This was recorded deep in the woods of New Jersey, its running theme that of the mythology surrounding witchcraft. However, The Liars’ aim is to challenge the listener with their gruelling strangeness. Take “There’s Always Room On The Broom”, which fixates autistically on a single beat, or “Read The Book That Wrote Itself”, in which the band intone slightly off key, as if on medication. Only with the closing tracks do they exhibit potentially addictive qualities but, by then, The Liars may well have been consigned to the ducking stool of oblivion by most listeners.

Dutch independent distribution company Konkurrent oversees the ongoing Fishtank series, in which invited artists are let loose in the studio for two days. Previous sessions have featured Tortoise, Low and Willard Grant Conspiracy, but for the 11th in the series San Diego post-rockers The Black Heart Procession have chosen to work with Dutch prog-rock outfit Solbakken. The result is a magisterial monument to the power of the sustained minor chord, and owes as much to the full-bodied drama of The Bad Seeds as to Mogwai, although closer “Your Cave” approaches the sepulchral splendour of The Triffids.

The expensive stodge of The Vines’ much-hyped debut didn’t bode well for a follow-up. Bits of Winning Days almost captivate: the elastic riffage of “Ride”, the star-struck interludes of “TV Pro” (which rupture into pedestrian guitar stomp and non-verbal wailing), most of the diaphanous “Autumn Shade”. You will search in vain for a simple, affecting song, however, and Craig Nicholls has an unappealing non-voice. It’s hard to fight the feeling this is average songwriting buffed into something near-palatable by the amount of money spent on it. At least Nicholls isn’t ripping off Nirvana quite as blatantly as he was first time around.

If the Pet Shops Boys had spent the last 15 years polishing the melancholy essence of Behaviour to a fine sheen, they might have ended up with a record as elegantly touching as this. The second instalment in the Happyness trilogy, it’s the kind of music iPods would make if they could pleasure themselves: brushed metal, modernist curves, a touch sensitive.

Stephin Merritt is famously interested in avant garde and bubblegum, and nothing in between. The Aluminum Group, with a similar sensibility, have great fun with precisely this ‘in between’: pale ghosts of early-’70s AM radio MOR returning to haunt the laptop. “Love is a switch you turn on and off,” they sing. “When I broke the door in, you called the cops.” But the pursuit of happiness continues, through the rainy days and Mondays, and The Aluminum Group aren’t about to give up the chase. Roll on next year’s concluding set, Little Happyness.

Thom Yorke and OutKast recently rhapsodised about 28-year-old Tom Jenkinson’s capricious musical genius. Compared to the ideas-overloaded Ultravisitor, Squarepusher’s ninth album, their current efforts sound as simple as the Cheeky Girls. Jenkinson has here let his imagination roam free, fashioning an 80-minute symphonic odyssey that’s as wilfully indulgent as it is breathtakingly advanced. Yet Jenkinson has taken great care to sculpt the kaleidoscopic range of sounds on display?everything from frenzied live bass assaults and crowd applause to daring drum programming, celestial passages and fragrant melodies?so that this heaving banquet is digestible in one sitting. A mighty statement of intent, Ultravisitor has to be heard to be believed. It is not for the faint-hearted?but when were they ever any fun?

Mehldau is a brilliant, controversial figure in the world of jazz piano. Over the last decade, his lofty output (sample titles: Progression: The Art Of The Trio Vol 5) has paraded its glittering intellectualism to the delight of some, the aggressive indifference of others. It consists of convoluted reworkings of unassuming standards into semi-abstract 7/8 burn-outs, notably halting examinations of ballads and originals which vividly reveal his classical roots. The CDs themselves have often been accompanied by densely argued essays concerning aesthetics, philosophy, the limitation of language and tortuous elucidation on the mechanics of interplay between himself and his group, Larry Grenadier (bass) and Jorge Rosse (drums).

