Former boxer 50 Cent already has a bloody history, having been stabbed in his studio in 2000 and shortly afterwards shot nine times while sitting in a parked car.

There’s no sense of community on this unapologetic throwback to straight-assed songs about guns, girls and drugs which has already sold nearly a million copies in America.

Musically, the standout is the Dr Dre-produced “In Da Club,” which, with its grim, joyless concentration on pleasure echoed by the death knell of its orchestral sample, could be the converse of Nelly’s anthemic “Hot In Herre”.

His macho stance sits oddly with his vocal resemblance to Bill Withers (“Many Men”), though “21 Questions” suggests some vulnerability.

Since his role in Robert Altman’s The Player, Lyle Lovett has been cosy with Hollywood. Now Smile, his first album for three years, collects songs from recent movies. It is essentially Lovett as lounge singer; duetting with star guests (Randy Newman on his Toy Story song “You’ve Got A Friend In Me”) and crooning Sinatra standards (“Summer Wind”). Although Lovett is in good voice, particularly on the gospel song “Pass Me Not”, a covers album is a waste of such a literate songwriting talent. In fact, this probably serves best as a trailer for an album containing original material due in September.

Whitehouse now comprise just William Bennett and Philip Best, but the title track of what may be their finest record is a harrowing 15-minute cut-up of voices talking emotionally about child abuse, rape and murder with discreet accompaniment, assembled in Chicago by outgoing third member Peter Sotos and guest producer Steve Albini. The remaining five tracks are written and produced by Bennett, who rants splenetically and brilliantly over jacked-up 500bpm Suicide/Throbbing Gristle beats against fabricated childhoods (“Why You Never Became A Dancer”) or intones sinister litanies of self-loathing over screaming feedback drones (“Philosophy”). Brutal but deeply moral music.

Discovered by Rollo from Faithless, yet bearing a debut LP that grafts the obnoxious punk of The Libertines onto wailing Hammond organs and spoken-word stories about curiosity shops, Dave Dulake certainly stretches the imagination. Underneath the self-indulgence of “The Welcome Home Prezzie” and “Lady Beckenham”, which are no more than off-kilter skits, Dulake can be a canny songwriter. “School Ambrosia” is an unexpectedly chilling ballad of child abduction, and “Don’t Ask Me, I’m Not Even In The Band” beats The Hives at their own game.

Originally issued on Steve Earle’s US label under the banner of alt.rockers Varnaline (Earle and Twangtrust partner, Ray Kennedy, co-produce, too), Songs In A Northern Key is Parker’s broadest vision to date, touching all bases from space-folk through rustic country to belly-aching rock. Less impressive when cutting loose (“Anything From Now” and “Let It All Come Down” are sub-Sebadoh workouts), its finest moments?”Indian Summer Takedown”, “Blackbird Fields”?are subtly arresting mini-classes in bruised, troubled Americana. One step closer to major league.

In and out of bands since 1986, Holler laid down a set of tracks between 1990 and 1992 featuring Tam Johnstone (The General Store) and Rick Corcoran (later to achieve cult status with his neo-psychedelic The Orgone Box). Cast in the melodic, guitar-driven power pop mould of Cheap Trick, Dwight Twilley et al, this album effortlessly hurdles the constrictions of the genre, aspiring to earn a place in the pantheon of great British adult pop alongside Squeeze, Nick Lowe, even The Beatles. Available in shops or direct from Holler himself via www.sugarbush.u-net.com

Occupying the ground somewhere between the Delta blues and the US folk tradition, Chris Whitley has often appeared a journeyman toiling worthily in the songwriting vineyard.

Hotel Vast Horizon isn’t going to change that perception, even though no less an authority than Bruce Springsteen is a fan. It’s a thoroughly decent record that finds Whitley working acoustically with the support only of drummer Matthias Macht and bassist Heiko Schramm. The problem is that someone like Ben Harper does this sort of thing with far more panache.

