In the close-to-five years since Grant Lee Buffalo, Phillips has toned down the flourishes around that sumptuous voice. Mobilize (2001) was almost a completely solo album, and this, despite bringing in an elegant ensemble of musicians, is his sparsest yet. Not that it's bleak, as that might suggest. Virginia Creeper winds its way through delicious country-rock melodies, putting its faith in the power of the song, Grant's touching timbre set permanently on deep and rich, like Jim Reeves or Perry Como. Arguably slight at first, it rewards repeat listening as its seductive, heartfelt stories unfurl. Beginning with the warm, mournful "Mona Lisa"?"you're the last of your kind"?it carries a strong sense of nostalgia and a love of characters and narrative, both personal and far-reaching. It weaves and climbs, in Phillips' own words, "like a slow but persistent vine". Among collaborators, chosen to "respond on their feet without rehearsing for weeks on end," are former Soul Coughing man Sebastian Steinberg, multi-instrumentalist Jon Brion and harmony vocalist Cindy Wasserman. They too weave, and subtly gel, violinist Eric Gorfain pushing the pathos. "Lily-A-Passion", "Calamity Jane", "Josephine Of The Swamps"?the titles are a litany of female names, but rarely utilised in the easily emotive way you'd expect, drawing on 1950s mythology, Native American lore, and in the case of "Jane", discomfort at the current "war on terror". "Always Friends" is gut-tugging. In the dark-hearted "Far End Of The Night", Phillips pines that "time hangs like a noose". Wasserman dovetails beautifully with his stoic brooding on the closing cover of Gram Parsons' "Hickory Wind". Virginia Creeper isn't a record to beat its chest, Phillips claiming he "left the electric guitar in its cage this time, focusing on one aspect of my writing and personality rather than trying to do The White Album every time I move." As such, it hums its way, patiently, into your hungry places.

Home Truths, the 2002 debut from one-man-band Mark Cullen aka Pony Club, was a cheap bedroom recording acclaimed by everyone from Morrissey to The Streets for its seedy, swirling synth-songs of domestic grief and quiet desperation. The sophomore offering is even more relentlessly miserable?"and the strain in my life multiplies, and the hurt doubles up"?and we're repeatedly told we' re all doomed losers. Sadly the production's a little thin for the grand ambition. Still, the dramatic opener "Dorset Street" and bleakly comic "Forecourt Flowers" hint at everything from Soft Cell to Pulp to Motown. "Buried In The Suburbs" chants postcodes in a parody of Roxy's "Remake/Remodel", and Cullen's marriage-gone-stale confessions make Larkin seem like Noddy. Powerful sink-estate poetry.

It's curious that while emo bands initially sought to subvert hardcore, their extreme vulnerability is now the norm in US underground punk. In that context, The Constantines are a relief. Sure, they're earnest and infatuated by Fugazi (as the stop-start single, "Nighttime/Anytime (It's Alright)", proves). But, happily, they've heard Mission Of Burma, too, and are defined more by endurance than self-pity: "I'm learning to survive on earthworms and houseflies," growls Bryan Webb, a frontiersman among sociopaths, on "Insectivora". The rest is a sinewy mix of punk, dub, soul, good tunes and classic guy-rock, with "On To You" and "Sub-Domestic" justifying Springsteen comparisons. An album that wears its sweat with pride.

The death of Mary Hansen and the break-up of Tim Gane and Laetitia Sadier's long-term relationship would've been enough to destroy less resilient bands than Stereolab. But on this, their ninth full album, even an affectionate tribute to Hansen ("Feel And Triple") is pulsating rather than maudlin. If anything, the prevailing tone is breezier than ever. It's also the band's most organic-sounding record since 1996's Emperor Tomato Ketchup, with chamber pop, disco and (on the outstanding "Margerine Rock") actual guitar rock thrown into the polychromatic blender. The problem is, when you've synthesised such an individual sound, it's increasingly hard to transcend it:recent props from Pharrell Williams are more likely to lure newcomers into the clique than another reliably accomplished album like this.

