It’s so long since we heard from Dead Can Dance we must assume the pairing of Lisa Gerrard and Brendan Perry has shuffled off this musical coil. Gerrard now composes soundtracks (Gladiator, MI:2), and on Immortal Memory she teams up with Irish classicist Patrick Cassidy. As background listening, this sounds like high-class Enya, but listen harder and dense textures and nuances lie beneath the surface. As for Gerrard’s voice, it’s hard not to descend into such clich

It seems as if culture’s dowsing rod is forever fixing on some new city or other and declaring it cool: Reykjavik one month and Stockholm the next; a year later Melbourne; then Detroit and, more recently, NYC. Or, specifically, Brooklyn.

Lesser talents might argue that they were there first, but such crass proprietary claims are beneath Oneida. Formed as a quartet in 1997 in Williamsburg?then a wasteland of abandoned warehouses and boarded-up basements?they established a vibrant, community-based culture of now-legendary parties that owed more to Warhol’s Factory ‘happenings’ of the ’60s than it did to the Manhattan rock club circuit. Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Liars might subsequently have garnered all the acclaim, but it’s Oneida’s freaky flag that first marked the spot.

Now a trio, Oneida peddle a sound so heroically out of temper with the times that they may as well be a barbershop quartet. Theirs is a maniacal mish-mash of seemingly incompatible musical styles?Krautrock, psychedelia, no-wave, prog, synth-pop, ’70s stoner rock and punk?wrought from a deeply felt, genre-leaping love of challenge.

The anarchic intelligence of Bobby Matador, Hanoi Jane and Kid Millions is the driving force. Inside Oneida’s apparent chaos, though, there are throbbing grooves and enough irresistible keyboard riffs to satisfy diehards. Thus, although the energy of “$50 Tea” suggests Suicide dallying with Beefheart and “Caesar’s Column” recalls both Neu! and Acid Mothers Temple, “Wild Horses” is as gnarly as anything by Neil Young. “Changes In The City” is the closing, 14-minute-plus instrumental wig-out, its title suggesting that although Brooklyn made Oneida what they are, now, the world beckons.

K7!

Given her wonderfully insolent and vital contributions to Matthew Herbert’s previous musical endeavours (most notably on 2001’s Bodily Functions), this debut album from singer Dani Siciliano is long overdue. Indeed, the record has taken some three years to come together, Siciliano having invested in a basic home studio and learnt from scratch how to assemble the 11 performances featured here. And how do they sound? Like a more minimalist yet more generous version of Goldfrapp without the fatal smugness, with a view to deliciously warping R&B and glitch rather than recycling glam rock.

Besides and beneath all the mischief displayed here, though, there is an undertow of melancholy gravity, never better expressed than on the techno fugue of the album’s stunning nine-minute opener, “Same”. Building up from a basic “O Superman”-style one-note loop, Siciliano’s voice emerges from a babble of glitch to state mournfully: “You don’t look the same.”

Other musical elements are added one at a time, and the rhythm very artfully evolves from jazz to samba to deep house and finally to a grieving orchestral climax, Siciliano all the time sounding as though she’s about to be swallowed up by her laptop.

Her radical recasting of Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” is almost worth the price of the album in itself. With only nodding melodic references to the original, Siciliano instead offers a sultry Latin mood, underscored by a lugubrious French horn arrangement and a rhythm which seems to be made from samples of a gun loading (“And I swear I don’t have a gun”). As with Prince, the defining factor in Siciliano’s music is what she leaves out; consider “Walk The Line”, where her emotionally blank vocals (very No Wave) are met by lunging synth belches which seem to have escaped from a 1991 rave. Similarly, songs like “Extra Ordinary” and “Red” are just that crucial spoonfed beat away from being hits for Britney or Xtina, though here Siciliano understands that suggesting a beat is often far sexier than mechanically emphasising it (“I just can’t get by on insincerities”). “Extra Ordinary”, in particular, with its faux-coy vocal and catchy but lethal chorus, could almost be an updated Lynsey De Paul (and that’s meant as a compliment).

