Now 63, Charles Walker was a little-known participant in the '60s Southern soul scene, which he here recreates in an album recently recorded in Nashville. The aim is to revive the gutsy sound of Muscle Shoals as a backdrop for Walker's deep soul vocals. Cut and mixed in little over a week, it's a testament to the enduring values of a musical style getting on for 40 years gone by. Lovers of Southern soul take note.

The ragged blues tunes at Shootenanny!s start suggest E is burrowing further into the bleak wilderness of 2001's Souljacker, the depression and family deaths that have dogged him killing off the pop beauty with which he once coated his songs. "Am I going to be alright? No, I'm not going to be alright," he announces with finality on "Agony". But that purgative song, with its worried, quivering guitars, in fact starts a redemptive surge back to musical life, the worst faced and pushed past. Even the apocalyptic LA of "Rock Hard Times" has energy, part of a 21st-century alienated soul album that slips the Eels back into your heart.

Previously, The Bluetones' silvery guitar pop was sluggish and strained. Luxembourg benefits from a stylistic rethink. Openers "Here It Comes Again" and "Fast Boy" are surprisingly lean and fast-paced nods to Devo and The Ramones. Elsewhere, "Big Problem" sees The Bluetones discover garage riffs with relish, while "You're No Fun Anymore" is a Wire pastiche to impress Justine Frischmann. Unfortunately, their weaknesses prevail. Quite simply, The Bluetones can't write songs and, as ever, sound knackered for trying. Not so sluggish, then, but still over-strained.

The buzz on this group is gathering intensity, and no wonder. Following Apocalypse Dudes and Ass Cobra, the finely titled Scandinavian Leather, produced at Polar, Stockholm, is the kind of rock hard sofa you'll want to crawl all over. Fusing Detroit licks and lashings of souped-up guitar to a framework of gauntlet-chucking songs like "The Blizzard Of Flames" and the sensational "Drenched In Blood", these Turbo trolls are about as much excitement as you can have short of wearing a rubber thong while bathing in custard. And it's got a Klaus "Beatles mate" Voormann cover. Ice cool and brilliant.

Though the herd may not acknowledge it, there's a minority of us who, the minute a billion-dollar special effects epic starts doing dizzying digital fairground tricks, lean to wondering whether we shut the fridge door before coming out. Just as the average male can't see household dust, even when it's pointed out, some of us don't get what the fuss is with this CGI lark. So they made someone fly, by cheating, by touching up the evidence. Whoop-ti-doo. While gawping at Monica Bellucci (now there's a miracle of nature) keeps us happily in our seats for half an hour, there comes a point where we pine for a story that says something. Anything. Yet, while the hype for the Matrix sequel is making Geri Halliwell seem reticent, the damn thing remains stylistically impressive, thanks to the time-honoured ploy of simulating futurism by having lots of skinny good-looking people wearing black. The demographic targeted, however, is given away by the soundtrack?Linkin Park, Marilyn Manson ("This Is The New Shit"), Rage Against The Machine. It's all beautifully designed and presented. After the first disc (also featuring Rob Zombie, Deftones, Oakenfold), there's a second, which gives you Don Davis' score. Plus! A bunch of "enhanced content", like documentaries and trailers for sister projects The Animatrix and Enter The Matrix. Sorry to come on like a muesli-knitting anarchist, but like Star Wars, the Wachowksi brothers' brilliantined baby has become such a corporate commercial behemoth that it's easy to admire, hard to love. The sheen's dazzling, the soul non-existent. And only the 15-year-old spods?"I hate you for not letting me go to the Korn concert, mummy!"?could consider this music radical or rebellious. Strip away the pretty lights?"wow! cool!"?and the Matrix "phenomenon" is a McWhopper with fries.

Something of a cult, this. In 1972?that year again?the Brits made a dreadful zombie movie wherein frog-worshipping biker boys commit suicide, then return, undead, to burn up motorways and terrorise old ladies like Beryl Reid outside supermarkets. Fog, satanism and skull helmets, on a budget of around nine quid. The soundtrack, however, by Kes man John Cameron, has changed hands for daft money since, and now appears on CD. It mixes wah-wah rock, choral arias and phased backwards drums for no better reason than that Cameron felt like it. "My recollection's blurred," he says. "Hell, it was the '70s." An eerie, uneasy ride.

Blaxploitation movies were suddenly so hot in 1972 that it was deemed a smart idea to bash out?as the title may have tipped you off?a black vampire chiller. It wasn't. It was horrible, in unintended ways. But Gene Page came up with a very appetising soundtrack, which you could happily stick on between Isaac Hayes' Shaft and Marvin Gaye's Trouble Man without anyone noticing too drastic a drop in class. Ghetto chic oozes from every groove, and The Hues Corporation (prior to their one-off disco hit "Rock The Boat") sound magical on the sob-fest "What The World Knows" and the racier "I'm Gonna Catch You". Every note, er, counts. Bloodthirsty.

