Probably the year’s sexiest record. Mellow, who made it, are half-French and have links with Air. As if that wasn’t enough crazy cosmic links, it’s from top video director (Strokes, Moby) Roman (Sofia’s brother) Coppola’s debut, a cross between Barbarella and Breathless. This slinks and purrs like a baby tiger trying to work out if drowning in baby oil is an acceptable pastime. Hung up on ’60s cheesiness and Gallic guile, it’s like Moon Safari on a mission to Mars. Only it keeps getting caught in the bedroom. With Modesty Blaise. And a young Anna Karina. I’m projecting now. Anyway, stupendous.

Tim Burgess moved to LA nearly five years back, so perhaps it’s no great surprise that?several thousand miles from The Charlatans’ creative centre back in Manchester?he should decide to make a solo album, if only to fill the days and sate creative urges.

I Believe, thankfully, isn’t some ex-pat LA rawk record. Sure, he’s pictured on the CD booklet sitting in the Mojave desert wearing a Stetson and strumming a guitar, but that’s pretty much where the LA rock fantasy ends. What we get is brisk and breezy, a gossamer-light summer confection that references Burt Bacharach, Philly soul and The Beach Boys, while retaining Burgess’ wide-eyed charm.

Recorded over a 10-month period, grabbing time in between Charlatans commitments, the album opens with the title track, slow-burning and sexy, but serviceable enough to draw you in. The resolutely chirpy, horn-driven “Only A Boy” gives way to “We All Need Love” with Burgess riffing on “Sail On Sailor”‘s lush orchestrations (he later revisits classic Wilson turf on “Po Boy Soul”). The second half of the album is the most consistently rewarding. Kicking off with the haunting “Be My Baby”, it leads into the bluegrass pop of “Years Ago”, while “Say Yes” is an intoxicating blend of soaring strings and smoky horns and “Love To Spend The Night” recalls the elegant, intricate arrangements of baroque Bacharach.

Just as Wonderland was a departure from the Charlies’ sound, so I Believe finds Burgess eagerly exploring new directions. Light, but likeable.

Very frisky, this one, being mainly deviant, hyperactive electronica that makes most of Raczynski’s contemporaries on Rephlex sound sedate. As with most of his albums, Renegade Platinum… is distinguished by a punk spirit which compels him to enjoyably screw up his most accessible tunes with either splattery noise breaks or cheesy nursery melodies. As usual, too, there’s a frightening intensity that underpins all the pranks and old-school rave references?it’s worth remembering that Raczynski’s last LP, Myloveilove, was a series of lo-fi confessionals. Renegade Platinum… is less appealing, but the apparent desire to add emotional valency to a haywire musical form makes it more subversive.

There are few wittier and more engaging live performers than Loudon Wainwright. But you really have to be there, as the second live album of his career proves. Despite five new songs, a star band that includes Van Dyke Parks, Richard Thompson and Dylan sideman David Mansfield, and split-second timing worthy of a stand-up, So Damn Happy never really ignites. And when you hear the audience laughing at visual jokes we can’t see, the effect is not so much engaging as infuriating. One that requires the DVD treatment.

The NGDB formed in summer of ’66 as a notional way of “not working for a living”. From McCabe’s Guitar Store origins to the present day represents a major skive. Jeff Hanna remains as a link to the old days, and nowadays the Nits function as a repository for Americana. Special guests on this latest include the Scruggs family, Doc Watson, Willie Nelson and Tom Petty (adding vocals to “Goodnight Irene”), Johnny Cash and Emmylou Harris. Adept at all manner of stringy stuff, from country blues to bluegrass hoedowns, Hanna’s hombres kick over the traces like past masters who might still teach the young ‘uns how it’s done.

No time for rest in Godspeed’s Montreal enclave, as the collective’s myriad spin-offs continue to fight the capitalist hegemony with sad tunes and very long titles. Mt Zion are ostensibly the pop wing, adding vocals from guitarist Efrim and?new here?a massed choir to the usual thicket of slow guitars and chamber strings. It’s debatable how necessary his croak is, since Godspeed’s great gift is to disseminate radical politics by musical implication rather than explicit polemic. Nevertheless, this remains marvellous music:at once complex and direct; unfashionably serious; uncommonly moving.

When she’s not collaborating with the likes of Arbol and Piano Magic, singer Suzy Mangion writes intimate torch songs with multi-instrumentalist Michael Varity. Recorded at their home studio in south Manchester, The Magic Lantern starts with a lush vocal harmony, then proceeds to take the listener on a slow waltz through 60 minutes of late-night laments, melancholy folk ballads and fairground instrumentals. One minute Mangion sounds like Joni Mitchell crooning over a Wurlitzer, the next she’s whispering like Vincent Gallo’s long-lost cousin over a fragile score of guitars, chimes, strings and loops. Either way, the results are never less than mesmerising.

The 2001 debut Time Is Of The Essence by Steve Webster and Toby Jenkins aka Fort Lauderdale was an unexpected lysergic treat, drawing on ’60s whimsy and smooth Air-like pop. This marks a move away from the arch electronica of the debut and introduces more guitars, echoing The Squire Of Somerton’s Transverberations solo LP of last year. It’s loveably unhinged, with several tracks carrying an unexpected heaviosity.

