With a band called The Warlocks and track titles including "Shake The Dope Out", and "The Dope Feels Good", it would appear that Phoenix is an album that's been made under the influence of some pretty effective narcotics. The follow-up to 2001's debut Rise And Fall, the seven-strong collective occupy the same sonic territory as The Dandy Warhols' underrated Come Down. Hazy guitars sprawl lazily over 10 tracks and 64 minutes, accompanied by two heavy drum kits and Bobby Hecksher's cryptic vocals. While "Hurricane Heart Attack" has the Spacemen 3 angle licked, "Baby Blue" is the surprise highlight, a gorgeous, twinkling pop song reminiscent of Air's "Sexy Boy".

Luke steele may be a troubled young man?alcoholism, rescue by newfound religious belief, sibling separation and the recent death of a close friend all figure on his existential CV?but you'd never guess it from his songs. As the lynchpin of Perth four-piece The Sleepy Jackson, the 23-year-old Australian sails as close to psychedelic, sun-struck pop perfection as is possible without actually being Brian Wilson. The band's self-titled mini album from earlier this year sets out their stall with its winning blend of battered nu-country and dreamy pop melodicism, but Lovers offers something more enticing still. Here, George Harrison's All Things Must Pass, The Flaming Lips' The Soft Bulletin and Dylan's Blonde On Blonde are each tapped for their essence, which Steele then filters through a heritage far closer to his heart?specifically, the music of The Triffids and The Go-Betweens. The idea of geography as a creative spur is a dodgy one, but something?the relative isolation of Australia's west coast, possibly?has enabled Steele to absorb influences without being beholden to them. Consequently, although he cherry picks from unexpected, oddly mixed sources?both Springsteen and Lou Reed on the hammering "Vampire Racecourse", Lennon/Ono and Bacharach on the soaring "Don't You Know"?Lovers is much more than pastiche. It's a sun-dappled, idiosyncratic delight, flooded with warmth and vitality, yet weighted by an undefinable sadness. Even the honky-tonk "Miniskirt" (one of two tracks here pulled from their earlier record), which reads like a simple ode to the joys of minimal dress, sounds a faintly disturbing note?"the pretty ones seem to get fucked up all the time". The use of massed choirs (for the most part, heavy on the ba-ba-bahs), a plaintive child's voice (on "Morning Bird") and ripples of lachrymose pedal-steel guitar complete the feeling of dark clouds that threaten to cross the sun. It's easy to romanticise about music from far-off continents, but The Sleepy Jackson's muse is dreamy and distinctive, their Lovers a star-crossed triumph.

They say youth is wasted on the young. Nobody better tell the Kings Of Leon that because the only thing that's wasted on their debut album is the sound. The brilliantly titled Youth And Young Manhood is the kind of life-affirming, slack-strung Gibson SG, four-to-the-floor sonic blitz that makes you want to chain-smoke full-strength Chesterfields chased with lids of Hawaiian while swigging a quart of Jim by the neck and taking all the most agreeable housewives in the vicinity to stud. This Tennessee-based band are the three brothers Caleb, Jared and Nathan Followill plus cousin Matthew (also Followill), two of'em too young to take a drink in their home burgh of Mt Juliet, TN. With Ethan Johns (Ryan Adams fella) at the controls, the Kings hit the ground at full tilt on "Red Morning Light", throwing out shards of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Creedence, Dylan, Lou Reed and Beau Brummel Sal Valentino via Caleb's gloriously rich and earthy vocal. They don't let up until "Holy Roller Novocaine", wherein some approximation of Stephen King's Walking Dude takes you to the mountain top. Evangelical, darkly proselytising but never redneck, the Kings Of Leon (named after their Pentecostal paw) whip and strut their twin rhythm and lead guitars with Stones-like flair on "Happy Alone"?all high-heeled sleaze and Montana number plate, go country casual over "Joe's Head" and get Econoline road fever on "California Waiting" and the cranked-up "Spiral Staircase", which shoves all those tattooed jock rock assholes into a dumper truck. Get your wallet out.

Alongside her tenure with Catherine Irwin in Freakwater, Janet Beveridge Bean is also known as singer/drummer of the equally celebrated Eleventh Dream Day with partner Rick Rizzo. Dragging Wonder Lake pools a collective of like-minds both old and new (pedal-steeler Jon Spiegel; ex-EDD'er and Tortoise/For Carnation's Doug McCombs; backing vocalist Kelly Hogan) and was recorded by the ubiquitous John McEntire in seven days. Whether peeping out from behind clouds of piano-led jazz smoke (Neil Young's "Soldier"), skittering like a pooch on linoleum ("Cutters, Dealers, Cheaters") or leading from the front (ballsy rocker "My Little Brigadoon"), Bean's voice is never less than emotively suspenseful.

