Those familiar with Brett and Rennie Sparks will be aware that?in the transition from 1998’s Through The Trees to 2000’s In The Air?they began nailing their sound in earnest, sharpening the details in Rennie’s imagery and Brett’s delivery. If 2001’s Twilight established Brett as the link between George Jones and the Harry Smith-fired worlds of Clarence Ashley and Dock Boggs, this one seals it further. And lyrically, Rennie provides their most thematically coherent work to date, ripping at “the veil between this world and the next”. Set against black dirt hills, dark valleys and red mountains at dusk, these are tales of shadows climbing Wal-Mart walls, lovers lost in cities, beckoned by unseen voices, spiritual gateways at the bottom of the garden and whispers from the cogs of Xerox machines.

Singing Bones is a beautiful record. Brett’s doleful Texan burr carries all the weight, heave and belly-scratch of centuries, cushioned by pedal-steel, mariachi guitar or sulky bass. “24-Hour Store”?a tale of “sleepless and lost” shoppers oblivious to the crying ghosts dancing in their midst?sets a soulful baritone against trembly musical saw, like a worried wind. “The Bottomless Hole” (inspired by Kelly Harrell’s 1927 ditch-digging ode “My Name Is John Johanna”) is a deep-bowelled bluegrass workout; “Dry Bones” (reworking Bascom Lamar Lunsford’s 1928 version) a Southern Baptist hymnal; “Whitehaven” a stringed cinerama; “The Song Of A Hundred Toads” classic clickety-clack country.

An exquisitely-wrung meditation suggesting the living and dead are forever intertwined and shadows in the corner are never simply shadows, Singing Bones is Beetlejuice as imagined by Edgar Allan Poe.

“I’ll probably play live until the day I die,” wrote Jeff Buckley in the press release for the “Live At Sin-e” EP, “…to do something that will just fly away is kind of special. Every time somebody tells you they love you, that ‘I love you’ flies away, and you wait until the next one.”

Comprising shows from July 19 and August 17, 1993 (the second show scheduled after Columbia deemed the first session unusable?Jeff was audibly nervous) these recordings were intended to furnish Jeff’s first release for Columbia. For him, they also signalled the end of his exploratory, comparatively carefree ‘caf

Yet another in the unfairly long list of extraordinary records released by Rough Trade recently (Hidden Cameras, Adam Green, Belle And Sebastian, The Fiery Furnaces). SOS JFK is one of those records that’s naggingly reminiscent of other things, but also feels if it sprang fully formed from some other place where the air is purer, utterly devoid of influence. Andy Bar’s rattling strum is like a sparser, more raw version of Mazzy Star guitarist David Roback’s but Josephine Foster’s voice has a glassy, alien quality that recalls Hugo Largos Mimi Goese or Shirley Collins, and there are moments of airy, unhinged beauty worthy of Mary Margaret O’Hara. The point in “Mary” when Foster’s harp comes in is heart-stopping. Her words are bewitching, too, mixing religious imagery and child-like simplicity like the poet Stevie Smith.

Following solo records from both frontman Neil Halstead and bassist Rachel Goswell, and the faux-Americana of their third album, 2000’s Excuses For Travellers, Mojave 3 have found a more successful formula. Spoon And Rafter offers gentle, hymnal folk-rock, and is frequently utterly mesmerising. Much of the album is entirely acoustic, with only the layered “Billoddity” building to a robust climax. Halstead’s voice is understated throughout, adding a fragile loveliness to “She’s All Up Above” and “Starlite #1”, while the ethereal, piano-led “Hard To Miss You” is as beautiful as anything by Mercury Rev.

Almost 20 years ago, Terry Allen wrote a bunch of angry but moving songs about the Vietnam War for the film Amerasia. Now they finally get a CD release. It’s a long way from his usual funny/heartbreaking songs about life in Texas, as Thai musicians join his Panhandle Mystery Band to create a fascinating commentary on the brutality of ‘Nam. It all seems horribly prescient as the US embarks on a fresh round of global ‘adventures’, and makes the hope of the closing “Let Freedom Ring” seem particularly poignant and misplaced.