“All The Above”, a vocal duet with guitarist O Mugison, updates Grace Jones'”Libertango” for the faceless age (“To forgive is to forget…all the above make love”) while “She Say Clich

There’s so much space to breathe in this immaculate record, which concerns itself with how the difficulties of communication obstruct one’s ability to love. From the dislocated meditation on a spent relationship that is “Visitor”?Biosphere does Stockhausen’s “Stimmung”?through to the brilliant use of the “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” beat in the splendid isolation of the title track, Luomo’s instinctive architecture is breathtaking. The point in “Tessio” in which, at 5:51, choirs of electronica suddenly emerge into view, is comparable with stout Cortez’s first sight of the Pacific Ocean. And if the Donna Summer-esque vulnerability of the closing “Shelter” doesn’t move your soul to tears, you deserve your Dido records. Music for this most uncertain of winters.

Kitt knows a thing or two about the up and the down, the joy and the pain, the minor chords and the major heartaches. Low-slung beats and bursts of brass and strings wrap themselves around sparse, electro-acoustic melodies.

In places, it sounds like it could have been recorded for the Sarah label?but thankfully swaps the debilitating tweeness for a lyrical bite (or at least a nibble) and a winning way with feedback.

Experimental and enchanting, equally.

Compared to her former Sugarcubes colleague Einar

Guesting on Tom Robinson’s Radio 6 show recently, he blind-played a Show Of Hands track and invited me to guess its provenance. I hazarded Kentucky. The answer turned out to be Devon. I tried it on friends and nobody had a clue. Yet the West Country acoustic duo have serious form as stalwarts of the English roots scene. Phil Beer has played mandolin for The Rolling Stones (a distinction shared with Ry Cooder) and Steve Knightley was all over Mick Jagger’s last solo record. Their latest, Country Life, cleverly mixes English and American influences with pleasing echoes of both Richard Thompson and Steve Earle. A revelation.

Heavy conceptual avant-noise time again, as Lesser takes a limited bunch of samples to “try to bind a history of metal to a career in electronica”. One can only assume that this seasoned prankster is trying to reference both genres’ capacity for brutality and outrage, particularly when the 10 pieces have titles like “Ancient Chinese Whack-Off Session”. Ironically, the results are rarely as provocative as you’d hope, weirdly boring and restrained next to the chaos of 2001’s Gearhound. “The Science Of Pathology” is an entertaining reconstruction of thrash metal, and “Dandy In The Fedora” is a fairly gut-churning hip hop pastiche. But, in general, Lesser’s intellectual and musical stuntplay pales next to the marvels generated by his sometime collaborators, Matmos.

Just as Scott Herren starts getting the acclaim he deserves in his guise as leftfield hip hop producer Prefuse 73, the Atlanta native and Barcelona resident shifts identities. Savath & Savalas were last spotted in 2000 as pensive, decent post-rockers. Now, though, Herren has a new partner?Catalonian singer/songwriter Eva Puyuelo Muns?and a gorgeous new sound. So hazy Latin songs emerge out of discreet electronic flutter, acoustic guitars trace shapes around Muns’ and Herren’s androgynous harmonies, odd bits of Tortoise go about their business in the background. And the whole thing emerges as an enchanting update of the dreamier end of ’70s Brazilian pop?as good a record, in fact, as anything this gifted polymath has ever released.

Five albums in, TLT hit paydirt. Swapping their traditional Brooklyn studio for Craig (Calexico) Schumacher’s Tucson one, Gary Olson’s low-slung croon?a latterday Edwyn Collins?rolls across their most adventurous pop-baroque melodies yet. With Lambchop contributors Paul Niehaus (steel) and Dennis Cronin (trumpet) plumping up the pillowy layers of strings, Staxy horns and chugging organs, it’s like Belle & Sebastian slopping sorbet with early Jonathan Richman. Cherry on top is Sasha Bell’s delicious turn on “The Places You’ll Call Home”.

Ty’s conscientious rapping and narratives, though still occasionally inclined musically to delve into hellishly ‘jazzy’ Gilles Peterson territory, work best in gleefully subversive musical settings. Take opener “Ha Ha” which, with its dirty fuzz organ riff, is reminiscent of early Stranglers (this, incidentally, is No Bad Thing), or the Neptunes on a Lambeth Council budget of “Wait A Minute” and “Hot Spice”. Best of all is the closing “Music 2 Fly 2” where, over Jason Yarde’s expansive horn and string arrangement, Ty expounds on the State Of The Nation like Hanif Kureishi updating Goldie’s “Inner City Life”. Probably more Medium-sized Dada than Roots Manuva’s Gigantic Dada, but still worth investigating and far less awkward than his 2001 debut Awkward.

