One suspects that Brooklynite Jason Forrest chose the pseudonym Donna Summer to cause as much trouble and confusion as possible. His six tracks on this heroically noisy split album are virtuoso plunderphonica, where myriad samples are squished to oblivion. Summer’s hyperactivity has an obvious parallel with Kid 606, but his party trick is to sling florid ’70s guitar solos into the hard disc grinder. It’s tremendous stuff, which slightly overshadows the pieces by Ove-Naxx (aka Tokyo splattercore aficionado Isao Sano). Naxx is an avant-junglist in the vein of DJ Scud, but it’s a measure of Summer’s multifarious brutality that, in this company, he sounds relatively staid.

Born out of Williamsburg’s vibrant underground scene in 2000?and sounding not unlike the soundtrack to a painfully hip party there, Vic Thrill’s debut is a fizzing cocktail of world music polyrhythms, camp theatrics and techno wizardry. The influence of Ziggy is evident throughout, but there are also strains of the kitsch disco of Pizzicato 5, the murky pop of The Frogs and snatches of the Happy Mondays and Underworld. Incessant and uptempo for much of the time, it is unmistakably danceable. As if entirely worn out, the record closes with the Grandaddy-esque “Zero Odds”. Perhaps it’s intended to soothe tired souls prepared to do it all over again.

To all but the obsessive, Julian Cope has appeared lost to rock these past few years. Since the unsuccessful release of Interpreter in 1996, he has been far more prominent as a Neolithic scholar, scourge of the Roman Empire and cheerleader for Odin, as a mischievous shit-stirrer in the cloisters of academe. In fact, Cope has been simultaneously burrowing deep into the avant-rock underground, building a bolthole for himself and a global cabal of psychedelic refuseniks. Where once his tastes seemed stuck in 1971 with Blue Cheer and Amon D

Yep, it is a groan-inducing name (inspired by a visit to a Soho sex shop which stocked edible ladies’ apparel) but Myracle Brah overcome initial preconceptions with an album that returns them to the sweet and sour terrain of their debut Life On Planet Eartsnop, and avoids the culde sac power pop of last album Bleeder. MB mainman Andy Bopp keeps the New England trio at full melodic throttle during “Climbing On A Star” and the cross-wired “Hole In My Head”, so while they remain a classy tribute band, we can forgive them.

Still barely known here, Ndegeocello was the first signing to Madonna’s Maverick label. Comfort Woman is, loosely, her Let’s Get It On?a sensual, sumptuous overload. Much of the LP sounds hazily familiar?not just in its summation of elements from her previous work, but in its subtle nods to earlier black musics. “Body” layers half-whispered entreaties over a keyboard riff reminiscent of early-’70s Stevie W; the gentle sway of “Liliquoi Moon” erupts into choppy, Princely guitar histrionics, and “Love Song#3”, which seethes in a kind of fraught torpor, is like a narcotised Prince ballad. Sometimes, the combination of emotional/sexual imperatives and intoxicating languor even recalls Imagination’s delirious “Body Talk”. Ndegeocello’s unshowy voice flutters among swirling, dubby soundscapes that value mood and texture over actual tunes. At its least inspired, it’s worthy stodge; at its best, it’s a blissful surge.

Bear with me on this one: one listen to Cyndi’s heartrending cover of Prince’s “When U Were Mine” from her ’83 debut She’s So Unusual should convince you?she is simply pop’s most undervalued singer. After two decades of patchy material, she’s hit what’s often seen as the last refuge of the scoundrel (hello, Rod) and made a mixed bag of pop and jazz standards. While the world doesn’t need another version of “Unchained Melody”, her tremulous, beaten-black-and-blue take on “Walk On By” could have come straight off Laura Nyro’s New York Tendaberry?high praise indeed. Unfortunately there’s also the Tony Bennett duet (“Makin’ Whoopee”) and a near-unlistenable romp through “On The Sunny Side Of The Street”. Was it too much to hope she might push out to the wracked limits of her remarkable voice and make a bleak torch song classic?

