Though he never seemed young, it’s still a shock to realise that JJ Cale is 65. But, like the breeze in his song, he keeps blowing down the road. Since regular producer Audie Ashworth quit the saloon, Cale has returned to his Tulsa roots, teaming up with a bunch of old-timers for a session of city blues and country, leavened with the light touch of an old master. Cale doesn’t often stray from his territory; the likes of “My Gal” and “Blues For Mama” are Okie without being hokey. But he’s also included a deft eco song, “Stone River”, and the wryly apolitical “The Problem”, so there’s plenty of light and shade here.

The success of Kings Of Convenience’s remarkably Simon & Garfunkel-esque 2001 debut Quiet Is The New Loud had a dramatic effect on its authors. Sick of touring, guitarist/vocalist Eirek Glambek B

There was a rumour, just before the release of the last Strokes album, that the nouveau garage band had hooked up with legendary Off The Wall/Thriller producer Quincy Jones for their follow-up to Is This it. Of course, it turned out to be yet more safe white retro CBGBs drone-rock predictably helmed by Gordon Raphael, but it did make one long for the days when indie bands would, if not call upon the services of black/electronic music auteurs, at least attempt to engage with the culture. Circa ’81/’82, the likes of Orange Juice would cover Al Green without irony, while The Human League aped Moroder, and Heaven 17 and ABC absorbed the influence of NYC clubland. To put it in current terms, imagine Franz Ferdinand joining forces with Pharrell Williams. Now, every white group pays lip service to the radical “tic time” and stutter rhythms of Timbaland and The Neptunes. But only Junior Boys?24-year-old technophile Jeremy Greenspan from Hamilton, Canada, and two buddies?have put their money where their mouth is and made an LP steeped in recent avant-dance developments. Last Exit acknowledges everything from the digital funk of Timbaland to UK garage/2-step to clicks and cuts (dance music based on machine faults). Greenspan’s real coup, however, is to combine the dry formalism of, say, Pole and labels such as Mille Plateaux with the wan melodies of his favourite groups?masters of studio confection from Steely Dan to Prefab Sprout and all synth points between?and then deliver this new kind of pop song in the sort of exquisitely forlorn whisper-murmur not heard since Paddy McAloon or Green Gartside. This is where The Wire aesthetic meets early-’80s Smash Hits.

The contrast between romanticism and sonic daring, alien time signatures and freakishly pretty tunes, is irresistible. Greenspan’s unremittingly bleak, crushed world view, put-on or otherwise, expressed on titles such as “High Come Down” and “Teach Me How To Fight”, is no less addictive. No group since New Order has so effectively communicated such pristine woe. Whether or not this signals a future dub-spacious direction for alternative pop music, or a devastating one-off, remains to be seen. But it’s hard to believe there will be a better record than Last Exit released this year.

At times, the seventh album by this San Franciscan quartet sounds like a peculiarly avant-garde episode of Sesame Street. Enchanted nursery songs are apparently splintered and reconstructed amid fragments of post-punk, prog-rock, glitch and plenty more theoretically adult, po-faced musics. On paper, it might appear a pretty sickly exercise?a whimsical Blonde Redhead, perhaps. But Deerhoof’s skittish collages always, miraculously, have a pop logic to them, and their desire to show that experimental music can be playful rather than forbidding is often heroic. Astonishingly, too, Milk Man’s quirks are charming instead of self-conscious: the eponymous Milk Man may be a masked child-snatcher with bananas gouged into his flesh, but vocalist Satomi Matsuzaki’s ingenuous squeaks make even this nightmare figure endearing.

Ikara Colt’s impassioned dealings in the gnarlier end of art-rock should by now have elevated the London-based quartet into the indie Premiership. Hampered by misfortune and incompetence (their original bassist quit, replaced by Tracy Bellaries), their second album, helmed by At The Drive-In producer Alex Newport, channels a palpable love of early Fall (check singer Paul Resende’s Smith-like vowel-mangling on “Repro/Roadshow/Nightmare”) and Daydream Nation-period Sonic Youth (“Waste Ground”) into a convincing half-hour that teeters, teasingly, on the brink of collapse. The slinky punk-pop of “Modern Feeling” proves they’ve also got chart appeal, though you suspect Top Of The Pops is not yet a priority.