When we speak of Anton Karas' score to Carol Reed's 1949 classic of dodgy penicillin and cuckoo clocks, we speak of the zither. Most of us couldn't describe a zither if the lives of the Swiss nation depended on it, but the Harry Lime theme is nonchalance personified. Karas?the chap with the zither?was discovered by Reed playing in a Viennese tavern and had no experience, but proved to be an inspired choice. The Prague Philharmonic and Gertrud Huber pluck out the pieces here, and the dialogue excerpts include Orson Welles' rumbling ruminations on art, death and "what fools we are". Glamour in shadows.

Millions of right-thinking people despise Mike Oldfield's epochal debut, often without even hearing it. Looming over the '70s like a prog-folk-hippie-guitar colossus, Tubular Bells may have presented punks with a Saddam-sized target for their disdain, but it also outsold every instrumental rock album in history, helped pioneer the beat-free ambient genre and established Richard Branson's Virgin empire. A grimly impressive pop culture landmark, all told. Re-recorded and remastered for this 30th birthday remake, Oldfield's cinematic suite of multi-tracked guitars and ambitious instrumentation now radiates a perky, fulsome studio glow. John Cleese replaces the late Viv Stanshall for the headmasterly roll call of "Finale", but otherwise every cod-Celtic chord cluster and virtuosic glissando has been replicated in digi-pristine surround sound. And despite moments which conjure up the traumatic image of a million Jeremy Clarksons hammering out wankblaster air guitar solos, the truth is many of these 17 tracks are highly listenable uber-muzak in a timeless, gently progressive vein. Of course, the qualities which aroused animosity first time around have not been erased by technology?indeed, its smug air of technique over passion has merely been amplified, alongside its brittle veneer of Olde English whimsy and cold methodical journey through some kind of "Teach Yourself Guitar" catalogue: "Blues", "Thrash", "Latin", "Jazz" etc. But the passing years and whims of fashion have contextualised Oldfield's opus more kindly. The spectral trance-scape of "Introduction", (later featured in The Exorcist) almost sounds like mid-period New Order now. The flamenco flurries and pastoral asides stake a claim as ear-kissing ancestors of Balearic chill-out, while the starbursts of lustrous, Italianate mandolin are sublime, for all their Cornetto-advert corniness. Face it, punk rock lost the argument. After a nuclear war, only cockroaches and Tubular Bells will survive. Resistance is useless.

Fair play to Moly, whose debut album could be convincingly marketed as "I Can't Believe It's Not Mogwai". All the handy signifiers of epic post-rock are in place: neat sequences of drift and crescendo; hazy threats for song titles; distant chatter beneath the oceanic guitars, etc. Moly, though, are faced with a critical problem. Mogwai's infinitely superior Happy Songs For Happy People (see p97) is released on the same day, which leaves Your Life Is In Danger looking all too hollow and predictable. Strange that post-rock, a music predicated on ideas of progress and transcendence, should have become so formulaic.

When Dominic Appleton sang on 4AD's This Mortal Coil projects, his regal voice was arguably the most admired of that era. His band, Breathless, never nabbed a commercial niche, but still sound as if they eat Everest for brunch. Appleton's lovely, lisping tones are just one of the elements in a timeless, trembling landscape which echoes Pink Floyd and Caspar David Friedrich. Now working with Victor Van Vugt (PJ Harvey, Beth Orton), their moodiness is moving and authentic, and the 15-minute centrepiece is some kind of great gig under a burning sky. Fill your lungs.

In these dark times, everybody's trying to keep our spirits up by telling us that the world is still a beautiful place. Well, it bloody well isn't. Nevertheless, full marks to Holly Lerski for trying her charming best. Having reverted to her real name after two fine albums as Angelou, she's come up with a record of gorgeous, jangling, sunshine melodies on which she even manages to sound cheerful while singing titles such as "Everyone's Lonely" and "In The Dark". For would-be ostriches everywhere.

Oh Susanna's first two albums displayed Suzie Ungerleider's diversity. Johnstown (1999) was a stark piece of folk-blues storytelling, while Sleepy Little Sailor (2001) was a lyrical and dreamy alt.country record. Her third album is different again with a roots-rock flavour that on songs such as "Cain Is Rising", "Little White Lie" and "Unknown Land" finds her sounding like Neko Case backed by Crazy Horse. A ripping take of "I'll Keep It With Mine", which wouldn't have been out of place on Uncut's compilation of Dylan covers (Take 61, June 2002), is the icing on the cake.