If the instinctive reaction to such self-consciousness is suspicion?of course we expect our musical leaders to be bright, but maybe not make such a deal of it?his music usually wins through. Unquestionably a majestic player, while his own impressive albums have often suffered from a distracting ego-unleashed quality, his piano work on other people’s records?like Close Enough For Love by singer (and Mehldau’s wife) Fleurine and Charles Lloyd’s The Water Is Wide?is sensitively reactive and impeccably musical. And his last album, Largo, surrendered a little more to the visceral as it flirted with electronic processing and?in the climax of his ongoing musical interest in the band?delivered a cover of Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android”.

Anything Goes is his first studio album with the trio since 1998’s Songs, and while his musical trademarks remain, it feels less feverishly dazzling than before. The tricksiness sounds more organic and relaxed (the 5/4 title track swings beautifully), the quiet moments (a minimalist pick-through of Henry Mancini’s “Dreamsville”, an enquiring-child dismantling of Charlie Chaplin’s “Smile”) feel deeper and more real. Those keen to hear his latest Radiohead thoughts will be thrilled by a rolling, retching “Everything In Its Right Place”.

There’s a sense on Anything Goes of an older, calmer Mehldau wielding the slide rule with a little more discretion, the result being his music is becoming as easy to love as it is to gulpingly admire.

Haven’s debut has now sold over 150,000 copies, so there’s clearly a market for this kind of third division not-so-indie rock. So derivative is the Haven sound that the opening of “Have No Fear” manages to sound both like late-period James and Manic Street Preachers’ “Motorcycle Emptiness”. Which isn’t so surprising given that Manics producer Dave Eringa manned the desk, as, rather more disturbingly, did Johnny Marr, who clearly hasn’t pulled himself out of his recent creative nosedive. All For A Reason is uniformly epic and stirring, apart from “Wouldn’t Change A Thing”, which sounds a bit like The La’s. Singer Gary Briggs’ is a prosaic melancholy, and his tone oddly transatlantic. A rum do.

“All we do is talk, sit, switch screens/As the homeland plans enemies” sings Emily Haines on “Succexy”, with such sweet/sour pith and vinegar she distills all Radiohead’s epic bellyaching into wonderfully succinct pop. You could be forgiven for pegging Metric as skinny-tie Europhiles?in the same vein as fellow Canadians The New Pornographers?if it weren’t for Haines’ majestic scorn. “Combat Baby” (“How I miss your ranting/Do you miss my all-time lows?”) wishes love were more of a battlefield, while coolly suggesting a ‘bring the troops home’ anthem. Haines was once in mellow electro-crooners Stars, and songs like “Calculation Theme” are as poised and poignant as they ever achieved, but it’s when the band get worked up, as on would-be drivetime smash “Dead Disco”, that they come into their own, raging against “dead funk and dead rock’n’roll”. A triumph.

The most original Scottish label since Postcard, Fence began in 1995 as a repository for a welter of leftfield musicians with have-a-go spirit. Having already released beautifully scuffed LPs, James Yorkston, Tom (U.N.P.O.C.) Bauchop and early Beta Band man Lone Pigeon feature here, as do HMS Ginafore, Pip Dylan, Gummo Bako and King Creosote, who offers up the gorgeous “A Friday Night In New York”. Like watching slow bruises spread over soft fruit.

As on all the copious reed live albums?and there aren’t many “musicians” you can say this of?it’s the talking bits which stand out. This double begins by Reed teasing us with an unconsummated “Sweet Jane” riff. “So,” he drawls, “I thought I’d explain to you how to make a career out of three chords. You younger bands, pay attention.” He then does the pattern on his beloved guitar. “You thought it was three? It’s really four!” And, lo and behold, he’s not wrong. “As with most things in life,” he smirks, “It’s that little hop at the end…”

And there is still a skip in his step, even at this late stage in one of the most fascinating careers in rock’n’roll. This fan preferred the earlier sex albums, where the music actually does stuff, to the later library albums, but even in his guise of earnest bespectacled academic, Reed’s capable of hilarious entertainment. This set leans heavily on recent albums?let’s face it, there isn’t much left from Transformer or the Velvets that he hasn’t already recycled?but, blessedly, turns up genuine surprises. Like a sincere-as-you-like “The Day John Kennedy Died” (not that the youthful Reed ever, like, voted for him) and a sweet “Tell It To Your Heart” from the dismal Mistrial album.

