Although temporarily abandoned when Cash lost her voice during pregnancy, Rules Of Travel signals a striking reawakening for a too often overlooked talent. Aided by husband John Leventhal’s arrangements, she spurns formula to find unerring fidelity to songs of heartbreak and maturity. Cash puts her experience to use on the slow-burning eroticism of the Earle-assisted “I’ll Change For You”, while the duet with her father and “Closer Than I Appear” match her pop roots with throbbing obsession and vengeance. A deeply felt and accomplished return.

Ian McCulloch and will sergeant are without doubt one of the great partnerships of the post-punk era. And, in theory, Sergeant could drop a sparkling psychedelic lick upon each of Slideling’s 11 tracks and we’d be looking at the follow-up to 2001’s Flowers. But he hasn’t, and we’re not. And yet the absence of Sergeant’s riffing is pretty much all that really distinguishes the sound of the Bunnymen from solo McCulloch.

Either way, and with no disrespect to his sparring partner, Slideling is the best album McCulloch’s had a hand in since 1984’s Ocean Rain. Unlike 1989’s deeply personal Candleland and 1992’s disappointing Mysterio, both recorded in post-split/pre-reformation acrimony, this time he’s just moonlighting from Bunnyland.

All the same, it’s a busman’s holiday. “Stake Your Claim” and the gorgeous “Sliding” are as heart-skippingly splendid as “Bring On The Dancing Horses”, the chorus of “Arthur” as deliciously romantic as “Nothing Lasts Forever” and the dazzling “Kansas” finds Mac up to his shades in heaven, hell and hopes writ large in the stars.

That said, here McCulloch is freer to scratch his Lou Reed itch, obvious from the opening chug of “Love In Veins” through to “High Wires” (with its “some kinda love” chorus) and most blatantly “Baby Hold On”, which unblinkingly robs “Walk On The Wild Side” of its sliding bass sound. He’s also more sentimental on his own, such as on the Beatlesy “Playgrounds And City Parks”, which is too sappy for your average Bunnymen LP perhaps but more than welcome here.

Slideling is an intense, uplifting rush of blood to the head (no pun intended?Coldplay’s Chris Martin and Jonny Buckland feature on “Sliding” and “Arthur”).

Smashing stuff, Mac?but for the love of trenchcoats and camo’, don’t go giving up the day job just yet.

More than most bands, Fleetwood Mac evince complex, unresolved feelings. On the one hand they’re the ultimate mainstream soft-rock dinosaur, past masters of glossy emotions and overcooked arrangements. On the other hand…

On the other hand what, exactly? It’s not like Fleetwood Mac are Abba?So Uncool They’re Cool. But nor have Fleetwood Mac ever been So Cool They’re Uncool…if you know what I mean. So what are they, and why does a goodly percentage of their music stand up after decades? I guess because a) witchy woman Stevie Nicks has the voice of a petulant siren; b) studio geek Lindsey Buckingham still wants to be Brian Wilson; and c) Fleetwood Mac were and are truly a band for boys and girls. Good things all.

So here they come again, in a post-post-punk, hip hop-dominated universe, keen to make meaningful music. And there’s a historical parallel here: just as 1979’s ‘brave, off-the-wall’ double album Tusk followed 1977’s stratosphere-busting Rumours, so the almost-double CD Say You Will follows the play-safe ‘live greatest hits’ thing that was 1997’s The Dance.

The funny thing is that Tusk, when you revisit it, doesn’t sound off the wall at all. Which makes Say You Will all the more out-there as mainstream rock product. Next to Tusk, indeed, this 18-track opus is a box of All-Sorts replete with countless different colours and moods.

As one would expect, there’s a slew of those Stevie Nicks songs that are essentially narcissistic hymns to, well, Stevie Nicks. One of them is called “Silver Girl”, no less. Another, “Illume”, is a bongo-driven meditation on life post-9/11 and boasts the priceless line, “I am a cliff dweller from the old school”. Gotta love the woman: on the closing “Goodbye Baby” she sounds like Kate Bush spliced with Victoria Williams.

Then there are Lindsey’s songs, some of which date back to the solo ‘project’ that should have come out after his 1992 opus Out Of The Cradle. What makes Say You Will really great are Lindsey tracks like “Red Rover”, “Come” and “Say Goodbye”. The heady melodicism and hyper-syncopation of “Rover” are intoxicating. The shimmering “Say Goodbye”?all dappled guitars and whispered vocals?suggests Lindsey has been listening to modern-day troubadours like Elliott Smith.