Despite recent anti-war and anti-Bush protests, agitpop remains as stubbornly unfashionable as ever, still distantly associated with joyless shades of grey. ADF consistently give the lie to that, not least live, where their mix of cavalier guitars, panning samples and synths and tabla'n'bass vibrations are enough to fire up even the most apathetic and 'post-political' of souls. This LP captures something missing on the studio albums?a spark, a full-on charge as they connect with audiences across Europe. "Free Satpal Ram" retains its ability to boil the blood long after the authorities grudgingly did so. Glorious.

Is there no end to Luke Vibert's talent? Over the past six months, the dextrous DJ and producer has released retro-jungle as Amen Andrews and, for Warp, YosepH, an LP of classic acid doodling. Now, with Kerrier District, his best record in years, he returns in spirit to his West Country roots for a sumptuous freestyle disco voyage. The mid-Cornwall council region where Vibert was raised, Kerrier District is also a playful dig at Metro Area, NYC's just-so disco-house duo. Vibert shares their passion for generous grooves and bubbling synths, blending bell-bottomed staples like handclaps, cowbells, nimble funk and dippy melodies in fine fashion. Far from an exercise in nostalgia, Vibert makes this style his own. Pure joy from start to finish.

Too often, perhaps, contemporary artists mine the past in search of authenticity rather than exploiting old musics for their phantasmagoric possibilities. Heron King Blues, the third album proper by an audacious Chicago collective named Califone, is the work of men who've plainly heard thousands of old blues and folk songs. But Califone invoke the weirdness, the ritualism, the creak and spook of Harry Smith's Anthology Of American Folk Music without ever trying to reproduce its sound exactly. Heron King Blues presents a ghost world wherein a nightmarish bird-god emerges from Tim Rutili's dreams to lurk in his stream-ofconsciousness lyrics. The exceptional "Sawtooth Sung A Cheater's Song" may begin as a rustic meditation, but gradually the conventional songform is sublimated by strafe and drone, until everything collapses into an industrial/tribal drum passage that recalls Can at their most transported. As on last year's Quicksand/Cradlesnakes, Califone's twinning of roots music with an experimental imperative aligns them with their Chicagoan contemporaries, Wilco. But in fact, Rutili has been a subversive force for over a decade, beginning with the menacingly debauched Red Red Meat in the early '90s. Red Red Meat's mangled extrapolation of the blues (of which 1995's Bunny Gets Paid is the best example) was rather overshadowed by that of Royal Trux, and eventually Rutili and drummer Ben Massarella regrouped as Califone in 1998. Califone's underappreciated career thus far has followed two parallel paths: broadly conventional albums such as Quicksand/Cradlesnakes; and looser, largely improvised collections of film scores and projects like last year's Deceleration Two. Heron King Blues unites these two strands, orbiting between the heartbreaking acoustic sketches ("Wingbone") and the intense, crotchety trance-jams such as the title track, wherein Rutili's avowed desire to make a record like Captain Beefheart's Mirror Man really makes sense. The Beefheart comparison is especially useful since, like him, Califone understand traditions but aren't trapped by them. So Heron King Blues is a free and forward-thinking kind of record, but also one that taps into forgotten, mythic resonances of American music without ever sounding ersatz, hokey or remotely contrived.

Named, somewhat appropriately, after a meaningless knock-knock joke told by the younger sister of one of the band members, cLOUDDEAD's not-quite-skiffle-hop collages and skits sound on first listen like one big stoner indulgence. Persevere, though, and you realise this is very clever indeed. Now based in Oakland, California, this trio (beatmaster Odd Nosdam and lyricists Doseone and Why?) forge something genuinely original with their wigged-out word play. Whether singing about gun culture or Minnie Mouse, everything they do is infused with an undeniable, albeit sometimes unfathomable, psychedelic spirit. Don't forget to leave the hidden track running.

At first seeming slavishly indebted to the US guitar underground greats, particularly Sonic Youth, Bikini Atoll bear investigation for the careful, surprising details they add to the template?as on the pastoral "Black River Falls", where guitars pulse like a heartbeat under Joe Gideon's latter-day beat lyrics, and post-rock lullaby "Perfect Method Flawed", with its spectral harmonies, soft distortion and geiger-counter crackles. Lacking the ambitious sonic dynamics of labelmates Explosions In The Sky, Bikini Atoll score instead with subtly versatile mood music.

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".