“Every fucking note you hear is us, right in front of you,” he rants. “You get it? We’re live.” His evangelism for the authentic (how un-Warhol is that?) means it’s a straightforward band, playing the songs in a close-to-unplugged manner, any flourishes coming from falsetto vocalist Marcanthony and some fleshy cellos. On the plus side, we can’t hear the T’ai Chi bloke who made the last tour so funny for all the wrong reasons.

When Reed’s not cracking wise, the set’s po-faced, all pretty arpeggios and tasteful plucking, demanding grown-up reverence. Tracks from The Raven and Songs For Drella are a yawn. Two stand-outs from the mighty Berlin are de-fanged. But, as ever with Reed, when it’s good, it’s blistering. “The Bed”, “Venus In Furs”, “Dirty Blvd” and “Candy Says” all mesmerise. On “Street Hassle” (which was always a classic of sparseness, and so sounds as chilling as ever here), he declares, “I wanted to write a song that mixed up Burroughs, Algren, Tennessee Williams, Chandler…” Ah, no grand claims for it then, Mr Modesty? But, of course, we love the fact that this narcissistic sometime genius (and sometime fool) worships the twin poles of high poetry and simple three-chord (sorry, four-chord) trash. That’s the way it should be. It’s certainly the way it is here. Animal, no, but magic in spells.

Like Norah Jones, Susan Tedeschi owes much to Bonnie Raitt. But while Jones has picked up on Raitt’s latenight smooch, Tedeschi is the heir to her raunchier blues-mama persona. On earlier albums her little-girl-with-a-big-voice act appealed as a freak of nature, in a Joss Stone kind of way. Since then she’s grown into the role, and Wait For Me?half-produced by the late Tom Dowd?is a storming, adult, modern blues excursion. At times she storms too much and risks sounding one-paced. But the tender “Wrapped In The Arms Of Another”, the jazzily acoustic “Blues On A Holiday” and a lovely “Don’t Think Twice” are testament to Tedeschi’s growing subtlety.

In the past, the exotic line-up of Blonde Redhead?identical Italian twins and a Japanese woman long embedded in New York boho-dom?has drawn more attention than their frequently tremendous music. While earlier albums were dominated by an understandable love of Sonic Youth, Misery Is A Butterfly is a daintier beast. Much of the jaggedness and screech has gone, with a baroque aestheticism now dominant, somewhere between Serge Gainsbourg and the Cocteau Twins. It works, mainly: though one or two songs could benefit from more of the old viciousness, these are seductive confections, all blurred strings, magical chimes and tear-stained metaphysics. Finally, it seems, 4AD have found a band who can convincingly update the filigree and shadow of their ’80s heyday.

“Believe the hype” was the slogan with which Munich’s DJ Hell launched his modish International Deejay Gigolos label into the mainstream as electroclash fever broke in 2002. Alas, judging by his new album, 41-year-old Helmut Geier has since paid rather too much attention to that forest of style mag cuttings hailing him as an electro icon. Recorded with help from the DFA’s James Murphy, Alan Vega and Erlend

That their debut album?an extraordinarily compelling blend of Appalachian and Spanish traditional folk, Weimar cabaret, Tex-Mex rock and gothic alt.country?was called Your Bloated Corpse Has Washed Ashore gives a fair indication of Tim Kelley and Christa Meyer’s aesthetic. Despite the dramatic flounce of its title and a cover of the traditional “Hangman’s Song”, however, the second album from this Chicago couple is a brighter, lighter, leaner affair. See You In Hell works on the interplay between back-porch guitar and vocals, lifted by odd flourishes of kazoo (on “Mango”) and trumpet (the lovely, lilting “Tennessee”). Hell-bound sounds, maybe, but still quite heavenly.