The album peaks somewhere in the middle, with “Rover” followed by the effortlessly shiny Steviepop of the title track and then by first single “Peace Keeper”, a true Bucks/Nicks joint effort. Both pack killer choruses, as insidiously sweet-sad as vintage Mac classics from “Silver Springs” to “Gypsy”. Nicks’ “Running Through The Garden” is early-’80s hippie power pop, with a layered keyboard hook and chugging noo wave guitar.

For obvious reasons the only flavour missing on Say You Will is the departed Christine’s perfect Tango In The Night bop-pop, making the album more Buckingham-Nicks Redux than anything else. (You can hear Chrissie, though, on the moody, thumping “Murrow”.) That’s OK, because there’s so much here to get one’s teeth into.

Tusk this isn’t, but Tusk it doesn’t need to be. In an age of off-the-shelf Linda Perry pop, the Mac keep the mainstream interesting. Say you’ll give it a spin.

Vini Reilly, a true visionary, put this phenomenal album together following the illness and death of his mother. Ironically, he sounds more alive than at any time since his work on Morrissey’s Viva Hate in 1988. In fact, this is probably his finest record since 1981’s L.C. Despite the events which led to these songs, the sense of rejuvenation is strong: hear the breakbeat-powered “Love Is A Friend” and “No More Hurt” with his distinctive voice (surely an influence on Ian Brown) and passionate guitar playing. The two songs which cut the deepest, though, are the ballad “Requiem For My Mother” and “Spanish Lament”, which makes brilliant use of a sample from David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive. This could be Reilly’s masterpiece.

First Jesse Malin’s solo debut, now Concussion?if anything, this is an even finer record than The Fine Art Of Self Destruction. Steve Earle described Ryan as “one of the best songwriters I’ve seen come to Nashville”, and he’s no bullshitter. It’s mostly sparse stuff, just acoustic guitar and maybe a single cello, though “Devastation”, a duet with Lucinda Williams, and a pained cover of The Clash’s “Somebody Got Murdered” do raise the tempo.

Throughout, Ryan croaks these perfect phrases?”Life alone will humble you” (“Rabbit”), “With you by my side I’m nearly satisfied” (“Chickering Angel”)?as he tells his tales of the disenchanted and emotionally disembowelled. Quite brilliant.

For a man of such impeccable credentials, Guthrie’s first lone outing is something of a let-down. Now resident in France, the recent Violet Indiana collaboration with Mono’s Siobhan de Mar

Venus Hum are heralded as the “New Sound of Nashville”, but Big Beautiful Sky’s first few tracks take you back to early-’80s Basildon. With Annette Strean’s crystalline voice trilling over bouncy synths, you imagine Eddi Reader fronting Vince Clarke’s Depeche Mode?it’s sweet but unpardonably pass

After The Swastika EP gave vent to the sort of folksy humour that can grate in his live performances, Bern’s caustic observation, musical agility and literate insights take hold on this full-length album. The son of holocaust survivors, Bern delights in sarcasm, searing irony and dark, bitter truths. Never afraid to go against the grain (his band’s full name is International Jewish Banking Conspiracy), he often recalls Costello at his early, molten peak. But with the creepy, obsessive epic “Closer To You”, the soaring “Fly Away” and the wounded grandeur of “Superman”, an impassioned original voice makes its indelible mark.

Sinclar’s international playboy schtick used to overshadow the music. Not here. It may be frothier and camper than ever, but Sinclar?aka Christophe Le Friant?has a new-found focus and vitality. “Kiss My Eyes” updates gay NY disco, while “Nature Boy” mashes Euro-pop pomp with sideways glances at FM rock. Whereas so much electroclash lacks melodic thrills, there’s an abundance of crisp, pulsating tunes here. And despite the disco flashbacks, Le Friant favours twisted re-interpretations over dead-handed pastiches. Fans of Daft Punk’s Discovery will love it.

Philip Glass at his most minimal, repetitive, and inexplicably, magically, affecting. Apparently, Michael Nyman wrote a score for this, too, and was sore when Glass won that particular clash of the titans. Which, you have to concede, has a touch more aesthetic loftiness about it than “Ugly Noel tells someone to fuck off”. It’s lovely, though if we’re candid, not as lovely as we were hoping. Many reviews of the film decried the music as over-insistent, which is akin to describing George Bush as a genius. It’s not in the league of Koyaanisqatsi, still Glass’ masterpiece, but leave it on repeat all day and your head becomes a cave full of lanterns. This is a good thing.