The difference between Burch and most of his Nashville neighbours is pretty simple. “To others,” he tells Uncut, “making music is simply work. To me, it’s a matter of life and death.” Fitting, then, that Fool For Love?his fifth album?is the album of his life. Deceptively easy on the ear, he’s cut back on instrumental clutter to create the intimate mood of a perpetually moonstruck gypsy, clip-clopping to the classic rhythm of American country and rock’n’roll. Part-Everlys, part-Orbison, Burch wears these wonderful songs like a second hide, slipping effortlessly into honky-tonk, old-time swing and lonesome folk. The sort of record you wish more people made, rather than the lone stoking of a dying art. But then again, to sound this simple?this wise?is anything but straightforward. Since fetching up in Nashville via Indiana in the early ’90s, Burch has daubed fresh colour onto a rapidly greying honky-tonk scene, forming the WPA Ballclub with steel guitarist Paul Niehaus (also a Lambchop card-carrier) and stealing the attentions of Chet Atkins, Cowboy Jack Clement and the late Bill Monroe, alongside guest spots on LPs by Vic Chesnutt, Josh Rouse and The Pine Valley Cosmonauts. And it’s this easy straddling of the traditional and new that makes him unique. More Gene Autry than Woody Guthrie, Burch’s voice is pitch-perfect for gunslinger balladry, while the spare arrangements (exquisitely realised by various WPA backers) are firmly rooted in the now.

Opener “Lovesick Blues Boy” could be Marty Robbins pining over a gentle horsebeat canter. The stunning “Time To Cry” is a dollop of Roy Orbison over warm acoustic guitar. “Sparks Fly Out” is country-skiffle, Burch’s overdubbed harmonies sweet as primetime Don’n’Phil. Elsewhere, the Hawaiian steel strum of classic doughboy swinger, “If You’re Gonna Love Me”, is offset by the softly spartan “Deserted Love” and “Like Railroad Steel”, in which Burch keens and flexes his voice like a wind-ruffled willow.

Though it features 12 tracks and lasts an hour, Badu’s latest comes billed as an EP, presumably by a label unwilling to market this as a priority release. Her honeyed brand of soul has always focused more on grooves than tunes, and here she does away with the latter almost entirely. “Bump It” and “I Want You” are horizontal synth-funk jams, with an enchantingly drowsy Badu scatting over the top. Even the presence of militant rappers Dead Prez on “The Grind” can’t upset the languorous atmosphere. Frequently intoxicating.

It could have been so different. Back in 1988, Weatherall and Paul Oakenfold were at the cutting edge, dancing like loons in fields to Italian piano riffs and speeded-up Soul II Soul beats. Paths diverged, and now Oakenfold whores himself out to any mug stupid enough to pay

“We are going to be talking about my war, the battle of sex as an animal act fucked up by my emotions”:brutal words of female wisdom from Lydia Lunch. This collaboration with British hornman Terry Edwards turns Lunch’s unflinching gaze on the politics of personal relationships. Recorded live at the Fierce Spoken Word festival in Birmingham earlier this year, the radical blend of Lunch’s evocative poetry with Edwards’ sinuous avant-garde jazz makes for shocking, disturbing and delightful listening.

Ordinarily, the simultaneous release of a two-CD concept album and another double album of blues and soul covers would point to a severely over-reaching ego. For Diamanda Gal

Shambling indie pop may be rather pass

Brooklyn singer-songwriter Cass McCombs purveys an affecting lo-fi Americana that has seen him compared to Will “Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy” Oldham. Which is unsurprising?McCombs keeps his sound basic, his vocal thin and earnest, and gives his music a certain archaic flavour. Yet where Oldham’s music sounds like it exists only to make sense of the singer’s private universe, McCombs’ is a warmer, more open muse. Indeed, The Basement Tapes, Kiwi indie kids The Chills and The Clean are better reference points. The songs creak along, McCombs and band often sounding like they’re about to fall over (no surprises, then, that the most affecting tune is “Opium Flower”), and it’s all strangely engaging. Six tracks in 25 minutes?a truly minimalist debut.

Following her surprisingly well-received eponymous debut from 2002, Cara Dillon repeats the formula, mixing traditional songs and her own collaborations with producer/pianist Seth Lakeman. Dillon has a wonderfully pure voice, but it lacks the depth and maturity to rise above the more elaborate arrangements and flirtations with modernity. She’s seemingly more at ease on the traditional material, her voice confidently filling in the shadowy instrumental spaces, notably on “The Winding River Roe”, a desperate lament, or daring to emulate Anne Briggs on the Sweeney’s Men classic “Standing On The Shore”. Cast adrift from her roots, though, she veers unconvincingly between Kate Bush and Dolly Parton?far less entrancing.

By their first (and only) release in 1968, The Gosdins were semi-legendary on the California country circuit. A huge influence on Chris Hillman?all three were in pre-Byrds bluegrassers The Hillmen?they’d already featured on Younger Than Yesterday and cut one sublime album with Gene Clark. Sounds Of Goodbye features astonishing back-up from soon-to-be-Byrds Clarence White and Gene Parsons, but the Bros’ grasp of gospel harmony and aching balladry is something else, even if some of the material is slight. Vern’s voice, particularly, was as real as it got.