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.

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.