If you can remember the ’90s, you have mediocre taste in music. Subtitled “The Best Of Britpop”, this double CD ties in with the John Dower documentary about that media-stoked mirage, Cool Britannia. As Blair morphs into Thatcher and everyone wonders what they saw in the Gallaghers, it’s not a fruitful time to hear this listless stodge. The track listing prompts an inner sigh?Cast, Shed Seven, the supremely flaccid Embrace. No wonder it was piss-easy for The Strokes to clean up with three Blondie riffs. I don’t speak as an old fart, but as someone who’s not deaf.

Of course there are names here who made an impact. Radiohead’s “Street Spirit” catches them before they undertook a self-colonoscopy. Blur had an idea or two, The Verve were competent, Supergrass, in “we are young”, provided a refrain which was the genre’s saving grace. Suede at least boosted sales of Bowie’s back catalogue. But Massive Attack, despite head-in-sand support from critics, never matched “Protection”. The Prodigy were style mags’ version of Korn. Kula Shaker? The Charlatans? Echobelly? Skunk Anansie? C’mon, admit you feel just a little silly you found them somehow interesting… in any other era, even now, these charmless chancers would be laughed out of town.

A few transcend the sludge. Morrissey’s “The More You Ignore Me” is one of his best. Mansun’s “Wide Open Space” houses emotional clout. Pulp are always good for a sneer. “Born Slippy” and “Loaded” are visceral enough. But the woeful Oasis and the meat-and-spuds Manics are only topped for triteness by the risible Robbie Williams. The cheeky chappie gang’s all here?perhaps someone else whose feebleness will be chuckled at within two years, like Hirst or Emin, could be given a hundred grand of our taxes to embalm them. They moved nothing or no-one. We’ve moved on.

Not a genre Uncut features heavily, but the previous volume was one of the biggest-selling soundtrack-related CDs of recent years. It’s an excuse to bung together top hits from everything from Grease to Charlie’s Angels, but the real reason it’s here is because by a fluke it includes, among 40 tracks, a run of about 10 which would make my Desert Island Discs?or 31 Songs, as we’re now calling the concept. Such as: Al Green’s “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart”, Solomon Burke’s “Cry To Me”, Costello’s version of “She”, and Marvin’s “Got To Give It Up”. Call me a big sissy girl: I don’t care, I’ve got God’s jukebox on my side.

Shoehorned onto this page because there’s now a parallel DVD, which means this compilation of Volumes 1 and 2 (Cherry Red 1982-84) counts as a soundtrack, okay? The label’s reissue of its golden age revels in the courage to be slightly twee. It’s the sound of Englishness, only without the mindless violence. Art-rockers like Monochrome Set and Fantastic Something stand up well, having first politely checked that nobody minds if they do. Morgan Fisher’s version of “Un Homme Et Une Femme” shrugs coolly, while Felt’s “Penelope Tree” carries a torch for Television. Blossoming late.

We last heard from Daniel Lanois as a solo artist on 1993’s For The Beauty Of Wynona. Since then, he’s hardly been idle, producing albums such as Emmylou Harris’Wrecking Ball and Bob Dylan’s Time Out Of Mind and, of course, working with the mighty U2. This makes it easy to forget that he began as a guitarist and songwriter back in Canada long before Eno recruited him as his cohort on The Unforgettable Fire and set him on the road to becoming the world’s most sought-after producer.

Shine was recorded on and off over the last few years in Mexico, Dublin, Paris, Canada and LA, in between production chores for the great and the good. Yet it’s lent a convincing cohesion by those moody, atmospheric textures that have always marked out Lanois’ production work. A master of studio technique, he nevertheless uses his skill behind a desk to enhance feel rather than substitute for a lack of it. Essentially, Shine is a guitar album, all chiming chords and mellow, golden lead lines. But above all it’s an album dominated by pedal-steel guitar, apparently Lanois’ first instrument. It’s almost impossible not to give everything that features the instrument a country lilt. Lanois is one of the few to manage it and, like Jerry Garcia, creates a more ethereal, spacey feel.

There are a handful of stunning instrumentals, but the revelations here are Lanois’ singing and songwriting. “Sometimes”, “Power Of One” and the title track have a searching, spiritual quality. “As Tears Roll By” glories in a laidback, Southern groove like JJ Cale, but with the gruff baritone replaced by Lanois’ melodious falsetto. “Falling At Your Feet”was co-written with Bono during the sessions for the last U2 album, and the greatest living Irishman adds his vocals to a song that would have graced almost any of the band’s LPs.

It may have taken him 10 years, but Daniel Lanois has made an understated gem.