One of the delights of Susheela Raman's Mercury Prize-shortlisted Salt Rain was its playfulness, as she proclaimed that world music can be fun by joyously sandwiching a Jungle Book tune between ancient Indian devotional songs. She's done it again on the follow-up. The title track sounds like the Pink Panther theme tune remade in Bollywood, and her pop credentials are further paraded on a gorgeous version of Joan Armatrading's "Save Me". Yet there's still a plentiful supply of serious musicality and spiritual Indian vibes to satisfy the purists as well. A record to put a smile on your face?of the cosmic variety, of course.

Swamp rock? Forget Credence Clearwater Revival. Nice middle-class boys from California, down to their snakeskin boots. Tony Joe White has been the real deal for more than 30 years, part Cherokee and straight out of the Louisiana bayou. His first album since 1998 finds him smouldering pretty much as he has since "Polk Salad Annie", and the chooglin' guitars, steamy Southern beats and lyrics about rattlesnakes are as primordial as the swamp itself.

There are few strains of dance music currently less fashionable than 'downtempo', dance aficionados choosing harsher, '80s-influenced sounds over the warm allure of bedtime beats and breaks. A Special Album is a good indication of where things have gone wrong. The anonymous nature of Erlend "Ralph Myerz" Sellevold's music is made worse by the fact that the musicians he utilises are obviously talented but sorely let down by the 'car ad' nature of their surroundings. Whispered female vocals, jazz organ and moody shuffles abound, but it's all too tasteful to provoke much more than a shrug.

Crescent

THE SLAUGHTER RULE SOUNDTRACK

Certain rarely-heard names, such as Jo Jo Gunne or Atomic Rooster, are guaranteed to induce a nostalgia rush in men of a certain age. The fact that such '70s semi-stars aren't acknowledged 'greats' makes their very mention all the more bittersweet. In a good way. Cherry Red, who I think I must avoid meeting at all costs if I'm not to turn into a sad spotter babbling on about the hidden joys of Redbone and The Partridge Family, have taken this frisson further and asked Mark Stratford, Bob Stanley and Phil King to compile a themed album, not just of obscure hits from the era but?more insane than that?to evoke the colour, shape and sound of pop life at the time. Magpie is bookended by the voice of silver-tongued smoothie and walking cravat Peter Wyngarde (aka Jason King) and pays homage to a period of space hoppers, hot pants and possibly space hoppers in hot pants. It was a weird phase: the trippy was mainstream, and everyone bought cheap, hastily-bashed-out cover versions?"Hot Hits", "Pick Of The Pops"?by the truckload. In this bargain-bin nirvana you'll find "TV themes, film music, adverts, junkshop pop 70-74" and Don Fardon singing "Belfast Boy" about Georgie Best. The memorable Magpie theme itself was written/recorded by The Murgatroyd Band, who were basically The Spencer Davis Group moonlighting. Alexis Korner's CCS adapted Led Zepp's "Whole Lotta Love" into the still-definitive TOTP theme. "Whatever Happened To You", from The Likely Lads, remains inexplicably poignant, and excerpts from the movies Take A Girl Like You and Loot are brittle and affecting. A pre-fame Elton John hacks out "Spirit In The Sky" for one of those tuppenny covers sets: probably a Pan's People clone adorned the sleeve. This is a purgatory of forgotten fool's gold which slipped through the cracks, and it's cracking. One for sorrow, two for joy.

With the death of bassist Leon Wilkeson during the making of this 30th anniversary album, the Skynryd line-up now includes just three original members. Vocalist Johnny Van Zant keeps his brother's legacy alive on raw-throated redneck anthems like "Red, White And Blue". But it's just one of many examples of a slightly sad, shamelessly stuck-in-the-mud approach. The ham heroics of the music and the credentials-obsessed lyrics are well beyond parody. The stench of too many nights on the sour mash, dreaming of Confederate glory, looms large.

Never underestimate hip hop's powers of transformation. Daniel Dumile began his rapping career as Zev Love X in militant New Yorkers KMD before donning a metal mask and becoming MF Doom, a comic book villain on the mic. This time out, his sci-fi fixation is stretched further still: King Geedorah is a giant alien lizard with three heads, sharing thoughtful observations of humanity. Inevitably, a few samples from Japanese monster movies fill out Take Me To Your Leader. But it's more profound and personal than the schtick suggests, as Geedorah meditates on race, violence and sundry mortal iniquities over melancholy, RZA-style soul-jazz samples. Oddly moving.