Like The Streets and Ms Dynamite, Un-Cut describe their music as “the soundtrack to growing up in modern Britain”. Fans of their Futurecut project may be disappointed by the lack of jungle on their debut, but “Skin II Skin” and “No Way” prove they still have one eye on the dancefloor. The former’s like The Neptunes getting jiggy while the latter layers seductive soul with digidub. Elsewhere, singer Jenna G gives Mary J Blige a run for her money, and producers Darren Lewis and 2D fuse widescreen R’n’B with wigged-out funk and nu-soul.

It’s fascinating to discover how well Rundgren’s studio whizz-kid genius translates to the live arena. And while this box avoids his early-to-mid-’70s heyday, it’s still full of wondrousness. The two single CDs, Live In NYC ’78 and Another Side Of Roxy, are both vintage pop-rock sets with the odd curious detour (NYC’s twinkling “Never Never Land” and Roxy’s unhinged “Lord Chancellor’s Nightmare Song”). But the two double-disc sets, A Cappella Tour and Live In Chicago ’91, are a must. A Cappella Tour captures a stripped-down Todd and offers swoonsome solo renditions of “Love Of The Common Man” and “Too Far Gone” alongside overlooked gems from Healing and A Cappella. Chicago highlights his soulful early-’90s incarnation, featuring a reworked “Hello It’s Me” and a titanic Marvin Gaye medley. If you love Todd, you need this.

Since Gram Parsons switched him on in the late ’60s, “King Of Pain” Sam Hutt has immersed himself in the history and heartache of country music. Aware of the wafer-thin divide between laughter and tragedy, this time he takes a straighter approach. Though soft on the ear, there’s enough variation to mark out the lovely understatement of “Waltz Of The Season” and a cappella finger-popper “Watcha Gonna Do?” as standouts.

A good time to be a rich Bj

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This became June’s swan song when she passed away shortly before its release. While 1999’s Press On was dotted with originals by June and hubby Johnny, the focus here is on classic Carter Family tunes done in traditional fashion. Like Johnny’s recent albums, it was overseen by son John Carter Cash, and bears the same rugged honesty as the American Recordings series. Today’s neo-bluegrass wannabes wish they could muster up this much soul.

Ever wondered what The Strokes might have sounded like had they emerged a decade earlier? Perhaps this terrific debut by Portland, Oregon’s Thermals gives an indication. Here, jittery, incandescent pop is treated to the sort of lo-fi production familiar to fans of Guided By Voices and Sebadoh in the early ’90s. As with the best bedroom punk records, the bloody-knuckled passion and immediacy of these 13 rapid songs transcends any cavils about sound quality. Put simply: it rocks, it rushes, and you’ll play it through twice every time.

This San Diego quartet have already upset their hardcore peers by wearing Devo-esque insect costumes and signing to a big(ish) label, thereby diluting the precious integrity of the scene. One fanzine even cryptically accused the band of “ruining hardcore for fat kids”. Well, hardcore’s loss is our gain because Plague Soundscapes is an invigorating blast of science friction the band’s Melt Banana/Boredoms racket reminding why the US punk scene has always been more diverse and interesting than its UK counterpart. Rubbery synths weave in and out of breakneck jazz rhythms while vocalist Justin Pearson shrieks lyrics straight from the Zappa book of scatological cynicism. Chaotic but surprisingly accessible.

Graffiti artist and producer Req specialises in instrumental hip hop which shakes, rattles and rolls like a big box of bones. Car Paint Scheme was first slated for release on Skint in 2000, but was shelved in his transition to Warp. It bridges the gap between his work for Skint and 2002’s more abstract and difficult Sketchbook, and it’s fantastic stuff. The lo-fi quality adds to the eerie atmosphere, while the spectral FX and skeletal beats suggest hip hop as reimagined by Sun Ra. Rhymin’ prot

Rising from the ashes of Morphine following the 1999 death of Mark Sandman, Twinemen (named after the latter’s shape-shifting cartoon sketches) comprise that outfit’s Billy Conway (drums) and Dana Colley (sax), alongside ex-Face To Face chanteuse Laurie Sargent. Versed in crawling blues grooves and smoky jazz as much as their old band’s murkier adventures, this is never less than beautifully flowing, sinuous music both mesmerising and heart-quickening. Sargent’s airy warble is a delight throughout, while Colley’s vocal contribution on the outstanding “Golden Hour” and Conway’s lead on slowly pulsing closer “Who’s Gonna Sing” provide masterly contrast.

Tricky customer is young Finley. Aloof, enigmatic, prone to periods of going AWOL, his ability to throw up a high-grade smoke screen to disguise his undoubted talents may have worn all patience thin. Still, he’s got that voice and knows how to wrench sympathetic performances from a supporting cast of Anglo-African players. Quaye’s usual blend of dub reggae, the lightest hip hop and a new shot of weird country are stretched under his often oddball lyrics and idiosyncratic world view. “This Is How I Feel” and “Face To Face” exemplify Fin’s rather unique house style and elusive personality. No change there, then.