Two years ago The Coral’s eponymous first album introduced a group teeming with energy and a blaze of musical influences. The album was nominated for the Mercury Music Prize and roundly trumpeted as the arrival of the “best new band in Britain”.

Possibly premature, but at the very least The Coral’s ornate blend of Russian balalaikas, sea shanties, soul-smoked boogies, psychedelic intrigues and garage-rock blues was a refreshing sign that a band partly inspired by Oasis weren’t wholly bound by dadrock clich

After one great album with The La’s and four albums of diminishing returns with Cast, the solo album is surely John Power’s final card. But a bunch of derivative non-tunes full of flat acoustic guitars and banal clich

This most unusual non-stop exotic shindig is well described by vocalist/all-round muso Paul The Girl (who is indeed a she) as “a rock cabaret folk pop sex horror movie”. Sonically low-key but high on adrenaline, Paul and company also weave some slick jazz timing into an ensemble that makes useful space for saxophone, brass and things that go bump in the night. Paul’s songs and vocal delivery are somewhat in the same field as PJ Harvey, with a whiff of Captain Beefheart. This kind of affair can be hit and miss, but the arrangements and careful pitching of ingredients ensures an intriguing, unpredictable ride. Quietly invigorating.

Understandably, Hayley Willis decided to drop the Christian name for her full-length debut. Gender is incidental to the emotional impact of her blues-drenched, country-toned soul, which nips all preconceptions about a record store assistant turned recording artist in the bud. Come Get Some reflects empathy with Carole King and Joni Mitchell and a love of Etta James and Aretha Franklin, but although a nuggety, old-school feel dominates, it’s filtered through an awareness of contemporary British soul and hip hop. Willis’ gorgeously gritty wail, which carries her from breezy scat to impassioned hollering, may well be the best new voice to have surfaced here in years.

Last year’s debut from BRMC could not have divided the Uncut troops more. Our reviewer gave it two stars and found them far too similar to The Jesus & Mary Chain to merit serious attention. Others among us felt that the whole reason we got into this in the first place was crystallised in the shock-and-awe call to arms of “Whatever Happened To My Rock’n’Roll (Punk Song)”?”I fell in love with a sweet sensation/I gave my heart to a simple chord.” So in the issue following our dismissive review, we ran a feature in which we called them “visceral, narcotic, sultry, utterly addictive”, and put “White Palms” on our covermount CD (Take 58). Never let it be said Uncut is not a broad church.

The trio’s follow-up-recorded not in their native California but London because of British drummer Nick Jago’s visa problems?is unlikely to heal the office schism. But it’s a far more diverse offering which should at least lay to rest some of the Psychocandy comparisons. That said, they’re still at their best when they stick to the titanic scuzz-rock of their debut. “Six Barrel Shotgun” is this album’s answer to “Whatever Happened…”, and the nearest they get to the Reid Brothers. “Stop” is another winner, all fuzzy pop hooks that sound like Oasis’ third album should have done if they hadn’t got so fucked up on ego and cocaine. The simple chord that drives “We’re All In Love” was blatantly borrowed from Keef, while “Generation” noisily takes you back to the days when rock’n’roll was the place where all the weirdos and outsiders hung out to find validation. You feel Peter Hayes is telling the truth when he sings, “I don’t feel at home in this generation.” He’s not in rock’n’roll as a career option. It’s the only thing he knows how to do because he’s totally fucking useless at life, the universe and everything else.

Elsewhere, The Velvet Underground cast their shadow over “Shade Of Blue” and the Bush-baiting “US Government” will upset or gratify all the right people. Less successful is the acoustic “And I’m Aching”, which suggests that an unplugged BRMC album would not be a good move. They run out of steam completely towards the end with the narcoleptic “Suddenly” and the tuneless “Rise Or Fall”. But there’s still plenty here to justify giving up your heart to that simple chord all over again.

Like his mate Damon Albarn, on whose Honest Jon’s label The Hour Of Two Lights appears, Terry Hall has been bitten by the world music bug. But whereas the Blur lead singer travelled to Africa for his inspiration, the former Specials singer has turned his attention to eastern Europe and the Middle East on a fantastic record of banging global grooves, with beats supplied by the British-Asian DJ/producer, Mushtaq.

Albarn himself turns up on a delirious track, “Ten Eleven”, while elsewhere Hall’s own distinctive vocals are joined by a troupe of Polish gypsy refugees from London and even a blind Algerian rapper. If you think about it, it’s a perfectly logical progression for Hall from the early multiculturalism of The Specials.

Fittingly enough for a band who, for many, embody musical occultism, this is Jane’s Addiction’s first studio album in 13 years. When they imploded in ’91, fans liked to believe that frontman Perry Farrell broke up the band?just as they’d cracked the mainstream with their landmark third opus Ritual De Lo Habitual?to preserve Jane’s iconic status. No one wanted to concede that the otherworldly aspects of Jane’s music were an elegant foil to the real-life drug habits that zapped the band’s energies and brought a premature close to the creative partnership between Farrell and guitarist Dave Navarro.