Omara Portuondo is the sole female member of the Buena Vista Social Club network and, for me, her duet with Ibrahim Ferrer in the Buena Vista movie instantly gave Wim Wenders’ lugubrious film an injection of sexy Cuban attitude. On Flor De Amor (translation: “Flower Of Love”) the 74-year-old diva remains in remarkable voice, crooning in a dark, lived-in yet tender voice over a large Buena Vista backing band. The music remains the classic Cuban boleros (ballads) and hip-swinging mambo workouts of pre-revolution Cuba, while producer Nick Gold has brought in several Brazilian musicians to lend a pan-Latin flavour to the proceedings. Omara remains defiantly old-school?no attempts at salsa or Shakira-type Latin rock crossover. Instead she concentrates on singing with grace, never uttering a false note or over-emoting. In doing so, she’s created a great soundtrack for the summer, and as perfect a Latin album as you could hope to find.

Describing itself as “the evil twin to the ecstatically decadent Boogie Nights soundtrack”, the merits of this collection dwarf even Val Kilmer’s (it says here) 13-inch penis. Okay, so he was playing porn legend John Holmes. But we don’t even want to think about the method acting. Instead, let’s explain why this soundtrack is so excellent. It’s very simple: most of the songs they’ve chosen are classics. As opposed to the tired drek clueless movie producers compiling soundtracks usually think are classics (Dido, The Troggs). Wonderland is a rarity, and gets it absolutely right.

Bookended by lewd dialogue from Kilmer and cronies, and a demented version of Neil Diamond’s “Love On The Rocks” by Korn’s Jonathan Davies (which intones, “Pour me a drink, bitch”), are: T. Rex’s “20th Century Boy”, The Stooges’ “Search And Destroy”, Roxy’s. “In Every Dream Home A Heartache”, Patti Smith’s “Gloria” and Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind”. Having fun yet? Okay, throw in Bob Dylan’s “Quinn The Eskimo”, Bad Company’s “Shooting Star” (c’mon, you love it) and The Cars’ “Good Times Roll” (c’mon, you…etc). Most of these are probably among your desert island discs. Duran Duran’s “Girls On Film” is probably your desert island video. And Dobie Gray’s “Drift Away” is ubiquitous whether we like it or not. Terry Reid, Ted Nugent and Billy Joel make up the numbers. But we’ll ignore them because they spoil our flow. Wonderland leaps louchely from the “world’s forgotten boy” to “friends say it’s fine, friends say it’s good”. From “G-L-O-R-I-A” to “I blew up your body, but you blew my mind”. Anybody not knowing which tracks these lines are from has no business sticking around. We’ll manage without you. By accident or design, an exhilarating set which claims it captures “sleaze, paranoia, violence, sex and drugs”, and claims well.

Sunderland’s Futureheads once claimed they started a band because their city had no cinema. As beliefs in punk’s original diktat regarding necessity’s relationship to invention go, it’s about as old-school as you could get. Their striking debut resembles a late-’70s manifesto?all nervy guitar and barked observations. But The Futureheads understand that a love of The Jam, early Clash and Gang Of Four (Andy Gill produced) means nothing without… well, meaning of one’s own. “First Day” and “The City Is Here For You To Use” match belief with bravado, marking The Futureheads out as a fresh, capable talent.

As lynchpin of Zumpano and later The New Pornographers, Vancouver’s Carl Newman has a talent for ingenious left turns. On his debut solo album, he pays homage to the quirkier balladeer school. Sunnily arranged, “Miracle Drug” whips itself into an anthem, while the orchestrated “Cloud Prayer” and the moody “Most Of Us Prize Fighters” could have been standouts on the Pornographers’ Electric Version album. Crafty and clean-cut, Newman is a credit to an overlooked art; a big, baroque fusion of sharp garage, paisley pop and ’70s sleekness, finished with a coating of Terry Jacks sentiment. “Rock with good songs” was Newman’s simple demand. He’s delivered.

