Sons of famous fathers invariably have the odds stacked against them. Nick Harper seems to have inherited all that’s good from his dad:exemplary guitar playing, a heart-tugging vocal style and the ability to write emotive songs. There are wonderfully absorbing, effortless compositions like “Lily’s Song”, “Imaginary Friend” and “Blood Song”, addressing bold, universal themes of family, love, life and death. Elsewhere, a capacity for excess also seems to have been handed down, as well as a tendency to show off, to display a vocal dexterity for the hell of it, and a Zappa-like instrumental cleverness that stems the flow of the material. Undeniably compelling?just not seductive enough throughout.

While his old bandmate Stephen Malkmus steers towards classic rock, folk and even a little bit of prog these days, Scott Kannberg continues to keep the indie flame burning. For his second album as Preston School Of Industry, Kannberg sounds exactly as you’d expect: the guitarist out of Pavement grown a little older and more rueful. These are amiable, humane songs given a touch of country decorum by Wilco, who make up his backing band. It’s a calmer, less ambitious album than 2001’s All This Sounds Gas, but no less beguiling, especially when Kannberg betrays his love of The Go-Betweens. Nice, too, to see him embrace one or two long-suppressed quirks: “Get Your Crayons Out!” illustrates why Pavement were seen as Fall acolytes in 1992, and how far Kannberg has travelled in the interim.

It didn’t take long, once the first Red House Painters album was released in 1992, for Mark Kozelek to be stereotyped as morose, even in the black-edged company of singer-songwriters. Most Kozelek songs followed a predictable pattern where he would lament the loss of another girlfriend, or plead for a return to the womb’s security, over music that rarely moved faster than a dirge. The first few Painters LPs, on 4AD, were exquisite, compelling and slightly unnerving to listen to, complicated further by the suspicion that Kozelek exploited his apparent vulnerability as a way of getting the girls.

In recent years, however, Kozelek has strived to escape his own stereotype, whether writing more ambivalently, upping his band’s pace, or releasing a lovely solo album of deconstructed AC/DC covers. Sun Kil Moon is his latest attempt to, as he puts it, “open things up”, even though RHPs’ Anthony Koutsos figures alongside fellow San Franciscan drummer Tim Mooney, from American Music Club, in the pool of players. The band’s name is borrowed from a Korean boxer, and three song titles also reference dead pugilists, which initially seems to be an extension of Kozelek’s trademark morbidity. But the rationale is more oblique. Rather than obsessing over recent tragedies, he now uses randomly-accessed images?of boxers, acquaintances, even Judas Priest guitarists (on “Glenn Tipton”)?as emotional prompts to help him organise vaguer, more personal memories. Fittingly for an album that perceives nostalgia as a hazy zone of indistinct dimensions, Sun Kil Moon’s songs tend to be lengthy, ebbing spiels rather than compacted nuggets. It’s something they share, happily, with the best Red House Painters songs: the superbly doleful “Duk Koo Kim” takes nearly 15 minutes to unravel?a match for early Kozelek epics like “Evil” and “Katy Song”.

This is, though, a record where mature contemplation and a relative flexibility triumph over despondency and formula. The first three RHP LPs remain masterpieces of post-adolescent solipsism. But on Ghosts…, Kozelek has found a way of keeping the engulfing intensity of that early work while expanding his range and, perhaps, even growing up.

By now you may be heartily weary of “Mad World”, the Tears For Fears cover sung by Gary Jules and lifted from the Donnie Darko soundtrack for a surprise Christmas Number One. But channel that weariness into relating to this: Jules is a Los Angeles singer-songwriter who merits the exposure, and his second album is gorgeously warm, forlorn and wounded.

Imagine Simon & Garfunkel’s “Kathy’s Song” or “America” refracted through a haze of smog and daydreams and you come close to the feel of this record. Moody as all hell, Jules growls Stipe-ishly with impeccable defeatist understatement, his lyrical technique bafflingly abstract and deeply emotive.

Yes, they’ve tagged “Mad World” onto the end, but tracks like “No Poetry” and “Something Else” are intangibly blue, elusive, bewildered but knowing: Nilsson or Art doing Jimmy Webb.

He’ll give you pale shelter.