Since then, the pair have flexed their individual talents with vigour. Farrell reinvented himself as Porno For Pyros firestarter and Lollapalooza lynchpin, while Navarro spent four years in the ranks of the Chili Peppers. Two years ago the pair unconsciously mirrored each other with similarly ill-conceived solo albums (Farrell’s Song Yet To Be Sung and Navarro’s Trust No One). But the legacy of their one-time partnership proved too great to ignore, and Jane’s Addiction reconvened. They’ve rarely fallen from fashion, though now even the likes of Fred Durst cite them as an influence.

Farrell’s contrary, radical, fighting spirit comes to fruition on Strays. From the first blistering bars of “True Nature”, Jane’s Addiction display an all-cylinders-firing ferocity. Bob Ezrin?the legend behind Alice Cooper’s School’s Out, Lou Reed’s Berlin and Pink Floyd’s The Wall?is producer, but doesn’t self-parody by encouraging the baroque complexities (such as “3 Days”) that graced previous albums. In their place is a solid, melodic, alt.rock sound that puts the band in the ballpark with the Chili Peppers and Audioslave. They don’t always get it right: the rap-metal bounce of “Superhero” is a little too radio-friendly for comfort. But when they do, the results are mind-blowing. The exceptional “Wrong Girl” confirms that Farrell’s reptilian rasp is as skin-crawling as ever, while the single, “Just Because”, sees Navarro’s siren-aping guitar sound spin off the plastic. It’s a fresh yet classic sound that’ll please hardcore fans and newcomers alike.

Nothing too shocking, then, but their old magic surges through: you won’t be disappointed.

Merchant’s first release since ending her 18-year relationship with Elektra succeeds admirably in capturing the common humanity in folk songs through the ages. The band includes members of pioneering alt.folkies The Horseflies and songs range from the familiar (title track) to the obscure (beautiful 18th-century hymn “Weeping Pilgrim”). Merchant’s rich, expressive voice is imbued with all the awe, dread and authority the material requires, while the subtle arrangements prove that, treated right, these timeless treasures are still capable of revealing previously uncharted mysteries.

The Clientele manage to surpass their hotly tipped 2000 debut by refining their wispy sound to a pure, delicate pop breeze as evocative of bucolic summer afternoons as anything in the Brian Wilson catalogue. The languorous, breathy feel here has antecedents in everything from the Left Banke to Belle & Sebastian, but The Violet Hour transcends twee and ’60s pop influences in songs that work on an almost subliminal level. It’s hard to think of a quieter recording?at times you can almost hear the amps buzzing?but this is surely one of the most magical pop albums of 2003.

Mew are an unlikely pleasure?with their sweeping falsetto vocals and billowing melodrama, they’ve been described as an “indie A-Ha”. Yet for those who don’t believe they have a sweet enough tooth to endure such a thing, think again. Tracks like “Behind The Drapes”, a moonlit, desolate affair, hints at unsuspected angles and depths, while the appearance of Stina Nordenstam on “Her Voice Is Beyond Her Years” is an indicator of the oddness/intimacy dichotomy here, an uneasy twilight zone which Mew occupy, and which is summed up in their definition of Frengers: “not quite friends but not quite strangers”.

The offspring of Cohen, Dylan and Wainwright have all made albums in recent years. Now comes Ben Taylor, with the advantage of a double dose of the ’60s troubadour gene. But perhaps that makes life even harder: you won’t be surprised to learn there’s nothing here to match the old man’s “Fire And Rain” or mom’s “You’re So Vain”. But something has rubbed off: “Rain” and “No More Running Away” are beautiful songs, even if his voice sounds so like his dad that, with James credited with guest vocals, you sometimes wonder which Taylor you’re hearing.

Adapting his songwriting lead from Bob Dylan, young Michael Clarke could become a player soon. He’s won friends and influenced people touring with Ron Sexsmith and Kings Of Leon, thanks to an innate knowledge of balladry and that elusive personal/universal touch. “Evergreen”, ‘Moonflowers” and “Last Man Standing” are exceptional, his pristine vocals meshing into understated loops and updated West Coast grooves. An addictive debut.

They’re a luckless lot, Shack. They made Waterpistol, an album that might have been one of the defining recordings of 1991, had the studio not burnt down, destroying the master tapes. Then came H.M.S. Fable, finally written and recorded following a period of smack addiction and subsequent detoxification. It was greeted with critical hallelujahs?but disagreements over the quality of its promotion led to a squandering of any momentum they achieved. Like fellow Byrdsian Liverpudlians The La’s, it seemed improbable they’d ever record again.