They’re comprised of Chris Abrahams (keyboards), Lloyd Swanton (bass) and Tony Buck (drums), and have been in existence on and off since 1987. You might think “jazz trio”, but this remarkable group goes far beyond that. Their methodology is to improvise slowly on and gradually develop melodic and rhythmic motifs. “Drive Up” consists of one such improvisation which lasts for one hour, and starting from an ambient shimmer it works its way through intimations, not just of jazz but of deep house, trip hop and?in the final section?the saddest bass line that Joy Division never thought of. Somewhere between The KLF’s Chill Out and The Boredoms’ Vision Creation Newsun, this is an accessible, breathtaking and at times profoundly moving record. It might even be the most radical record of 2004.

The Japanese psychedelic underground is one of the world’s most labyrinthine music scenes, rarely charted by Western listeners. Now signed to discerning Chicago labels, Ghost and 00100 are two of its more recognisable standard-bearers: the former having collaborated with bardic New Englanders Damon & Naomi; the latter thanks to frontwoman Yoshimi’s immortalisation by the Flaming Lips.

Although Hypnotic Underworld starts with a fantastically disconcerting improvisation, Ghost are actually the more conventional, enjoyably fluttering between commune jazz, zen folk and straightforward hippy rock reminiscent, perhaps, of Spirit.

OO1OO aren’t so self-consciously cosmic, and as a result their clattering mantric pop is more original. More fun, too: Yoshimi’s ebullience is inescapable on Kila Kila Kila, from the gymnastic drumming to her ecstatic, Bj

You might not expect much from an album by the former double-bass player from Lyle Lovett’s band. So think of Viktor Krauss more as a composer?and a classically-trained one at that. The title track of his solo debut was featured on Uncut’s covermount CD last month and is typical of his exquisitely-fashioned, mostly instrumental compositions that reflect his diverse background in country, jazz, rock and bluegrass.

Assisted by guitarist Bill Frisell, dobro/steel maestro Jerry Douglas and drummer Steve Jordan, it’s all about mood and at times resembles a soundtrack to an up-market travel documentary through the American South. But Krauss’ occasional vocals and those of sister Alison on four tracks, including a stunningly beautiful cover of Robert Plant’s “Big Log”, do more than enough to maintain interest.

Emil Amos’ Holy Sons mourn the demise of their last vestige of optimism with a quite definitively miserable fourth album, jam-packed with Portland, Oregon despair and futility. Good value!

With 13 sketches lasting a half-hour, its beauty is that somehow it avoids self-indulgence, each cameo crying, making Knut Hamsun look like Ken Dodd, then drifting politely away. Sliding between slurred whispers and a sighing falsetto, he reaches emotions the dreary latest Lambchop opus didn’t.

Between “anxiety”, “paranoia” and “compromise”, he peaks with, “I stare into the empty nothing left-just some dust, and some cold”.

Is this alt.country, or so bleak it’s genre-less? He craves relief, if only he could get up off his bed and walk. Makes On The Beach sound like “Beach Baby”.

Joseph “Amp” Fiddler is a veteran funk session keyboardist who has waited until now to release music under his own name.

The 14 tracks assembled here are conservative in nature, if cautiously inquisitive about things which have happened in black music since 1973?for example, the fetching deep house of “Superficial”.

In terms of reference, Fiddler is probably closest stylistically to the likes of D’Angelo and Maxwell, but his arrangements are less ingenious and his lyrics more facile (from “Love & War”: “I believe we can change the world”).

The highlights are the concluding title track, unsurprisingly boosted by the involvement of George Clinton, and the adventurous neuro-funk of the untitled hidden track; but otherwise this is a perfectly pleasant springtime soul soundtrack.