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.

Hardworking Londoners Adrian Corker and Paul Conboy have recorded as both Soul Circuit and Ape?the latter for Tim Simenon’s Electric Tones imprint?and recently finished working on his forthcoming new Bomb The Bass LP. Happily, they’ve still found time to deliver their own second LP. Radiant Idiot moves away from the narrow, post-rock parameters of their debut into more open territory, mixing atmospheric glitch with keyboard washes, trumpet flourishes and sampled strings to fine-boned effect, while never forsaking motorik drive. The title track is the standout, a luminous, polyrhythmic flurry. Radiant indeed.

Discovering 2001’s Oh, Inverted World, you’d be forgiven for thinking that The Shins came bubblegum-wrapped in the refried acid revivalism of Athens’ Elephant 6 label. But if this was bubblegum, its flavour was curiously long-lasting. Repeated listens?and it was a record that was weirdly addictive, a word-of-mouth hit to the extent that songs ended up in burger commercials?suggested a greater depth, a band operating in the moods that opened up on the soundtrack and in the world of Wes Anderson’s Rushmore: an eerie “Autumn Almanac” kind of ambience.

Chutes Too Narrow works the same trick, better. You don’t expect progression from such evident classicists, but there’s a new clarity, poise and refinement. If the first record was overly fond of its own reverby shimmer, Chutes… sparkles simply and truly. James Mercer’s Shinsongs are curious contraptions: Byzantine and bittersweet, intricate without being prissy or arch. They’re a kind of transatlantic mirror to Belle And Sebastian (Murdoch and Mercer share a talent for elaborate melodies), before the Caledonian dreamers became so thoroughly arranged beyond feeling.

You can hear the band’s Anglophilia not only in the moon-bleached Bunnymen guitar that spangles “Mine’s Not A High Horse” or the Kinksy krunch of “Turn A Square”, but also in a romantic irony scarce in modern American guitar pop. On a label (Sub Pop) and from a town (Portland) now forever tied to the wracked authentic anguish of Cobain and Smith, The Shins keep their distance, but are no less affecting: “Gone For Good” and “Saint Simon” are as coolly evocative as prime Go-Betweens. Indeed, Chutes Too Narrow is often the album you wish a reunited Forster and McLennan had made: 10 perfect songs constructed from wit, electricity and the broken bones of the heart.

Compared with the other eccentric loners cum lost souls whose creative company he keeps?Syd Barrett, Brian Wilson, Ivor Cutler?Gordon Anderson is quite the pack animal. He was a member of the original Beta Band (then The Pigeons) and responsible for penning “Dry The Rain”, but recurring bouts of mental ill-health forced him to quit and return to Fife. He lives there now, recording under the alias of Lone Pigeon as part of that shire’s Fence Collective, a loose but vibrant community of creatives that includes Anderson’s brother Kenny (aka King Creosote), James Yorkston and UNPOC.

Despite such alliances, Lone Pigeon is a fiercely independent musical voyager, stretching the shared Fence idea of what might constitute psychedelic pop to its limits. And then some. Schoozzzmmii is his second album, compiled from four-track recordings made at roughly the same time as his 2002 debut, Concubine Rice. Consequently, it’s a case of business as (un)usual. The tracks are again sonic fragments rather than songs, eschewing conventional structure in favour of intensity of atmosphere and emotional depth but, despite its DIY origins and almost hallucinatory feel, this is a peach of a pop record.

Lone Pigeon has claimed he’d like to work “with Dylan on vocalising my lyrics and Brian Wilson on arranging my harmonies”, and, indeed, the spirits of both hover near Schoozzzmmii. From the opening “Boat”, fragments of which also appear on Concubine Rice and whose folksy warmth comes via Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, through the clanging guitar chords of “Brown Cow” to the darkly compulsive “Pikashoo”, a touching fragility is central. The record’s temper and tone ranges widely (Lone Pigeon is understandably a fan of The Beatles’ White Album, but you’d never have reckoned on After The Gold Rush or Definitely Maybe), yet it never fails to convince. It’s no surprise that the most poignant tracks here?the Johnny Cash-like “Solo Traveller” and the tremulous “Lonely Vagabond”?reveal Lone Pigeon as one of life’s solo fliers. Here’s to another of his wonderful flights of fancy.

