Ten years ago, Dirty Three established a uniquely formidable sound. Brooding, emotionally wrought instrumentals that drew on Celtic folk and gothic gloom via feedback-drenched menace. They haven’t deviated much since, but this album shows their idiosyncrasies are still intact. Mood-wise it’s their bleakest yet, with their turbulent ebb and flow unleashing both joy and sorrow. Even when apparently serene, that wound-coil tension is palpable. This makes Godspeed You! Black Emperor sound about as intense as Gomez.

Little Feat aficionados are the sort to have scoured the globe for bootlegs, so will enjoy these collections of rare ’70s material. Raw Tomatos is the pick of the vine since it includes original Lowell George items like “Crack In Your Door”, a superbly sparse “Fat Man In The Bathtub” and a funked-up “Strawberry Flats”. The live Ripe brace may be more familiar, although it’s worth picking up on for terrific versions of old Feat classics like “Teenage Nervous Breakdown”, “Dixie Chicken” and the timeless “Apolitical Blues”. The quality control includes decent liners and updated Neon Park artwork for good measure.

Ital house has a cheesy, chequered past. But with Spiller, Jolly Music and now Stylophonic, it’s finally getting good again. Here Parisian filter funk and NY hip hop are twisted into loop-da-loop thrills that combine messy hedonism with pristine precision. There are occasional flirtations with acid jazz, but more plentiful are the familiar ’80s synth sounds, creating a sense of fresh urgency. Fontana has an assured touch. All he lacks are the gargantuan confidence and guile of Daft Punk.

Like Fennesz and Four Tet, Julien Locquet (aka Dorine_Muraille) takes folk-inflected acoustic melodies and scrambles them through his laptop to create digital pastorales. Unlike them, however, Locquet seems to have a conflicted attitude towards the prettiness of his sources.

On Mani, his British debut, he stretches chansons with impressive rigour. Guitar and piano passages are deconstructed in a way that evokes millions of ants shredding a carcass very quickly.

The results are messy, then, but also technically dazzling and often beautiful in spite of Locquet’s frenetic micro-edits.

He’d benefit from calming down a little, nevertheless.

Average song length: two minutes, but the staccato post-punk of Spoon’s own work is retuned by Crewe into clipped, neurotic sexual and verbal aggression more akin to new wavers like Joe Jackson, and even new wave of new wavers like Sleeper (who are lyrically quoted).

Sneeringly in control when not running into trouble or falling apart, Crewe’s persona is inspiring and insulting.

Fresh, frisky pop for mature, modern girls and boys.

In a classic global-village journey, young Chilean dance student Alejandra Iglesias fell in love with vintage electro sounds and eventually wound up as a DJ in New York City, spinning under the name Dinky. Already a couple of years into a fully-fledged recording career, she turns out a seamless blend of techno, contemporary electroclash, and Kraftwerk-loving retro.

Spare, sparkling and danceable, Black Cabaret is the soundtrack to the minds of the electro-minions that scour eBay for the keywords “minimalist synth”.

“People look at me wrong, because I’m so different,” says Ms Jade at one point. More likely, they’re wondering where they’ve heard her before. Timbaland’s new prot

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Clocking off at a fighting-fit 21 minutes, with a sequel promised soon, Raveonettes mastermind Sune Rose Wagner and accomplice Sharin Foo come on like a rockabilly Jesus And Mary Chain. Minor guitar chords clang gloomily through overloaded, feedbacking tracks as Wagner moans dissolutely. The pastiche garage-punk field is crammed, and the Reids’ life or death fury can’t be faked. But while it’s on, it works.

John Fahey’s reputation rests on his’60s recordings, elaborate explorations of acoustic folk/blues that erased distinctions between roots music and the avant garde. By the ’90s, however, Fahey had become disgruntled with his legacy. He switched to electric guitar, dabbled in industrial murk and seemed studiously indelicate. Red Cross, finished just before his death in 2001, marks a surprising reconciliation with his old style. Fahey’s playing remains hesitant, but for contemplative rather than alienating ends, as he turns uptown standards by Irving Berlin and the Gershwins into spectral, rustic laments. A bewitching last testament.