“Hooligan house” is an inadequate term to describe the scope of this remarkable album from Tom Dinsdale and Simon Franks. This certainly isn’t a raved-up Oasis; rather think of the Stereo MCs cohabiting with a leaner Prodigy?hear Franks’ vocals on the opening “The Snake”?with a tinge of The Streets’ urban angst, though there’s none of Mike Skinner’s black humour here.

“100 Million” is a danceable enough start, but things turn seriously bleak with the pitiless “Way Too Long.” propelled by a brilliant sample of Elvis Costello’s guitar riff from “(I Don’t Want To Go To) Chelsea” constantly stabbing at the song like Stanley knives into the back of the singer’s neck.

Musically, the Bullys come across like the dark side of 1981: “Real Life” could almost be Cabaret Voltaire, while recent hit “We Don’t Care” could be Suggs singing Gary Numan’s “Cars”. Their use of samples is ingenious?hear what they do with Joe Cocker on “Face In A Cloud”?and sometimes poignant (the jaunty ’60s orchestral sample subverting the confusion expressed on “The Things”).

And yet their brutal beats are married to fabulous pop songs. “The Snow” is a dance monster worthy of Basement Jaxx. Primal Scream were once capable of songs like “I Go To Your House”. And the infuriatingly catchy title track, a more realistic “Parklife”, is Madness kidnapped by Fischerspooner. Then hear the dread and uncertainty expressed in the odd untitled extra track, or the sombre drug undertone to the jolly “The Snow”.

Ego War is a grey and foreboding photo of make-do-and-mend Britain in 2003, but it’s a compelling one nonetheless.

It’s been 36 years since the last Yardbirds album, Little Games, and with Keith Relf electrocuted and Jimmy Page a no-show, you’d expect a reformed unit based around guitarist Chris Dreja and drummer Jim McCarty to lack charisma. And they do. Despite guest appearances from Vai, Satriani, Slash and Brian May, they fail utterly to breathe new life into old hits like “Shapes Of Things” and Graham Gouldman’s “For Your Love”. Surprisingly, it’s the new tracks that impress more. A gnarly and bloody-minded Jeff Beck adds fire to the chaotic blues of “My Blind Life”, while the smooth prog of “Dream Within A Dream” and “The Mystery Of Being” point to a new career co-headlining with Wishbone Ash.

Twenty-one-year-old John Wells follows his killer tracks on the respected Musiq Aus Strom imprint with a lush debut that fuses sizzled beats with deep, aquatic melodies and sublime synths. An essential purchase for Autechre and Boards Of Canada fans.

Gerhard (GD Luxxe) Potuznik began making music influenced by all things Mancunian (The Fall, Joy Division, The Smiths) in the early ’80s, and has had an extensive career both as a solo artist and in collaboration with the likes of Chicks On Speed.

Twenty years on and still obsessed with “Everything’s Gone Green”-era New Order, Potuznik has created an album of dark, disjointed, disturbing electronica that still somehow manages to lift the spirit.

A remix package worked on by Adult., DMX Krew, Ectomorph and Patrick Pulsinger is also available.

Natalie and Nicole Appleton’s ‘solo’ debut sees them trying out many styles. Not all of it works (the listless rock of “Fantasy”, the bland ballad “Don’t Worry”), but tracks like “5 am” and “All Grown Up” are imaginatively produced and exude autumnal poignancy. The epic “Ring-A-Ding-Ding”, with its Eastern string flourishes, could pass as a pop flipside to the desperation of Massive Attack’s “Antistar”. And on the brilliant “Hallelujah” (Sakamoto does Chic’s “At Last I Am Free”) and the Beverley Sisters-on-acid wig-out of “MWA”, the Appletons brush their palms with genius. Keep an eye on them?they could be more than 3am Girls fodder.

Air’s soundtrack to Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides may have missed the movie’s humour in favour of the obvious melancholia, but the resulting score provided added resonance to even the most lightweight scene. Here, Air attempt to do the same for leading Italian author Alessandro Baricco, by soundtracking a reading of his western novels. The result is exactly what it says on the label. An Italian bloke talking over Air’s trademark Beck meets Bowie prog-lite. Roughly translated, that means three stories, divided into 19 tracks which are, at best, beautifully hypnotic, or, at worst, dull.