On their last album, Smile, The Jayhawks perfected a bright, sparkling, radio-friendly pop-rock confection laden with winning hooks and cracking tunes. Rainy Day Music, their first for Lost Highway, is not so much alt.country as classic late-’60s Byrds/Burritos-style country rock. Helmed by Ethan Johns (who produces Ryan Adams), it’s all acoustic guitars, rich jangling melodies and heavenly harmonies. On “Stumbling Through The Dark”, “Tailspin”, and “Will I See You In Heaven?”, Gary Louris has come up with some of his most memorable compositions to emerge as a kind of country cousin of Neil Finn, while “Save It For A Rainy Day” and “Madman” could have easily made it on to The Eagles’ Desperado (a notion only enhanced by the presence of Bernie Leadon guesting on the album).

You wondered how they could top Smile. With Rainy Day Music, The Jayhawks have gone and done it.

At last, the real electroclash! Detroit’s Adam Lee Miller and Nicola Kuperus specialise in harsh, unforgiving music which makes few concessions to the dancefloor. The duo instead deploy queasy synth textures and primitive beats, recalling the early brutalist electro of Throbbing Gristle, The Normal and Cabaret Voltaire. Adult.’s music seems similarly designed to produce an involuntary physical response?opening instrumental “The Cold Call” disorientates the listener with its sick, shuddering synthetics and stroboscopic blips. Elsewhere Kuperus’ callous vocals taunt and cajole over a sustained electronic assault. There’s admittedly very little light and shade here, but Adult. deserve respect if only for making an almost overwhelmingly vicious album that succeeds on its own unreasonable terms.

Away from his native Arizona, Howe Gelb spent six months of last year in Denmark, where he recorded The Listener. The results sum up everything that’s most appealing and irritating about him. At his best he sounds spontaneous, fresh and unexpected. Yet at other times his quirky ideas can sound half-baked and his songs undeveloped. Back home in Tucson after his Euro sojourn, the Giant Sand/Calexico rhythm section of John Convertino and Joey Burns, The Handsome Family and Lambchop’s Mark Nevers all added their imprint.

Frustrating yet fascinating, it’s hard to think of anyone other than Gelb bold enough to release these demo-like recordings. You’ll be glad that he did.

When we last heard from Yo La Tengo, on 2000’s And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out, the dependably marvellous Hoboken trio were contemplating the minutiae of long-term relationships. These were songs that mapped the vagaries of love from an adult perspective, with correspondingly subtle music. That sounded almost unbearably intimate, like the aftermath of fights being piped direct from bedrooms in the middle of the night.

On Summer Sun?originally known as Beach Blanket Bingo?the disorientation may be caused by heat haze rather than sleepiness, but the effect is the same. Yo La Tengo have spent 17 years experimenting with an eclectic sound palette, drawing on a voracious love of music, and being pigeonholed as a correlative to the New York traditions of the Velvets and Sonic Youth. Now, though, they seem happiest unifying their influences into a gauzy, understated art-pop.

Everything happens gently and absorbingly on Summer Sun. Where once Ira Kaplan would use his guitar to rip his songs apart, to trigger explosions, now his experiments are remarkable for their discretion, with space his main weapon rather than noise. The fluttery underwater textures of last year’s low-key instrumental album, The Sounds Of The Sounds Of Science, remain in the mix, and the free-jazz players who backed them on the recent “Nuclear War” single are still around. But on the likes of “Beach Party Tonight” and “Season Of The Shark”, they’re aligned to muted beat group dynamics. Only at the end does the mist lift to reveal Georgia Hubley singing Big Star’s “Take Care” with Alex Chilton’s trepidation intact. From the edge of the sea, back to the fringes of sleep, Summer Sun is uncommonly lovely.

On her first solo outing, the 2000 EP Waltzie, former Whiskeytown fiddler Cary distanced herself somewhat from her former band’s alt.country sound by coming on like a modern Sandy Denny, to fine effect. Her second full album is closer to contemporary Americana. Though attempts at Amy Rigby territory ring hollow, a couple of country weepies bear redemptive powers. And when a clarinet solo brightens “I Want to Learn to Waltz,” one’s struck by how ripe for expansion country-rock’s framework remains.

With this, the sixth and apparently final LP in what now appears to have been a concept-career, Detroit’s ICP deliver their finest, funniest material yet. Their comic ultraviolence reaching a beastly new peak, they threaten unbelievers with axes, knives and shotguns?they’ll even “bitch slap cow licks into your hair”. Yet there are also sombre reflections on death and heaven (this is where the concept comes in) so, with the music a brilliantly produced collage of SFX, funk and metal, The Wraith adds up to a thrilling, thought-provoking experience.