Another broadly apocalyptic day at the office for Sunn O))), two Americans?Stephen O’Malley and Greg Anderson?with a taste for slothful riffs, feedback, organ-shuffling sub-bass and avantdoom pioneers Earth. As with last year’s superior White 1, ambient metal predominates?deeply silly and yet meditatively beautiful. Monumental hardly does it justice, since the three huge tracks move so slowly one could imagine civilisations rising from the swamps and crumbling to dust in their timespans. Sunn O))) clearly welcome such elemental associations: they play live in druids’ robes; White 1 included a sermon from Julian Cope; and “Decay2” here features satanic breathing exercises from Attila Csihar, a collaborator of murdered Norwegian black metaller Euronymous. It’s hard to take Sunn O))) as seriously, however, given Anderson’s moonlighting with that unlikely lord of misrule, Dave Grohl.

Not only a Brit comedy that’s funny, but an indie-pop soundtrack that’s in good taste. Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” and “You’re My Best Friend” are here to ensure nobody thinks this is XFM, but otherwise I Monster, Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster and Ash do it for the kids. Grandmaster Flash and Man Parrish do it for the kids with rhythm. Lemon Jelly do it for the parents. The Smiths and The Specials do it for us all. And Ash teaming up with Chris Martin to cover Buzzcocks’ “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” is surely done with good intentions and a sense of humour. You’ll be spaced.

The Korgis’ bittersweet 1980 hit “Everybody’s Got To Learn Some Time”, and 1998’s future of rock’n’roll, Beck. What could they have in common? Well, Beck has wised up and done a cover of said narcoleptic nugget. And in this intelligent, melancholy film, it sounds every bit as affecting as intended. Jon Brion, the man behind the score to Magnolia, contributes the bulk, while The Polyphonic Spree chime in with “Light And Day”. If you enjoy the Spree un-ironically, you’ll also love ELO’s “Mr Blue Sky”, here in all its bombast.

The new Dawson’s Creek, and declared a guilty pleasure for adults by every Sunday supplement you read. To enjoy the music fully, pretend you still ask your mum and dad’s permission to stay out after nine. Having made such a leap, swoon to timid acoustic moments from Spoon, South and William Orbit. Get a bit stroppy to the Dandy Warhols or Doves, slam the door to Turin Brakes, then storm out in a huff crying to the grown-up riffs of Jet, who, in this context, sound like they shave and might piss on your barbecue. It’s called Orange County because of the colour of the actors’ skin, by the way.

As a rule, punk-funk has been one of the most uptight of genres. In the early ’80s that was the general point: to subversively combine the austerity of post-punk with the notional abandon of dance music. Dancing became a political act as well as a liberating one, as Gang Of Four made rhythmic capital out of Marxist theory.

There’s an element of this in Louden Up Now, the second album by New York/Sacramento septet!!! (it’s usually pronounced “Chk! Chk! Chk!”). On “Me & Giuliani Down By The Schoolyard”, singer Nic Offer invites the former New York mayor onto the floor for an energetic bout of self-improvement (“y’all could learn a lesson by losing inhibitions”). But while !!! incorporate political rhetoric into their brittle grooves, there’s a critical difference between them and many of their po-faced antecedents.

Chiefly, !!! appear to have few inhibitions of their own, being a triumphantly uncool band who’ve inadvertently stumbled into fashion. Formed in Sacramento in the mid-’90s, their dry, percussion-heavy music became the height of cool thanks to The Rapture and other DFA-affiliated bands. Louden Up Now, then, continues to draw on a hipster’s almanac of influences (A Certain Ratio, The Pop Group, Can, Chic) as well as some less credible ones (The Lo-Fidelity Allstars).