At times, this sounds like an experiment promulgated by Parlophone’s A&R department. Here, variously, is the Mockney joviality of Blur when they at least appeared happy, the production fizz of the Beta Band, and the well-adjusted emoting of Coldplay, plus some faux-West Coast gloss. It’s a cunning blend, impressive on last year’s sunny hit, “You Got The Style”. After a while, though, Athlete’s very amiability begins to grate, as does the fact that, for all their diverse influences, Vehicles And Animals is a wearyingly one-dimensional 45 minutes.

Jazz-electronica quartet Supersilent distinguish themselves from other groups in the Norwegian scene by not using sequenced set-ups as the basis for their music. Nor do they rehearse or discuss their music in advance, instead collectively improvising it in the moment. The general approach on this, their sixth album, is darkly moody, slow and hypnotic. It’s difficult to measure the success of such music, which depends on the listener’s receptivity. Those of avant-garde taste may be persuaded.

As they’ve been gigging with The Hives, D4 and The Datsuns, you may have expected The Divine Brown to be receiving awards and chart attention. However, their loud guitars and angry rhythms aren’t as easily packaged. Larry Loud’s singing may be more Sham 69 than Stooges but the band know how to write a three-minute punk anthem. Neither subtle nor original, but on songs like “Superlive 45” TDB sound like a cool, vibrant band.

Imagine you’re combing the racks of your favourite cool record store, one of those sub-High Fidelity dives with a coupla snooty geeks behind the counter and some Sun Ra covers on the wall. You’re flipping through the ’80s Hardcore section, looking for an ancient Millions Of Dead Cops LP, swimming in Raymond Pettibon graphics, when all of a sudden… What’s this? The Finger’s We Are Fuck You/Punk’s Dead Let’s Fuck? Who? What? Musta come from some boondock town in one of the “vowel states”?Ohio or Iowa. The singer’s name is Jim Beahm?a distant cousin, perchance, of Jan Paul Beahm, aka Darby Crash.

Enough already. Suffice to say this was the fantasy scenario in the minds of Jesse Malin and Ryan Adams as they killed time after working on Malin’s justly-praised The Fine Art Of Self Destruction last summer. Or so rumour has it, since both Malin and Adams legally have nowt to do with The Finger.

Presented and packaged anonymously, complete with SST-style design, We Are Fuck You/Punk’s Dead Let’s Fuck is an amusing homage to suburban US hardcore circa 1982, sounding like a hybrid of a hundred bands of the time but nothing like as pulverising as Black Flag in their prime. Most of it’s generic’core. Some of it sounds like late Ramones and some of it sounds like bad Bl

Less self-conscious and more organic than 2001 debut Indian Ink, My Elixir (recorded in a summer barn while MBICR were homeless) eschews the artsy, antsy blasts of sudden guitar squall for a more measured?though no less disturbing?trawl through gothic psychosis. Despite the sex, blades and blood-clotted imagery, the quietly propulsive banks of piano, keyboards and horns are both morbidly beautiful and utterly engrossing, fetching up somewhere between This Mortal Coil, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Movietone, while singer Emily Gray exudes all the clipped English bile of Black Box Recorder’s Sarah Nixey.

It’s odd to think of Placebo as being no longer relevant, as singer Brian Molko’s early after-the-horse-has-bolted bleatings on the subject of androgyny and bisexuality surely saw them start out as the most irrelevant band on the planet. But now there’s doubt in the Placebo camp itself, what with Muse and JJ72 upping the stakes in guitar-based melodrama. Their solution is to recruit electro-guru Jim Abbiss but, though he adds some delicious keyboard snatches and has “Something Rotten” sounding like Portishead produced by Liam Howlett, he can’t salvage much from the band’s often tedious three-chord bustlings or Molko’s lamely repetitious lyrics. Must try harder.