Scottish bands either tend towards sleazoid drone-rock or elegant songcraft. The Pearlfishers are more Brill Building than CBGB’s?as with ’80s forebears Danny Wilson and Hue & Cry, the spectres of Bacharach and Goffin/King (though not Phil Spector) loom large over these sophisticated vignettes, enhanced as they are by flugelhorns, cellos and violas. Even a post-Brill writer like Todd Rundgren is eulogised here on “Todd Is God”, all piano curlicues, “I Saw The Light” guitar and an arrangement worthy of a US TV sitcom theme. Vocalist/multi-instrumentalist David Scott could be a monstrously successful bespoke tunesmith for talentless boy band members

Like Aphex Twin, Luke Vibert hails from Cornwall and has recorded under a variety of pseudonyms (including Wagon Christ, Plug and Amen Andrews) for various labels, including Ninja Tune, Rephlex, Mo’Wax and Planet Mu. Unlike the Twin, Vibert’s abstract electro usually radiates an approachable warmth, and this new album for Warp is no exception. YosepH is equal parts eerie introspection (“Liptones”) and industrialised funk (“NokTup”) with a queasy undertow courtesy of Vibert’s collection of vintage analogue synths.

Manchester’s I Am Kloot made their debut with “Titanic”, a seven-inch charmer released on tiny local imprint Ugly Man in a brown paper sleeve. Such are the inauspicious beginnings of greatness.

Although “classic pop” is often simply shorthand for the trite and tested, I Am Kloot is clearly deserving of the description. Vocalist Johnny Bramwell?equal parts John Lennon and Kitchens Of Distinction’s Patrick Fitzgerald?delivers pithily poetic, subtly sensual songs with admirably understated help, be it on the breezy, jazz-toned “A Strange Arrangement Of Colour” or the spooked and ominously urgent “Cuckoo”. Downbeat yet hugely uplifting, touching yet utterly unsentimental, I Am Kloot is about as good as this guitar/bass/drums thing gets.

Laptop’s third album is a synthetic joy from beginning to end. Continuing in the arch electropop vein of Opening Credits and The Old Me Vs The New You, Jesse Hartman’s latest illustrates his ability to transcend simple ’80s pastiche armed with a world-weary baritone and a clutch of untouchably sexy tunes. With deadpan voiceover and deluded romanticism, the Oakey-cokey melodrama of “Let Yourself Go” is both funny and moving, while “Back In The Picture” and “Testimonial #6” display lurching, Bowie-esque brilliance. Oh, and the title track is perhaps the best warning against pop ambition you’ll ever hear.

Around the time of their debut, Lowgold were being touted as “the new Coldplay”. Then, as Chris Martin’s bunch went inexplicably stratospheric, singer/songwriter Darren Lee Ford and band disappeared without trace?until now. Welcome To Winners lacks the killer neo-MOR hooks of the first album, instead building momentum with the slo-mo ache of “Quiet Times” and “Means To An End”. The air of weary melancholy is sometimes a little overbearing, but Ford’s smooth, perfectly poised tone eventually proves irresistible. Elliott Smith associate Tony Lash produces, adding subtle electronic colour to “Keep Your Gun Dry” and “Clear The Skies”.

Mickey Melchiondo and Aaron Freeman (as their mothers know them) might be fathers now but changing nappies hasn’t cramped their cranked and crazed style. Kicking off with a typical slab of vile death metal, “It’s Gonna Be A Long Night”, the prodigiously gifted twosome funk and trip through “Among His Tribe” and the majestic “Happy Colored Marbles”, and also tip a hat back south for “Alcan Road”?reminiscent of ’94’s Chocolate & Cheese?and the pop warp of “If You Could Save Yourself (You’d Save Us All)”. With Ween, nothing is done by halves. God save ’em.