A North Carolina combo consisting of one regular guy (that’ll be Jimmy) and at least two (it varies) hot alterna-babes in cheerleader outfits (C-Bomb on bass and Super Val drumming), it’s, of course, The Teasers’ gleaming riffs which appeal to the reserved British gentleman. Making The Cramps sound wussy and Boss Hog sound like Pinky & Perky, they do dirty rock’n’roll with swagger, sweat and a touch of glammy burlesque. Titles like “Sin-O-Matic”, “She Likes Girls” and “She’s Slummin’It” tells you that it ain’t subtle, but in this genre you either kick it or not: The Teasers (patent leather) boot it halfway to hangover heaven. So much fun, it’s sticky.

Back for their second album proper (after providing a lush soundtrack album for Roman Coppola’s as-yet-unreleased movie, CQ), Parisians Patrick Woodcock and Pierre Begon-Lours concoct more of their deliciously quirky, soft-focus Enodelica. There’s something curiously English here, recalling the cup-of-tea whimsy of Another Green World and Here Come The Warm Jets (“Fantastic” is 2004’s “Cindy Tells Me”, dontcha know). And there’s tubas, too. Oh, and the odd Moog.

It’s jolly good fun, very retro cool, and there’s a hefty sprinkling of magic dust all round. Elsewhere, “Out Of Reach” echoes “Sugar Kane”-era Sonic Youth (oddly, perhaps), while “In The Meantime”?despite beautiful, swooning strings and A Surprise Banjo Moment?is just too up in the Air for comfort. A season of mellow fruitfulness. Like the man said.

One suspects, frankly, that fans of the diffident lower-case furrow ploughed by introspective boy-girl combos ever since Fraser and Guthrie first sculpted with powdered sugar and Hope Sandoval whipped her minions to attention will happily buy this noise by the filmy yard. Londoners Clive Painter (honeyed guitars) and Martine Roberts (breathily sotto voce) have always met audience expectations, but their fifth outing as Broken Dog sees them surpass their dreamy brief with shy aplomb, undercutting lassitude with uneasiniess (“I’ll Think Of It Today”), icy starlight with scratchy dissonance (“Alone With A Pounding Heart”) and, in the full-blooded swell of “Waiting For Something Big”, a glorious glimpse of May sunshine through those wistful, wintry skies.

Now Zach Shipps calls himself The Colonel in Electric Six, his exes, Chris Plum and Brendan Benson, are revitalised. Exuding the cordite whiff of their Detroit base, they appreciate a retro lick or four, and could be the missing link between The Flaming Lips and The Kinks. Plum and Benson make a great double act, whether lyrically, vocally or instrumentally. If you like hardcore with hooks, they’ll liven up your personal space.

Don’t be fooled by the mimsy name. The Speaking Canaries are a muscular Pittsburgh rock band built around vocalist/guitarist Damon Che, best known for his work with Don Caballero. Che’s reputation is built on complex math-rock?ostensibly hardcore mutilated by constant time changes. Here, though, his tendency to elaborate is sublimated by a greater desire to rock, resulting in some mighty FM anthems. The Fucking Champs and Trans Am have been attempting a similarly amped-up evolution of math-rock for years. But unlike those two bands, The Speaking Canaries never sound gimmicky or overly pleased with their subversiveness. A surprisingly straightforward, big-hearted record that only betrays one snarky indie in-joke?a track called “Song On A Record You Can’t Get”.

Heavy rock: Music made by the intellectually challenged for 13-year-olds. To be sung as if your nads are in the process of dropping. It’s funny: finally people have realised this, chuckling ‘ironically’ as they buy Darkness records and now enjoy the broad comic strokes of School Of Rock, which is directed by the highly unlikely figure of Richard Linklater. It’s set alight, however, by the highly broad figure of Jack Black, a man who can’t help but be funny in everything he does. Someone’s evidently decided that his sidebar in the High Fidelity movie as a gurning air guitarist should be extended into a feature and, drawing on experiences and expertise gathered from his own rock/comedy offshoot Tenacious D, he launches a headbanging assault on good taste.

Try describing this album without saying: “It rocks.” Even Led Zeppelin, not known for flinging their classics at movie producers more than once a decade, have allowed?after a special filmed appeal from Black?the use of “Immigrant Song”. There are hoary old chestnuts aplenty: The Who’s “Substitute”, Cream’s “Sunshine Of Your Love”, The Doors’ “Touch Me”. Stevie Nicks’ “Edge Of Seventeen” reminds you where the intro to Destiny’s Child’s “Bootylicious” came from, and The Darkness inevitably chime in with “Growing On Me”. Garage blues revivalists The Black Keys represent ‘modern’ times; The Ramones reckon “My Brain Is Hanging Upside Down”. Less exuberant are the karaoke versions of “TV Eye” by Wylde Rattz (originally from Velvet Goldmine) and of AC/DC’s “It’s A Long Way To The Top” by Black and the cast. These merely serve to advertise the fact that the originals weren’t for whoring. As for ‘dialogue excerpts’: who needs ’em?