Edinburgh punk Davey Henderson was the driving force behind The Fire Engines, formed after he saw Vic Godard & The Subway Sect in 1977. He carries a torch for them still as vocalist/guitarist of The Nectarine No 9, wryly confessing as much on “The End of Definition” from their fifth LP. It’s another free-spirited trip down the crazy-paved roads of art-punk and funky agit-pop, with vocal yelps, nervy guitars and wheezing vintage synths to the fore and former Pop Group and Josef K members along for the ride. I Love Total Destruction might be a skronky bridge too far for fans of The Rapture’s revised punk-funk, but its oddball charms are manifold.

Rarely a month has passed over the last few years without a fresh release from bespectacled Leeds producer Carl Finlow. Under various pseudonyms reflecting his predilection for differing styles of electronic music, Finlow has quietly carved a niche for himself, and today ranks as one of British dance culture’s most respected young talents. As Random Factor, Finlow fondly imbues his beloved technology with melancholy emotion, his reedy singing voice introducing a welcome human dimension to his slick house-techno hybrid. Convergence is certainly an accomplished, polished affair. Whether it elevates Finlow to the next level he deserves remains to be seen.

Postponed due to record label restructuring, Joy Zipper’s American Whip arrives a year on from its scheduled release date, but it’s been worth the wait. With David Holmes and Kevin Shields assisting with the production duties, the sound is smooth and dense, an engaging drone-pop murmur in the vein of Mazzy Star or a more sedate JAMC, like stinging velvet. Vinny Cafiso and Tabitha Tindale’s lyrical concerns include love, lies, dreams, drugs, and a particularly acute consciousness of the passage of time, from childhood reminiscence on “Ron” to fear of senility on “Alzheimers”, confronted through arrangements burnished with summery harmonies and silky strings. Gorgeous.

Autamata is Ken McHugh, a regular fixture on the Dublin music scene, and producer of Irish chart-topper David Kitt’s The Big Romance. His solo debut began life as “an instrumental album of chilled rhythms”. Then he decided he wanted “something you could whistle in the shower”, so he wrote a few pop songs and added vocalists Carol Keogh and Cathy Davey. The resulting hybrid might have been schizophrenic as acoustic instruments are mixed with electronic noises and urban blurs into pastoral. Yet somehow there seems a perfect logic to the way he places the Bj

A characteristically bold first signing to Chris Blackwell’s Rx label, brothers Jean and Richard Shepherd have created an American equivalent to Manu Chao’s global fusions out of their multicultural Nuyorican background. The title track is typical of the whole album, opening with an insistent riff played on a 10-stringed Puerto Rican acoustic guitar, which then surges forth into deep salsa and dance-floor funk. Elsewhere, Afro-Latin rhythms meet rock guitars, dub reggae fuses with Brazilian house and cumbia goes clubbing. They sing entirely in Spanish. But don’t let that deter you. Like Manu Chao, Radio Mundial make music that is irresistibly sexy, easily accessible and, above all, fun.

As the four members of influential industrial eccentrics Throbbing Gristle reform for the first time in 23 years to headline their RE-TG weekender in May, their comeback is heralded with a flurry of TG-related activity.

Following TG+’s 10-disc live box set, Mutant TG offers heavyweight admirers the chance to remix the group’s more orthodox tracks with the dancefloor in mind. Disappointingly reverent, both Carl Craig and Two Lone Swordsmen tackle “Still Walking” and “United” wearing kid gloves. However, the sublime “Hot On The Heels Of Love” enjoys an extended Balearic revision from Simon Ratcliffe of Basement Jaxx, while TG’s CarterTutti (formerly Chris & Cosey) flesh out “Hamburger Lady”. A modest addition to a formidable oeuvre.

Its phonetic appeal aside, the title is a little misleading, because there’s nothing remotely seditious about Sami Liuski and Pauli Jylh

A Nottingham six-piece (indie-rock subverted by violins) who through sheer force of willpower turn their weaknesses into strengths, Seachange are attracting rabid hype for this promising, flawed debut and its gusts of Interpol (or, for older readers, The Sound or Comsat Angels). At times it sounds like it was produced for threepence, and Dan Eastop’s voice is not what technicians call “good”. But he’s proof that it’s what you do with it that counts:urgent as a dying man, he rasps and yelps through his wordy, pleading tirades with such unflappable belief that the band soar to grandeur. Dynamically, it’s full of jagged theatre, and “Glitterball” repeats its charms till you’re seduced.

