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.

The omnipresence of Sean Paul in 2003 and various hip hop producers copping moves from dancehall have, finally, given Jamaica’s irrepressible O’Neil “Elephant Man” Bryan a way into the mainstream. Nevertheless, this gruff, transcendentally crude MC’s major label debut is fairly uncompromising:bobbling ruffneck ragga with a smattering of rap hybrids and pop crossovers. The rawest material is the strongest, especially “Head Gone/Wine Up Uh Self”, which pits the clappas rhythm, tablas and acid squelches up against Elephant Man’s ungainly but effective flow. “Pon De River, Pon De Bank”, the anthem of last year’s Notting Hill Carnival, is the pick of the pop tunes, on which he confirms his clownish reputation as reggae’s Busta Rhymes. But not even the Elephant’s lisping splutter can redeem “Fan Dem Off” (a gruesome version of “Eye Of The Tiger”) and the hokey novelty of “Mexican Girl”.

The posse album has recently become an integral (albeit rubbish) part of the superstar rapper’s schtick. The idea is that having struck gold alone, the rap star then ropes in his mates for an album to quickly reflect some glory their way, too. G Unit is 50 Cent’s three-man posse, and Beg For Mercy’s their follow-up to 50’s magnificent recent debut, Get Rich Or Die Tryin’. It is…not as good. Get Rich…starred a desperate talent with axes to grind, unveiling sleek, menacing street-funk produced by Dr Dre and Eminem. Beg For Mercy features just a couple of autopilot Dre productions, and is otherwise a pale retread of Get Rich…fashioned by lesser talents. Success, too, has quickly dulled 50’s urgent wit, and he coasts through the affair, happy simply to join in with Lloyd Banks’ and Young Buck’s clich

Hailed in various non-French quarters as the leaders in some arch Euro-easy-dance scene, truth is Air’s oeuvre?faux-na

Scissor sisters are four guys, one of them straight, plus the former hostess of some mondo freak show on the Lower East Side. Early gigs involved a laptop and much cavorting about to digital beats in a bar called The Cock. Their debut single, “Electrobix”, was about “scrawny gays and steroid queens”. They look like refugees from Studio 54, have names like Ana Matronic, Baby Daddy, Del Marquis and Paddy Boom (and, uh, Jake Shears), and they’ve been the toast of NYC clubland and Europe’s catwalks for two years.

Now if this sounds like some art-fag in-joke with as much chance of making it in the real world as Fischerspooner, think again. What The Darkness have done with the Queen and Def Leppard back catalogues, Scissor Sisters do with The Bee Gees, Donna Summer and Elton John. In a triumph of passion over pastiche, The Darkness have become the biggest band in Britain. Although they’re still doing tours with indie minnows, Scissor Sisters already sound like international superstars because they’ve made a record inspired by rock’s commercial giants, and they’ve done so without strategy or subterfuge. They mean it, man.

Sincerity of intent is one thing. But they’ve got the music to back it up. Scissor Sisters write songs, not riffs or chord sequences. They play them on mostly non-electronic instruments including guitar, bass, drums, keyboards and saxophone, and the richly textured sound they achieved in a studio in Baby Daddy’s Brooklyn apartment recalls those wildly eclectic Stones or Elton records you used to bleed white. This is rock music you can dance to. Think “Miss You”. “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting”. “Hot Stuff”. The period touches such as the syn-drums on “Filthy/Gorgeous” or the honky-tonk piano on country-funk outing “Take Your Mama Out” are brilliantly authentic. The songs?the Broadway-goes-Hi NRG strut of “Laura”, the “Nutbush City Limits”-revisited raunch of “Music Is The Victim”, the Moroder-ised boogie with the c&w middle-eight of “Better Luck Next Time”?are superb.

Shears’ vocals are key. On “Mary”, a stone classic love song from a gay man to his best friend that could have replaced Elton’s “Tiny Dancer” in that scene from Almost Famous, he plays it straight, literally, immersing himself in the role of rock balladeer for the US masses. It’s a bravura performance from a singer who understands the unironic joy and solemn sorrow of AOR.