With debut UK release Meet The BellRays?a distillation of their two major American albums, Grand Fury and Let It Blast?the West Coast’s rockingest laid down a fierce template of metal, punk and soul, spearheaded by the remarkable blues shout of Lisa Kekaula. With Kekaula’s other ‘alf Bob Vennum providing throbbing bass pulse, lead guitarist Tony Fate cuts both tight and loose on this punishing follow-up, channelling the spirits of Page (for “Some Confusion City” read “Black Dog”), Wayne Kramer and Funkadelic’s Eddie Hazel. With Kekaula herself blistering like a distaff Robert Plant, the song (thankfully) remains the same.

Born in Miami but weaned on the mid-’60’s coffee house scene around Boston, Smither remains a strangely undiscovered talent. The 11th album of his 33-year recording career is a masterclass in deftly-picked country blues guitar, drawing on Lightnin’ Hopkins and Mississippi John Hurt (a sunny-side-up cover of “Candy Man”) alongside the more lugubrious Fred Neil. Smither’s weathered old pipes are a joy as he tramples over melting chords like a bear with a migraine. Old Boston running mate Bonnie Raitt joins him for a quietly stunning version of “Desolation Row”, replacing Dylan’s bile with weary acceptance. Warm and wise in equal measures.

The alter-ego of Jon DeRosa (whose day job is with electro outfit Aarktica), Pale Horse And Rider first surfaced as a steel-stringed side project on last year’s Alcohol/EPs. For his first LP, Brooklyn-based DeRosa opted for the cloistered acoustics of Duluth, Minnesota’s Sacred Heart Church, with Low’s Alan Sparhawk recording. At times minimal to the point of disappearing, this is a spare exercise in frayed-at-the-seam country, spooked by banjo, harmonium and piano notes that hang in the air. DeRosa’s delivery is at its best on “Past Life”, and only hammy closer “The Prettiest Girl I’ve Seen Tonight” is a misfire.

Celebrating the ’80s electro-dance era, at least as it was perceived in New York clubs, this mixes period pounders with updated readings from contemporary exponents. Electroclash may not have taken off on cue, but there’s a trickle-down situation now. You’ll both laugh at and bounce about to Miss Kittin & The Hacker’s irreverent “Frank Sinatra”, Ladytron’s comic “Seventeen” and Felix Da Housecat’s “Money, Success, Fame, Glamour”. Original hedonistic hoofers such as Shannon’s “Give Me Tonight” and ABC’s “Millionaire” are here, and even Marilyn Manson chips in with “The La La La Song”. In the style of a transsexual diva. Which is entirely his prerogative.

There’ll be more than enough excruciating hype winging your way for this, but we’ll just focus on the positive. Whatever your feelings on Tarantino’s films, their use of music is usually inspired. Kill Bill has Nancy Sinatra singing the old Cher hit “Bang Bang”, blasts of Bernard Herrmann and Quincy Jones, Isaac Hayes’ “Run Fay Run”, much new material from Wu-Tang’s RZA, and tantalising, foul-mouthed dialogue excerpts from the likes of Uma Thurman and Lucy Liu. Not to mention some Japanese punk rock, the bloke who used to play guitar for Asia (yes, Asia) and a sliver of Neu (yes, Neu). Nothing if not eclectic, and, of itself, furious fun.

Not a film many people outside the Jackie Chan Completists Society will be urging you to see, but a nifty set of British ’60s sounds, avoiding the usual chestnuts and instead dredging up memories you never knew you had, like “Winchester Cathedral” by The New Vaudeville Band, possibly the oddest pop song ever conceived. Although it’s given a run for its pottiness by Roger Miller’s “England Swings”. The kitsch is balanced by The Zombies, Harry Nilsson and Georgie Fame, and some Randy Edelman filler, but two bursts of The Who hang it high?”My Generation” and (especially) “Magic Bus” sound as vibrant as the day they were born.