Is the best and most adventurous contemporary pop music coming out of France? Here's more evidence with the second album by Tahiti 80. With the possible exception of Fleetwood Mac's Say You Will and Cody Chesnutt's The Headphone Masterpiece, this is the pop album of 2003 which everyone else will have to beat. As with Phoenix's brilliant debut of two years ago, Tahiti 80 have succeeded in marrying blissful '70s/'80s AOR with up-to-the-minute techniques. One Andy Chase contributes human beatbox to the ballad "Open Book", but you would hardly notice he was there, such is the alchemy achieved by the group's leader, Xavier Boyer, who sings and plays guitar, keyboards, piano and bass. Their music is both timeless and timely. The title song could be this year's best opening album track. With its chorus of "Wallpaper for the soul/Like the one you stole/A long time ago," and its alternating between Kid A electro-bleeps and nagging minimalist string lines, it is both disturbing and seductive. Crucial to the music's success is the Urban Soul Orchestra, with arrangements by veteran Brit Richard Hewson, former Rah Band leader. Uptempo tracks like "1,000 Times" could almost be a non-earnest Style Council. Consider also Hewson's cleverly bitonal orchestral lines subverting the angst of "The Other Side". Straighter pop-rock tracks like "Get Yourself Together", coupled with Boyer's affecting choirboy vocals, suggest the route The Boo Radleys should have taken after Wake Up!: deliciously poisoned pop. Note also the subtle contributions of lost pop genius Eric Matthews?the breathy harmony vocals on "Open Book" or the piano maintaining order amid the distended psychedelia of "Fun Fair". Best of all is "The Train", which suggests Prefab Sprout as produced by Thomas Bangalter, all breezy chord changes with an avant-electro undertow. Boyer's muse is troubled but always vulnerable, and never less than compelling.

Palmer's contribution to the recent Robert Johnson tribute disc Hellhound On My Trail inspired this stripped-down, spontaneous album completely at odds with the extravagantly produced material which brought him such fame in the mid-'80s. Akin to his eclectic earlier albums such as 1974's New Orleans-inflected Sneakin' Sally Through The Alley or 1980's Gary Numan team-up Clues, here he mixes up R&B, funk, cajun and rock with this mixture of self-penned new songs and covers (including "It Hurts Me Too", "Mama Talk To Your Daughter", "Hound Dog", and?bizarrely?ZZ Top's "TV Dinners"). Self-produced and with Palmer on bass throughout, this is more like it.

Burnt Friedman & The Nu Dub Players

Gospel-loving, sax-playing, ex-fashion model Dana Glover possesses a stunning blue-eyed soul voice and looks to die for in a combination to rival the original Delta Lady, Rita Coolidge. She's also a powerful writer of classy pop-soul ballads, as she proves on songs such as "Thinking Over" and "Almost Had It All". But her debut album is ruined by the bombastic production of Matthew Wilder (who helmed No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom). If Glover was given room to breathe, Testimony could have been a Southern classic. Instead, the production forces her hopelessly over the top, like some second-rate, histrionic diva.

The Streets upped the stakes for British beats, but few have successfully followed in Skinner's wake. After Audio Bullys, 24-year-old Brixton-bred Daniel "Fallacy" Fahey is probably the best bet. What sets his debut apart is the broadness of producer Fusion's sonic references: "Big 'N Bashy" is Brithop spiced with dancehall rhythms and '60s girl-group samples, while "Square Beamer" kicks off like Art Of Noise before stripping down to little more than hand claps and garage bass. Over the top of these thrilling 'Sarf Lahndan' soundclashes Fallacy snarls soundbite raps with a ragga twist. These kids will try anything ("Ooh" is a shameless Neptunes rip-off, but it works), and it makes for a gripping listen.

Had this record been released in 1988, it would have been hailed a masterpiece. But memories of the glory days of "Headhunter" have receded, and the rest of the world has long since caught up with and overtaken Front 242. With half an ear on the electroclash market, they appear to have decided their sound requires no updating so tracks like "Together" and "Matrix" beat the old pulse, complete with growling sub-Dieter Meier vocals. "SEQ 666" is an interminable meditation on a moribund Moroder riff. "So little left to talk about," they declare on "Triple X Girlfriend". Well, they said it...

There are records so predicated on mood they can sound dire or wonderful, depending on the circumstances in which you hear them. The first time I listened to Universal Hall was in the car, rushing to an appointment, trying to avoid a parking ticket and generally taking life at a thoroughly unhealthy rush. My immediate conclusion was that Mike Scott had lost it on a bunch of meandering, dirge-like songs lacking any proper tunes and with none of the power or energy of The Waterboys' 2000 comeback, A Rock In The Weary Land. At least I didn't get a parking ticket. But I couldn't face the record again on the drive home. With trepidation I returned to the album late one night. And a revelation awaited. Suddenly it sounded magical. Tunes that had previously seemed to meander aimlessly somehow found subtle shape and form. The vibe was certainly very different from the more worldly A Rock In The Weary Land. But it still surged with energy and spiritual intensity. The difference between the two records is simple but profound. Whereas that last Waterboys LP explored darkness, Universal Hall finds Scott stepping back into the light. The titles say it all?"This Light Is For The World", "The Christ In You", "Seek The Light". The predominantly acoustic performances are enhanced by the return of fiddle player Steve Wickham for the first time since 1990's Room To Roam. His magnificent playing's perfectly matched by Scott's soft and ethereal delivery as the album swells to an understated climax on the transporting born-again Celtic soul of the title track, which will put you in mind of Astral Weeks. A magical, mystical record. But its qualities are precious. Be careful where and when you play it.