But it’s exuberant dorkiness, as well as fluidity of playing, that makes !!! stand out. Offer is a buoyant, foul-mouthed frontman; on the choppy rant of “Pardon My Freedom” alone he suggests President Bush should “suck my fucking dick”, tells Christians he’s “taller than Jesus” and disapproves of some venetian blinds.

Its daftness occasionally grates as much as it amuses, and there are moments when you wish Offer would shut up and let the band get on with it. Live, his gaucheness is infectious, but a ham-fisted anti-Bush/Blair rant on “Shit Scheisse Merde” illustrates how !!!’s positive attributes can also be negative ones. As a result, this isn’t as strong as S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D, the superb 2002 album by Outhud, a band sharing many members?including Offer?with !!!. Still, Louden Up Now is an irresistible party record that, alongside S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D and The Rapture’s Echoes, is rich enough to survive transient fads. “Catch me singing this in 20 years at some local county fair,” spits Offer, and it’s hard to imagine, even then, that anyone will have figured out how to becalm this indefatigable, empowering band.

You know the priest has started reading the last rites on dance music when the record label best known as home to Fatboy Slim releases… an alt.country record. Cynicism aside, Lucky Jim mark a laudable attempt by Skint to expand their horizons.

A two-piece (Scottish lad Gordon Graham and Brighton boy Ben Townsend), Lucky Jim draw on all the necessary and obvious references (Dylan, Gene Clark, Gram). But this collection of border skirmishes is surprisingly effective thanks to a neat line in bruised acoustic melancholia and Gordon’s prairie-dog growl. “You’re Lovely To Me” is all mandolin, strings and dusty melodies blown in from the desert. “Almeria”, a nod of the Stetson to the Spanish city where Leone shot his Dollars trilogy, possesses a ragged, loping gait; a Morricone mooch. “The Honeymooners” sounds like Gainsbourg’s “Bonnie & Clyde” for the E generation, while “My Soul Is On Fire” is a fine example of frontier melodrama.

Since their Mercury Music Prize-winning debut Bring It On six years ago, Gomez’s fusion of American roots music has suffered from the law of diminishing returns. The marketing pitch for their fourth album claims they’ve beefed up the sound and gone for a more straightforward rock’n’roll approach built around bass, drums and layers of riffing guitars. This actually does them a disservice. Yes, tracks such as “Where Ya Going?” and “Chicken Out” are heads-down-see-you-at-the-end hard rockers that makes them sound like Southport’s answer to ZZ Top. But there’s plenty more going on that doesn’t involve such dumbing-down. “Meet Me In The City” is a semi-acoustic blues shuffle and “Sweet Virginia” is a lovely piece of baroque pop, while “Catch Me Up” and “These Three Sins” are country-rock romps that recall the heyday of Albert Lee’s Heads, Hands & Feet.

Emerging in 2001 with “Circle”, a collaboration with Doseone of the oddball cLOUDDEAD collective, Boom Bip was an onomatopoeically perfect alias for the creator of glitchy, goofy-footed hip hop. Now, it’s doubtful Bryan “Boom Bip” Hollon would describe what he does as hip hop in any way. Corymb (it’s botanical) is a giddily gorgeous collection of remixes (Boards Of Canada, Four Tet and others) and new tracks. It ranges widely in timbre and texture, but is sombre and reflective throughout, with the iridescent “Pulse All Over” suggesting early Verve gone post-rock and “First Walk” sounding like a Felt for the laptop generation. Occasionally, a typewriter chatters, horses whinny and xylophone notes fall like gentle rain. Ample cause to cheer on Boom Bip’s third solo LP, due this autumn.

Christine McVie is not in the business of pushing envelopes. And if the songs here sound like anagrams of others her pure, woody tones have crooned down the years, then that’s to be expected. On the other hand, just because she was one of the architects of a particularly popular strain of pop doesn’t mean she’s duty bound to pursue it forever. Maybe she’ll get around to other styles eventually. In the meantime, as one song has it: “Easy come, easy go, that’s just the way it is.” She’s in fine voice, sounds like she’s having a good time, and if her contributions to Fleetwood Mac are your favourites, you should investigate.