Still, any record featuring T. Rex’s “Ballrooms Of Mars” undoubtedly has its lizard-leather boots on and its diamond hands stacked with roses when the moon sings. Now that’s an education.

From the intriguing Fran McDormand movie which?as one of its few flaws?suggested Britpop could flourish in LA, an eclectic, rather excellent collection. Whether we needed actor Alessandro Nivola to team up with Lou Barlow on two tracks is debatable, but around them you’ll find Mercury Rev’s exquisite “In A Funny Way” (one of the best things they’ve done), Butthole Surfers’ wry “Shame Of Life”, Steely Dan, Clinic and Sparklehorse. Not eclectic enough yet? Throw in Eartha Kitt growling “C’est Si Bon” and?again, woo-hah?T. Rex with the supremely groovesome “Planet Queen”. You’ll kick back by the pool with a long cool one. Or you’ll wish you were.

Produced by T. Bone Burnett, and an essential purchase for White Stripes devotees as Jack White gives five brand new performances. By “brand new”, we mean four of them are traditional, like “Sittin’ On Top Of The World” and “Christmas Time Will Soon Be Over”, interpreted by he of the tight trousers and eye for Ren

Previously only on import, this now gets a British release, because 80 per cent of the UK proletariat like singing along to: “And the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.” Especially during festive periods. And fair play to them, eh readers? Apparently reprints of Camus and Kafka are now outselling beer, and Lou Reed’s “Berlin” is widely tipped for next year’s Christmas No 1. A mad world, and no mistake. Michael Andrews’ soundtrack is chiefly instrumental, dark and wilfully weird. I’d advise you to get the genuinely good Gary Jules album instead (the guy sings with gorgeous melancholy) if I didn’t think it would be a betrayal of this page.

Welcome back to the car crash that never ends: Courtney Love, Dowager Duchess Of Grunge, has stopped overdosing for long enough to record a new album. The title is so heavy with irony, it’s beyond irony.

Nearly six years after Celebrity Skin, La Love returns with a collection that’s just as brash, slick, jaded and hollow as that final Hole offering. America’s Sweetheart is petulant and self-pitying. Worse, it’s self-righteous. Worse still, it’s musically crass. One leaden guitar chord succeeds another as uncourtly Courtney sneers and rages through her songs of sex, drugs and rock’n’roll?the three most boring subjects in the world.

“They say that rock’n’roll is dead/And they’re probably right,” Love dribbles on the opening “Mono”?the single or lead track or whatever they call it these days. All one can say is that formula punk-metal-pop like “Mono” hardly helps in the resuscitation efforts. In her head, Courtney probably thinks she’s Darby Crash meets Peaches?make that Siouxsie Sioux meets GG Allin?but the dame can’t hold a candle to lady-punks like Sleater-Kinney, who consistently conjure up clich

Guitarist and singer/songwriter Corey Harris hosted the first episode of the PBS TV series Martin Scorsese Presents The Blues, exploring the links between deep southern sounds and their links to Africa. His new album does much the same thing at leisure, fusing West African rhythms to the acoustic blues of black American country terrain.

Assisted by traditionalists like Sam Carr, Ali Farka Toure and the drumming master Souleyman Kane, Harris is working in a field that could appeal to lovers of Ry Cooder and Taj Mahal. Indeed, “Catfish Blues” and “Mr Turner” are forged in honour of their cultural clashes. An admirable companion piece to Corey’s 2002 disc Downhome Sophisticate, this album should soon resonate through European concert halls. Good stuff.

Although he’s been in and out of the band due to his drug problems, and was a latecomer anyway, John Frusciante has frequently been at the heart of most that is interesting about the Red Hot Chili Peppers. His latest solo outing is full of surprising songs with some cracking tunes that step far outside the punk-funk-grunge-metal formula of the Chili Peppers. “Song To Sing When I’m Lonely” sounds more like R.E.M., “Regret” could be a Coldplay B-side, and “Wednesday’s Song” has a touch of Stephen Malkmus. He can’t decide if he’s a sonic terrorist or a wistful troubadour, and he’s not much of a singer, which he vainly attempts to disguise with a range of studio effects. But despite such limitations, people win out over the shadows on a surprisingly likeable collection.