You can’t blame their record company for making the most of an over-excited review in a rival magazine that called Johnson House “the gap between Van Morrison and The Band.” They aren’t, of course, although the Leeds quintet certainly boast some of the least prepossessing blokes you’ve seen this side of the portly Van and what’s left of Big Pink’s grizzled old road dogs. Musically, the more obvious comparison is blue-collar Springsteen, and singer-songwriter Chris Harland’s voice sounds remarkably like Raul Malo?who in turn sounds uncannily like Roy Orbison, and it doesn’t come much better than that. Songs such as “Waiting For Tomorrow” and “My Constant Companion” prove they’ve absorbed their mostly US influences well. The next LP will show whether they can become something more.

David Lowery and Johnny Hickman teamed up with the Salmon two years ago to breathe fresh life into the madcap and super-subtle world of “Eurotrash Girl”, “Ms Santa Cruz County” and the majestic “Teen Angst (What The World Needs Now)”, among others?all hits in an alternative world inhabited by a hybrid variation on a countrified Steely Dan. Cracker’s bittersweet hilarity guarantees a hardcore following, and they’ll love this kaleidoscopic review. Expertly played, a whole heap of snappy fun.

From the hard bop riffing of opener “Protest” to the sombre, muted finale, “Pear”, it’s clearly evident that what began in 1995 as Tortoise-style out-rock improv has now evolved into a fully-fledged fusion of jazz and electronics. Unlike European acts such as St Germain or Cinematic Orchestra, who offer languid, loungy pastiche and over-stylised reverence, this gloriously uninhibited ensemble puts its head right into the blast furnace. Whether throwing fast’n’fiery Ornette shapes on “Sevens” or exploring the dark side of abstraction on “Kite”, messrs Mazurek, Kupersmith and Taylor have taken jazz hybridity to a whole new level.

How can we not love Bobby Conn when he loves us so much? During “Bus No. 243”, Illinois’ illest man spells his fascination out as he watches the city go by somewhere near Spitalfields. “London smells like a drain, it’s all right/I’m in no pain, in this squalid paradise/Pretty girls, pretty boys with perfect hair/How do they do it on cigarettes and beer.” Exactly.

Whereas past Conn efforts have inhabited a synthetic saturated psychedelic colour box, his new band (still including Hammond organettist Monica Bou Bou, of course) aim for the sky. The saccharine, the glam and glitter remain, but utilising various members of Tortoise and some of Archer Prewitt’s orchestral buddies widens the net.

Conn has always been a Velvet Underground type of pop star, yet he’s equally au fait with the absurdities of mainstream schlock like Billy Joel and Billy Squier (remember “The Stroke”?) so the melodies always linger on, even after the last guest leaves. The anti-Iraq war opener “We Come In Peace”, “Relax” and “Ordinary Violence” are about as apolitical as Bobby wants to get, and he can tell a tale with aplomb. Underneath the fluffy jacket he’s got his sniper’s eye on the target and sees through to the other side of the American TV dream.

If he was just a fragrant laughter track high on Soma, Conn wouldn’t be worth much in the long run. Luckily he’s witty and sharp enough to pull off a throwaway Nilsson-style cut like “My Special Friend” and dig around the dirty side of the love song in “Cashing Objections”. Homeland may not be the full picture of our Special Relationship Friends, but it is a pretty enduring sequence of snapshots.

The latest Swedish cowboy, Jonsson was praised early last year for his subtle-sweet EP Then I Kissed Her Softly. Having trodden European boards with Damien Jurado and Rosie Thomas, the 23-year-old’s LP debut roots itself in similar earth. There’s much of Jurado in his downcast tremble, while Fredrik Wilde’s pedal-steel and Carl Edlom’s softly cantering piano brighten the corners. “Shades Of Green” and “Black And Blue” shuffle with the kind of milky-moon sadness Neil Young patented on After The Gold Rush. Elsewhere, there are hints of the Palace Brothers and Low. A warm, uncluttered delight. Available at www.kiterecordings.com

Given Escovedo’s current fate (stricken with Hepatitis C), this 1996 reissue is particularly welcome. Remastered with an extra disc of live recordings from that year, With These Hands was a rocking departure from the ex-Rank And File man’s solo predecessors. With Willie Nelson, brother Pete (ex-Santana) and niece Sheila E on board, it’s a suitably raucous affair, though the full band tends to swamp Escovedo’s dusky timbre occasionally. The spare “Pissed Off 2am” and “Tired Skin” (vox/piano only) are more affecting, as is the title track’s percussive Latino snap. A crucial step towards the style-encompassing brilliance of his 2001 belter A Man Under The Influence.