’s inconceivable that she’d chosen to stay off the road for 10 years when the live arena is so vivid a setting for her songs (and personality) of many colours. Sure, there’s cheese aplenty?”Stairway To Heaven”, for one?but the return-to-the-mountain bluegrass of recent years (“The Grass Is Blue”, “Shine”, “Little Sparrow”, “I’m Gone”) is brilliantly served by one of the most irresistible forces in the history of country.

Back in the late ’70s, Wreckless Eric’s tuneless vocals rivalled John Otway in the it’s-so-shite-it’s-fantastic stakes. After adopting a confusing array of different names and spending nine years living in France, he’s now returned home, and his first album as Wreckless Eric in almost a decade suggests that nothing much has really changed. He still can’t sing, and his home recordings remain defiantly anti-fi rather than lo-fi. He can also still write ridiculously catchy songs with outrageous lyrics, such as “33s & 45s”, while “Continuity Girl” sounds like a bumbling, middle-aged version of The Streets. Shambolic, wilful, infuriating and hugely entertaining.

Electroclash may be officially over in a 2002 kind of way, but whatever Riton?aka Newcastle-born turntablist Henry Smithson?is doing with squelchy beats and semi-salacious lyrics sure feels good. The signature style on Homies And Homos is bouncy and restless and infectious as hell, but nowhere near as trashy as it first appears. Over pulsing electronic rhythms that morph between acid ripples, filtered house and Prince-style liquid-funk jams, Riton transforms the everyday chants of street beggars into cheeky vocal motifs on “Homeless”, and even revives the mildly controversial Cure classic “Killing An Arab” as a fresh techno stomp.

At a time when much British alternative rock is hobbled by the demands of ‘authenticity’, Brighton’s Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster strike a rowdy, triumphantly rulebook-flouting note. Clearly, they have their heroes?The Cramps, Dead Kennedys, Melvins and Kyuss among them?but the band’s wide-ranging vision suggests they couldn’t churn out copies of the music they love even if they tried. The Royal Society explores themes of mental derailment and the black arts against a backdrop of the heaviest psychobilly, grunge-metal and stoner rock. That there are tunes to boot is further proof of this band’s talent.

When Elliott Smith died last year, he left behind a large number of tracks from which he was assembling the follow-up to 2000’s Figure 8. The plan was to release a double album that would break up the more accessible songs with tracks that were significantly more distorted and disorienting. With no final track listing left behind as a guide, Smith’s estate?his divorced parents and their respective partners?has overseen a version of From A Basement On The Hill, and certainly the more unpalatable tracks appear to have been weeded out.

What remains is a 15-song collection that sits in contrast to Figure 8 and 1998’s XO. Where those two DreamWorks albums benefited from musicianly flourishes and retro instrumentation, From A Basement…returns us to the more unfiltered, denuded sound of his earlier Kill Rock Stars records. There’s no strings or vibes or bass saxophones here. While that precludes the pop magnificence of “Baby Britain” and Costello-esque brilliance of “Waltz #2”, it does remind us of what made Smith so special on his first three albums: the soft, double-tracked phrasing that’s part Paul Simon, part Alex Chilton; the dragging lo-fi riffs; the wounded moods he conjured through his bittersweet chords.

From A Basement… alternates between angry and pretty?sludgily heavy (“Coast To Coast”, “Don’t Go Down”) and gossamer-light (“Let’s Get Lost”, “Last Hour”). The grungey stuff is as good as “Junk Bond Trader”, the delicate songs as intimate as “Angeles”. God, he was great. Inevitably, one searches in these songs for clues as to Smith’s state of mind over the last two years of his life. The inferences are not cheerful. “Fond Farewell” is virtually a suicide note to himself. “Strung Out Again” is all but self-explanatory. “King’s Crossing” is almost psychedelic in its suicidal intensity. While his own “Basement” must remain hypothetical, here are 15 more reasons not to forget Elliott Smith’s harrowing sadness?and his singular musical intelligence.

Clearly conceived as Britain’s answer to Christina Aguilera and Avril Lavigne, the 24-year-old Lucie Silvas has an impressive vocal range and a veritable committee to help out with the songs, many of which find up to five names sharing the royalties. Perhaps that’s the problem, for the smell of formula is stronger here than in a chemistry lab. No coincidence that the best moments come on the stark piano ballad “Forget Me Not” and the simple and affecting “The Longer We’re Apart”, both written by Silvas with just a single collaborator.

After guesting on the last two Blind Boys Of Alabama albums, Ben Harper has now recorded a full-length collaboration with the world’s oldest group, which amazingly still includes survivors from the original 1940s line-up. It’s as inspirational as you would expect such a blues-gospel summit to be. Harper contributes stinging slide guitar and adds his own distinctive vocals to those of the magnificent Clarence Fountain and his Alabama veterans on material that ranges from the traditional “Satisfied Mind” to contemporary Harper compositions, via a stripped-down and sparse version of Dylan’s little-known “Well, Well, Well” (co-written with Danny O’Keefe).

In less assured hands, the coolly understated aesthetic tradition of northern Europe evoked by Copenhagen’s name might strike a pretentious note. Neil G Henderson, Kirsa Wilkenschildt and co, however, deal in unusually subtle orchestral pop, and their Sweet Dreams… is the stuff of deliciously penumbral slumbers. Drawing on sources as diverse as Eberhard Weber, Scott Walker and Ralph Vaughan Williams, and directed by Henderson’s lugubrious vocals, Copenhagen play out their quiet dramas with minimal instrumentation and admirably spare arrangements. The Weimar cabaret tradition that underpinned their debut takes a back seat, although a decidedly sinister feel persists on the splendid “Revolving Day”.

Despite the popularity of “Little Star”, her exquisite contribution to the soundtrack of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo+Juliet in 1996, Nordenstam was never likely to follow Bj

Rock purists derided Costello when he first flirted with classical forms 11 years ago, but his Brodsky Quartet collaboration The Juliet Letters still sounds like a bold career swerve. It could even be considered a punk statement in its bare-faced arrogance (stop sniggering at the back). Countless eclectic excursions later, Costello returned to Shakespeare in 2000 when an Italian dance troupe commissioned him to score a ballet based on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. An hour-long condensation of that score recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra, Il Sogno may invite more sneers for its vaulting pretensions. But it still makes for very easy light-orchestral listening, rich in airy melody and playful pastiche. It’s not even classical in the old-school sense. There are echoes of Debussy but also of Gershwin and golden-age Hollywood soundtracks, plus recurring swing-jazz flourishes that recall Costello’s last album, North. Hardly a major work, but another pleasantly competent string to his bow. Literally.