We don't hear much about the Asian underground these days. Those associated with it seem either to have been dropped, like Talvin Singh, or have moved increasingly overground, like Nitin Sawhney. Human is his most commercial album to date and owes as much to contemporary urban R&B as his Asian background. More song-based than previous albums, the range of voices (Sawhney doesn't sing) is broad, from the pop stylings of Jacob Golden and Aqualung's Matt Hayles to the Asian delivery of Natacha Atlas and Jayanta Bose. It's all highly impressive. Yet somehow it still sounds like the kind of album that wins awards rather than hearts.

The new frontier may just be a myth from a Merle Haggard song these days. But there's still the Australian outback. Some of the most authentic-sounding Americana around is currently being made Down Under. Kasey Chambers is a pioneer, and there's even an Aussie label called Laughing Outlaw. But best of all are The Waifs. Led by the voices of Donna and Vicki Simpson (one of whom has the sexiest Southern drawl this side of Lucinda Williams), Up All Night's a wondrous collection of acoustic-based country-folk songs, full of wit and rootsy passion.

Whether he's pondering the Machiavellian moves of music industry players or describing his own lack of sartorial style, Lewis is unflinchingly honest. This second batch of acid-addled confessionals from the NYC anti-folkie is less heroically basic than his first (he now plays with a drummer, plus brother Jack on bass and vocal harmonies), but just as tender and funny. The stream-of-consciousness delivery still dominates, but whether working up a barrage of punky noise ("Arrow") or adding whale cries to a lo-fi sea shanty ("Sea Song"), his muse has charm by the skip load.

As Lucinda Williams proved on World Without Tears, recording live-from-the-floor can be scintilating. John Hiatt's 18th album (the first on which The Goners get a joint credit) was recorded in such fashion in just eight days. Sadly, it contains none of the finesse that made his last album, The Tiki Bar Is Open, such a joy. They sound like they're playing in a roadhouse on a Friday night. Which is fine in its place. Out of context, it just sounds a mess.

The pulling powers of this Magnet fellow?known back home in Bergen as Even Johansen?became evident during the last 18 months. His preceding EPs?Where Happiness Lives, Chasing Dreams and The Day We Left Town?left listeners scurrying for comparisons. Such names as Thom Yorke, the inevitable Jeff Buckley and Air meets Glen Campbell were polished and dropped. But the old sounds-like parlour game doesn't account for On Your Side's delights. Scandinavian by design, Magnet is not sidetracked into any post-new acoustic genre. He specialises in space- and light-filled atmospheres that seldom quit dangerous middle-of-the-road ground. And Johansen doesn't waver from his course. Ballads, lullabies and epiphanies are used with dynamic intelligence. The stately "Everything's Perfect" sets him up. Vocal strength lies buried among quivering trumpets. "Last Days Of Summer" increases the attack with a gentle touch. Vibraphonic chords and a careful use of echo maul you, drawing you to his method. It's like being pawed and jawed by a drowsy country-loving cougar. This sense of a velvet-clad mugging, strings courtesy of High Llama man Sean O'Hagan, continues whenever Magnet slips in his Moogs and Mellotrons. Celtic chanteuse Gemma Hayes adds counterpoint to a version of Bob Dylan's "Lay Lady Lay" that is more subtle than sexist, as if those Air-men had entered into a non-aggression pact with Scritti Politti and Pierre Henry. Elsewhere, shadows of The Beach Boys flit across "Overjoyed" and "Smile To The World", the deliciously understated finale offering wish fulfilment on an epic scale. Forget that "quiet is the new loud" mantra and concentrate on Magnet's less-is-more philosophy. He's on your side, but he's tapping you on the shoulder. It would be foolish, if not downright rude, to ignore the invitation.

Americana puritans beware. Those seduced by Califone's wonderful Quicksand/Cradlesnakes, released in May, may have trouble assimilating this collection of instrumental soundtrack pieces. In the absence of traditional song forms, the collective's creaky ambient and percussive tendencies dominate: lengthy improvisations like the three-part "Fireworks" take the atmospheres of old folk and blues, with few of the melodic signifiers, rather like fellow travellers The No-Neck Blues Band. Compelling stuff, nevertheless, and the courageous will be rewarded by some crepuscular funk towards the end of "Salome".

Invoking the legacy left by the Heat's deceased founder members Al Wilson and Bob Hite, this is the first album from the outfit reincarnated by survivors in 1999. Predictably enough, the album is a safety-first nostalgia exercise with help from past associates including Taj Mahal and the late John Lee Hooker. Stylistically it covers the blues waterfront, from Dallas Hodge's breezy "Bad Trouble" to the firecracker revival of "Let's Work Together". It is not an unqualified success?Greg Kage's insipid "That Fat Cat" pales against the seasoned favourites, and the single "Getaway" is an ill-advised excursion into radio rawk. All told, a good-natured but not particularly impressive salute to their past.