It’s weird to suddenly hear this full-bodied voice slip into falsetto mode for “Tits On The Radio”, about dispossessed NYC drag artists, or the disco version of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”. In fact, “Tits”, “Numb” and “Lovers In The Backseat” are like reprocessed ’80s cheese?Thompson Twins, say, or Bronski Beat. But instead of spoiling the ’70s schema, they give Scissor Sisters the multi-mood feel of a career overview. This is Scissor Sisters’ first Greatest Hits collection. Or it should be. Over to you.

Last year, in a fatally altruistic gesture, Japanese technocrat Cornelius invited visitors to his website to remix tracks from his excellent 2002 album, Point. PM (it stands for Point Mixes) purportedly compiles the best 12 from around 400 of those submitted, with largely dispiriting results. If Cornelius set out to showcase how the meticulous pastoral textures of Point could be desecrated, then PM is a triumph of sorts: only Masakatsu Inoue’s “Pointer Remix”, a beautiful hybrid of musique concr

The latest in a series, this is obviously a mixed bag?a whole bunch of ideas (songs, instrumentals, doodles) that don’t quite fit into Queens Of The Stone Age. Opener “Dead In Love” is magnificent: a pitch-black, precipitous, headlong lurch. The JJ Cale-ish chug of “I Wanna Make It Wit Chu” is also diverting, but too much here feels jokey (the frantic metal eruption of “Covered In Punks Blood”, say) or half realised?not least the multiple PJ Harvey guest spots, which suffer from her tendency to wail and moan rather than attempt to craft a proper, grown-up song. Ironically, the best tracks are those that are closest to Queens Of The Stone Age territory, particularly “Dead In Love” and the furiously addictive “Something In My Head”.

It’s a brilliant conceit. You take 17 Lennon-McCartney songs they never recorded and create an instant ‘lost’ Beatles album. Listening to these versions by Graham Parker, Bill Janovitz (Buffalo Tom) and Kate Pierson (B-52’s), it’s clear that John and Paul’s give-aways deserved a lot better than the often trite arrangements they were given at the time. Highlights include Janovitz’s “World Without Love” (Peter & Gordon) and Pierson’s “I’m In Love” (The Fourmost). But the revelation is “Tip Of My Tongue”. Few will recall Tommy Quickly’s original cover version, but it emerges here courtesy of Parker as a neglected early Lennon/McCartney classic.

Last year, lambchop were commissioned by the San Francisco International Film Festival to perform a live score to soundtrack FW Murnau’s. 1927 proto-film noir masterpiece Sunrise. It so happened that Lambchop’s leader, Kurt Wagner, had already embarked upon a self-imposed mission to write a song a day. As a result of both endeavours he ended up with so many songs that there are now two new Lambchop albums, each containing 12 songs. So is this the alt.country equivalent of OutKast’s Speakerboxxx/The Love Below?

Not quite. For a start, these are two albums palpably conceived by the same creative spirit. Nor is there any great musical gulf between the two. It would be fair to consider Aw Cmon as slightly darker in its moods, and No You Cmon its more playful brother. But the same concerns link both records. Consider them as two different ways of telling the same story.

Musically, Wagner has achieved a fusion of the outgoing, string-driven country-soul heard on 2000’s Nixon?most Lambchop followers will be glad to see the full line-up returning?and the reluctant intimacy of 2002’s low-key Is A Woman. There is nothing on either album which recaptures the generous exuberance of Nixon’s “Up With People”, but that doesn’t mean emotional generosity is nowhere to be found.

Aw Cmon begins very much as The Love Below begins, with the orchestral lustre of an instrumental?here “Being Tyler”, a tribute to these albums’ main musical voice, guitarist William Tyler?quickly succeeded by distant atonal guitar shrieks and then the intimate balladry of “Four Pounds In Two Days”, where Wagner’s baritone muses: “They say you walk around as if a ghost had crossed your path.” Business as usual, then.