Perhaps because he lacks the proper bad-boy image, Tim Easton has yet to be recognised as the rightful heir to the roots-rock throne occupied by Ryan Adams. Easton’s introspective troubadour-ing and alt.country mystique speaks to the same demographic, but his lyricism is more oblique, shying away from big statements in favour of small surprises. Two of the best songs here are by Burn Barrel’s JP Olsen, whose compositional presence says as much about Easton’s respect for his roots as it does about Olsen’s top-notch writing.

They may hail from Illinois, but this quartet containing two brothers and their sister owes allegiance to every strain of Britpop from The Stone Roses to early Radiohead. Atmosphere is everything, as provided by waves of echoing guitars and shimmering vistas of keyboard. Sixties influences are filtered through a late-’80s shoegazing sensibility, eliminating overtly derivative elements. The male-female vocal blend floats ethereally atop their grand art-pop tableaux, but things never get too airy for the occasional grungey power chord.

Both Jim Krewson and Jennie Benford were raised in tradition-steeped communities (in Pennsylvania and Vermont respectively), rebelling into punk before reconnecting with roots years later. Their third album smudges the boundaries of bluegrass and old-time (fixin’ a party between Scruggs-style, three-finger banjo and orthodox clawhammer) to strike a picture of high’n’ lonesome authenticity. Aided by the Pinetops’ propulsively rhythmic playing, the marriage of Benford’s clear mountain preen and Krewson’s hickory yelp is life-enhancing. This music resonates stronger today than at any time since its Newport revival heyday.

Hailing from the same US stable as The Mendoza Line, the Austin, Texas quartet Shearwater embrace a drowsier strain of melancholy on their second LP?all shuffling shades of piano, picked guitar and stings. Producer Brian (Daniel Johnston) Beattie filters just enough light to ward off any impending claustrophobia, while the contrast between ardent ornithology student Jonathan Meiburg’s falsetto and Okkervil River moonlighter Will Robinson Sheff’s upbeat crackle adds a subtle duality. Initially intended as a tongue-in-cheek paean to failure, they’ve scored big in the soundtrack-to-rainy-Sundays stakes. Damn it.

Double disc of remixes from Miles’ last album, featuring big names like The Future Sound Of London and Si Begg working alongside two lucky unknowns?Kuzu and Fissure?who beat another 738 wannabes in a competition to remix Miles’ work.

An animated kiddies’ thing which, to my untrained eye, looks scarily like Rugrats, this is set in the African wilderness. And has elephants in it. So you don’t need to trouble your inner genius to work out that Peter Gabriel, Youssou N’Dour and Paul Simon will feature. “Father And Daughter” is the latter’s first song for a film in 15 years, and he can still turn a lyric and craft a tune like an unlikely deft demi-god. He can even mumble “trust your intuition, it’s just like goin’fishin'” and sound wry. It’s no “Mrs Robinson” but it’s warm as a puma’s gums. The Pretenders and P Diddy stand up smartly, too.

New Yorker Carter Burwell scored Velvet Goldmine, which would be a coincidence (see above) if I didn’t diligently plan these things ahead. He’s also done most of the Coens’ movies and, as he beautified Being John Malkovich, lands the return gig on the new Jonze-Kaufman headfuck. His new-school, indie sensibilities show from the dark opening title piece (remixed by Fatboy Slim), and he relishes working with titles like “The Slough Pit Of Creation” and “The Unexpressed Expressed” (who wouldn’t?). The Turtles’ “Happy Together” closes, but that may be a rare example of Americans embracing that ‘irony’ thing. Confessions of a dangerous mind that glower with greatness.

Like everyone else, if I crave the society of other adults, I’ll have to pretend this is abhorrent. (Really, it’s just so-so). Yet, if the Beeb had had the balls to spotlight the rebels in the camp instead of pushing the show into a karaoke niche none of the kids fancied, it could’ve been more grotesquely compelling than Big Brother’s Jade in her porcine pomp. Ainslie, for one, had it in him to be an irritating iconoclast of some pluck, and even the toothsome David was drunkenly bitching like a trouper till he twigged he was actually going to win the thing and played safe. A chance for a postmodern Network was fudged. Oh, here they all sing Beatles and Motown songs, of course.