Now, finally, brothers Mick and John Head et al are back on a new label with an LP recorded in just six weeks and it shows?in the best possible sense. There’s a rawness, a ripeness, a spontaneity about Here’s Tom With The Weather that hasn’t been destroyed by multitracking or studio varnishing. Terms like “proper music” and “real songs” are usually the last refuge of the Luddite. These are “proper” and “real” with all the organic, halcyon beauty that that entails.

The opener, “As Long As I’ve Got You”, for instance, with its distant accordions, wafts in like a breath of sea air, or like hearing Simon & Garfunkel for the first time.

“Soldier Man”, too, with its meandering guitar break, showers on you like bracingly damp, strangely uplifting weather. “Byrds Turn To Stone”, with its subtle, semi-acoustic blowback, shows that Shack aren’t just strummers, but possess a fine gift for arrangement emphasised again on the strings that weave unsteadily through “The Girl With The Long Brown Hair”, or on the wistful “Miles Apart”, one of a clutch of fine John Head compositions here (brother Mick pens the rest).

With the seedy, “Waiting For The Man”-style scenario of “On The Terrace”, the salsa flavourings of “Meant To Be”, and what sound like allusions to Patty Hearst on “On The Streets Tonight”, this album covers a range of lyrical ground and moods before returning to the heavily qualified “bliss” of the uneasy, closing lullaby “Happy Ever After”. They’ve given a lot, Shack?now it’s time for them to take.

Already notorious for his hijacking of Gary Numan/Adina Howard for the Sugababes’ “Freak Like Me” and Human League/Chaka Khan for Liberty X’s “Being Nobody”?both of which appear here?the mysterious Richard X now extends his alchemy to his debut album, an alternative history of pop worthy of BEF. Of his numerous guests, Kelis provides an even better Human League remoulding with “Finest Dreams”, Jarvis Cocker reshapes Mazzy Star inspiringly (“Into You”) and, best of all, long-lost Flying Lizards vocalist Deborah Evans-Stickland gives us an hilariously deadpan “Walk On By”, while on “Lemon/Lime” she gets to rhyme “Armageddon” with “David Sneddon”. Good to see Caron Wheeler come out of the cold with “Lonely”, too.

Superbly mischievous pop.

For a band who, with their label Shinkansen (n

It’s easy to see why Kid 606 has become such an enthusiastic patron of Billy Pollard. Pollard’s work as Knifehandchop betrays many of the same preoccupations as his mentor?daft gabba, aggro dancehall, splattery hip hop deconstructions and a general brattish demeanour. Fortunately, his hyperactivity compensates for the familiarity of his schtick. Noisy pop mash-ups may be old news, but there’s no denying the appeal of “Dancemix2000”, where Eminem, Destiny’s Child and Pink cosy up to the mighty Vengaboys. Fruity.

Quite a coup for an unknown electropop musician to have guest vocals on his first album from Elastica’s Justine Frischmann, Cerys Matthews and Ed Harcourt. Clearly, there’s something about Fred Ball. Having spent his childhood worshipping Rick Wakeman, wearing a silver cape in front of the mirror to emulate him, Ball is as guileless and winsome as they come, qualities which rub off on his music. Best is his duet with Frischmann, stylish but aggressive electro-pop, while Cerys is joined in the studio by her mum and grandma, who reads a poem over the album’s gentlest number.

Not quite sure why Kosheen are classified as a dance act. Perhaps it’s because the band’s creative forces go under the rather silly names of Markee Substance and Darren Decoder. The follow-up to their Top 10 debut is a traditional rock album with a few touches of electronica, occupying broadly the same territory as Moloko. Fronted by vocalist Sian Evans, who sounds improbably like Carly Simon crossed with Shara Nelson, there are guitar hooks aplenty. “Blue Eyed Boy” even borrows a motif from Quo’s “Pictures Of Matchstick Men”. But it’s far too inoffensive to change anyone’s young, impressionable life.

Spontaneous though it may be, the debut album by Vivian Sarratt and Edmond Hallas sounds like it was designed by a particularly cynical committee. The formula of boy and girl vocals, primitive electronics and big fuzz bass is novel, but results are more predictable. So Live How You Listen is a bit unhinged, then a bit robotic, fits snugly between the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and ARE Weapons, and also references Devo, The B-52s, Blondie (when Sarratt sings) and The Sex Pistols (when Hallas sings). Lively enough, but you can’t help thinking Mommy And Daddy are a little closer to the zeitgeist than is healthy.

The ’80s revival has already given Gary Numan’s career a kick in the ARP, so it’s only fair that Gazza’s original inspiration should get another pop of the cherry. John Foxx’s enigmatic electro has always been a little too dark, a little too knowing for a mass pop audience, but with Crash And Burn he slots alongside the cultish likes of Miss Kittin and Khan with remarkable ease. The title track and “Sex Video”, for example, are as twisted and cruel as anything Adult. have attempted, while “Dust And Light” exudes a barely controlled hysteria that’s reminiscent of Model 500’s techno classic “No UFOs”. Not content with merely being ‘relevant’, Foxx is still capable of being very good indeed.