“Steve McQueen” ups the emotional ante, if not the volume; against stately strings, Wagner agonises over a pet theme: the reality of who a person is and how far that overlaps with the image a person projects (“Is this just another way to be me?not Steve McQueen?”). Songs like “Nothing But A Blur From A Bullet Train” are Carveresque in their depictions of waning lives clinging on to the past, with the introductory imagery of “wearing a halo of mist”, the meticulous checklist of memories (“The picturesque old quay house, the car park”) and the string outro spookily reminiscent of Psychic TV’s “Message From The Temple”.

Aw Cmon methodically works towards the emotional peak of the stunning closing track, “Action Figure”, which Wagner sings beautifully, sometimes with fear, other times with barely contained fury. The lyric starts with a touch of self-mockery: “I heard a rumour that I’m sad.” But the self-mockery then turns outwards into revelation?or will it (“Let’s let the cat out of the bag/Let’s let the neighbourhood go bad”)? Finally, he rages quietly about the compromise under which all life must endure: “I will learn to look away/When there are things I cannot bear.”

No You Cmon begins with a more cheerful instrumental, “Sunrise”, halfway through which the hitherto absent pedal-steel of Paul Niehaus makes one of its brief appearances. But before long, the emotion which has been slowly simmering throughout both albums finally boils over. On (the presumably ironically-titled) “Nothing Adventurous Please,” we are treated to the unprecedented spectacle of Lambchop rocking out; rocking out, moreover, in the motorik style of Neu!, with a touch of Daydream Nation-era Sonic Youth. But even this will scarcely prepare you for the bubblegum of “Shang A Dang Dang”, wherein Wagner’s vocals mutate into Vic Reeves singing in the “club style”?quite possibly Lambchop’s first hit single, if they want one.

“Under A Dream Of A Lie” is the closest either album comes to recapturing the post-Mayfield soul of Nixon, a delectable ballad, even if it begins with the words “Give up like a man!” And then another unexpected side to Lambchop is revealed on the instrumental “Jan 24” which, with its staccato piano and deliberately clunky ’70s pop-rock rhythm, sounds like Michael Nyman auditioning for Lieutenant Pigeon.

But beware of the superficial jollity, for this foreshadows what is perhaps the bleakest and most disturbing song on either of these albums, “The Gusher”. Over an MOR samba rhythm, Wagner, in his lowest and scariest of voices, sings lines like: “The damp stains upon your jeans… The water in the sink turns brown/And you scrape your skin with a razor.” Eventually a chant of “Who can turn the world on with this smile?” sardonically manifests itself, and as the “Paranoid” guitar riff storms back in, Wagner climaxes the song with a reassuring “You’re gonna make it…”, then adding a frightening snarl of “…after all”.

Nothing left for Wagner to do now except sum both records up with “Listen”, where again he agonises about the uselessness of language for This Sort Of Thing. “Confused and caught up/Could you give it up for this?/I will listen to what you’ve got to say/You said it anyway.” Is Wagner singing at us? “They may not work it out,” he concludes to himself.

In fact, it’s not hard to work out that these two albums really do function as a double, and certainly represent the group’s most complete work to date. Their quiet ambition still provides an undemonstrative mockery of the limitations of so many other contemporary rock acts. And, above all, they provide continuing evidence of Wagner’s unmatched ability to put a microscope to the most seemingly conventional of stories or musical forms and, by sheer dint of his imagination, turn them into something which is quietly but extremely unconventional.

Barry blue was an unlikely star even for an era that gave us Alvin Stardust?imagine Robin Askwith as a spiv crimper in a UK remake of Shampoo?but this was a teen dreamboat with an auteurist streak. The balalaika boogie of the self-produced “Dancin’ (On A Saturday Night)”, his biggest hit, may be 30 years old, but with everything up front in the mix, it’s lost none of its terrace-stomp whomp.

Born in 1950, Blue joined a formative version of Uriah Heep, before producing bubblegum obscurities for Decca as Barry Green. But his golden age was 1973-4, when he enjoyed a run of hits co-authored by Lynsey De Paul (due for reappraisal herself). “Dancin’ (On A Saturday Night)”, kept off the top slot by Donny’s “Young Love”, was followed by the glam blitzkrieg of “Do You Wanna Dance?” and neo-doo-wop “School Love”.