“Anglokana” is equally insistent, Seachange never losing their nerve. Wave them ahead.

An album surely boasting the best song title of the year this side of Morrissey (a toss-up between “We Didn’t Paint Our Nails When We Fought The Germans” and “We Tried To Drown Our Music Teacher In 1974”), the fourth album from mordant Manc Vinny Peculiar plays like Adrian Mole: The Opera, scored by Leonard Cohen. That his tunes are Prefab Sprout-pretty make these arch reminiscences about vandalism, wanking and homicidal fantasies all the more beguiling. “He had no time for T.Rex” pleads Vinny in defence of that attempted murder. Pthrtht! Should’ve let the bugger drown.

The first single to be taken from this album?”Noir D

Perhaps you wouldn’t expect something this luscious, this sexy or idiosyncratic from a summit between a sometime violinist for Mogwai (Luke Sutherland, who has also made music with Long Fin Killie and Bows), the bass player from To Rococo Rot (Stefan Schneider) and Volker Bertelmann from Dusseldorf electro types Tontraeger. But, as its title suggests, A Heart & Two Stars gathers songs and instrumentals of exceptional sensuality:think Fleetwood Mac’s “Albatross” filtered through Boards Of Canada and the fragile instrumentals from Shuggie Otis’ Inspiration Information. Sutherland half sings, half whispers as a gauze of sparingly chosen chords and twinkling chime, click and whirr wafts around him. This isn’t post-rock so much as anti-rock. Indeed, “Route 66” only bears a resemblance to Chuck Berry’s journey down that rock’n’roll highway if it’s early morning and the sun has only just begun to burn the spangle of frost off the asphalt.

A Heart & Two Stars continues Sutherland’s fascination with the trappings of femininity. “Dynamite” longs for an escape from the yoke of traditional masculinity and the clatter of the outside world; “Boys believe in dynamite, Playboy and The A-Team… Fur back in the fashion mags… Boy bands just escape me… Wish I was in bed again… With you.” It’s somewhere between Morrissey’s effete “everything is too much for me” stance and the drowsy, sensual longing for a return to the womb/dissolution of the self of AR Kane’s 69 and My Bloody Valentine. (Titles from MBV’s Isn’t Anything, “Soft As Snow (But Warm Inside)” and “(When You Wake) You’re Still In A Dream”, pretty much describe the way A Heart & Two Stars feels.) In “Ecstasy” he confesses, “All this homeboy wants is to be a B Girl”?but it’s a dangerous business: “Now got niggers bitching gonna blow me away.” With hearts on sleeves, Music AM are gazing at the stars. Brave, heady music.

Dakar-born, platinum-selling star MC Solaar may have fathered the now rudely French hip hop scene, but denies he is a rapper, rather describing his “talking over” as “underground and popular as the Metro.” True, the Parisian’s warm and sensual, mellifluous rhyming has always been a million miles away from the style of his American peers, and his sixth studio album is no exception. “Mach 6”, however, sees him shifting musically, adding elements of bhangra (on “Au Pays De Gandhi”) and kwassa-kwassa (“Hijo De Africa”) to his familiar jazz-toned and strings-bedecked hip hop. Save for the saccharine polyglot pop of “Today Is A Good Day”, it’ an(other) engagingly poetic outing.

The release of any record made in direct response to an international crisis would normally be a signal to run for the hills but, hot on the (stacked) heels of labelmate Bobby Conn’s politically outspoken Homeland, comes the sixth album from Washington DC’s Trans Am. The title, so heavily ironic it deserves quotation marks, coupled with track titles like “Uninvited Guest” and “Divine Invasion”, make Trans Am’s message clear. It’s delivered via rolling, thunderous rhythms?part Can, part Black Sabbath?moody synths and mournfully melodic guitar, using the slow-build-to-explosion method. The sampled sounds of a helicopter and a Bush speech will do little to calm nervous listeners.