…Best Of has 34 tracks, which is going some, but there are moments of genre-pastiching genius to match Roy Wood’s output of the time, from the Spectoresque “Ooh I Do” (shades of De Paul’s “No Honestly”) to “The Girl Next Door”, a sonic companion piece to Hot Chocolate’s Brit-soul classic “Brother Louie”. Even after his heyday, Blue was busy if invisible, issuing singles under bizarre aliases, penning The Long Good Friday’s soundtrack, Toto Coelo’s “I Eat Cannibals”, songs for everyone from Bananarama to Celine Dion, even ’89 Italian house club smash “Afro Dizzi Act”(trading as Cry Sisco!). Maybe 2004 will see a further revival of his fortunes. After all, if it could happen to Rob Davis of Mud…

If the greatest hits represent the city centre of Curetown, lit up for Christmas and on the razzle, then this exhaustive 70-song curiosity box mopes about its dank bus terminals and spooked back alleys. In its own darkling way, this collection might even give you the best feel for the place. Join the dots, and, though the career might lead you from London to Paris to LA, the songs are always obsessively mapping out the same bad dream suburb of the sublime.

They grew up creepy in Crawley and, in a sense, they never really left. “10.15, Saturday Night” backed first single “Killing An Arab” and put its (rive) gauche pose in perspective, locating some existential, kitchen-sink glamour in flickering striplights and dripping taps. The first disc here follows the band’s drift from a Woolworths guitar satellite town orbiting the Buzzcocks (“Plastic Passion”, “Pillbox Tales”), through a bleak estate on the outskirts of Joy Division (“Descent”, “Splintered In Her Head”) before settling down in a more popular mid-’80s neighbourhood nestled between the electric light of New Order and the Banshees’ edge of darkness (“The Dream”, “Lament”, “The Exploding Boy”).

Smith writes in his sleevenotes of his youthful enthusiasm for the lost institution of the B-side, of expecting great flipsides from the bands he loved, and it’s the cusp of discs one and two here, from 1985 to 1989, that bring this to some fruition. If the early material often sounds like salvage from a band permanently on the brink of disintegration, by the mid-’80s the songs sound like a band gearing up for Disintegration. “A Few Hours After This”, “A Chain Of Flowers”, “Snow In Summer”, “How Beautiful You Are” and “2 Late” make a virtue of their dippy, wistful grandeur, poised attractively between the early bathetic gravitas and their more plainly daft essays in pop kookiness.

But this run would undoubtedly be shown to greater effect on a more succinct collection. Disc two fizzles out with three versions of “Hello, I Love You” and a frankly pointless remix of “Just like Heaven”, and the two discs covering 1992-2001 include the dubious distinction of two more versions of “Hey Joe”, a spectacularly inept reading of “Young Americans” and a woe-begotten contribution to the Judge Dredd soundtrack, of interest to only the most stubbornly curious of Curators.

The final disc gathers various experiments in relocating The Cure to the 21st-century studio city of clicks and cuts (including a drum’n’ bass revision of “A Forest”), as though Smith had finally tired of the fractious business of keeping a band together, but none of them do click?the nagging dolour of his voice seems like an odd relic, even in these ’80s-friendly times. Like a Tim Burtonised Freddie Krueger, the best bet for Smith’s continued relevance looks to be as a patron saint of haunted suburban adolescence.

Covering the years 1973-1983, this collection surveys the period in which Tangerine Dream, led by Edgar Froese, laid claim to their status as synth pioneers. Certainly, you can see the influence they had on the expansive, sequencer-driven techno-prog work of post-ravers like Fluke and The Orb. However, their more common influence came on TV and film soundtracks. So, while Froese talks of TD’s music switching on “the projector of your own personal dream”, the images evoked here are often unfortunately trite?helicopter’s eye views of coastlines, action sequences from ’80s TV dramas, albatrosses in flight etc. Compared with Krautrockers like Kraftwerk and Can, TD are distinctly apr