Chao's '98 solo debut 'Clandestino' – made following the collapse of his agit-punk band Mano Negra, after an insane three month train journey across war-torn Colombia where the band gave free concerts for local peasants - shifted four million copies worldwide to become the second biggest-selling world music album in history after Buena Vista Social Club. That album’s renegade global mix of rumba, reggae, rock, rai and rap, topped with the type of insurrectionary politics and memorable tunes seldom heard since Bob Marley, proved irresistible throughout the Spanish-speaking world. Britain, however, remained largely immune to the phenomenon, in part because Virgin initially declined even to release the album here. The follow-up, 2001's 'Proxima Estacion Esperanza', was in effect 'Clandestino Two' but since then Chao has been oddly reticent, releasing only a live album, the French side project Sibérie M'était Contée and producing the blind Malian duo Amadou & Mariam. Recorded at his home in Barcelona with additional mixing by Mario Caldato (Beastie Boys/Beck), now comes his first major statement in six years - and without wishing to push the Marley comparisons 'Exodus'. His familiar trademarks are all here - the Latin folk melodies, flamenco and other world rhythms, simulated radio patter, surreal samples and the street-protest sloganeering on tracks such as "Politic Kills". But like 'Exodus', 'La Radiolina' reaches out beyond it's core audience to a universal constituency, not so much a world music record as a global-rock mission statement. It’s all articulated in a musical Esperanto. From the galloping rockabilly-blues of the opener "13 Dias" through the frenetic energy of "Panic Panic" and the driving rock beats of "Rainin In Paradize", to the catchy, grown-up pop of "Bleeding Clown". The latter sounds tailor-made for Robbie Williams, who covered Chao's "Bongo Bong" with Lily Allen on his last album. Chao started out in Mano Negra wanting to be Joe Strummer. The two subsequently became friends and the Clash man ended up wanting to be Manu Chao. He would've loved 'La Radiolina': with its manifesto of globalista politics, maverick beats and gypsy soul, it’s what he was latterly striving for. NIGEL WILLIAMSON

Thurston Moore completists – and yes, they do exist – have their work cut out trying to track down the ageless noisenik’s complete catalogue. If he’s not recording Sonic Youth albums, he’s running his own label, or jamming with Norwegian avant jazzers, or writing sleevenotes for Dutch free improv albums, or obsessively chronicling the history of the cassette mixtape, or studying 20th century minimalism, or… well, you get the picture. So you’ll be pleasantly surprised to discover that his first solo album in 12 years is an orthodox acoustic pop record, recorded with Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley and spooky folk violinist Samara Lubelski. You’d be even more surprised to hear that it features 'songs' – proper, beautiful, well-crafted songs. Having been in the vanguard of No Wave, hardcore, Riot Grrl, grunge and avant jazz over the last 30 years, Moore now finds himself in Northampton, Massachusetts at the locus of the “New Weird America” acoustic scene. Many of its leading lights are here to lend a much-needed directness to Moore’s music: the poignant “Honest James” sees him duetting with Charalambides vocalist Christina Carter over a naked acoustic guitar; “Wonderful Witches” (Moore’s most potent slice of pop punk since “Teenage Riot”) features Sunburned Hand Of The Man’s John Moloney frenetically drumming on what sounds like a laundry basket. The folksy “Fri/End”, meanwhile, could, in a not entirely dissimilar universe, be a theme tune to “The OC” and end up as Moore’s biggest hit since “Sugar Kane”. Obviously, he can’t resist getting up to his old tricks – you’ll find some blissful tracks interrupted by shards of terrifying noise, and an eerie piano solo on “American Coffin” that sounds like Keith Jarrett playing in a toilet. The album’s final track, “Thurston@13”, is a recently unearthed home recording of a 13-year-old Moore taping himself doing silly things (“this is me throwing a nickel on the table!”) which is, effectively, what he now does for a living. Paradoxically, Trees Outside The Academy proves that Moore only truly 'rocks' when he ditches the amplification and goes acoustic. JOHN LEWIS Q&A With Thurston Moore: *Why couldn’t you do this with Sonic Youth? If I write something for Sonic Youth it becomes a Sonic Youth song. I can’t tell anyone else in the band what to play. I wanted to be undemocratic and dictatorial for a change. *Why the move from electric to acoustic guitar? I’ve always been inspired by acoustic players like Bert Jansch and Roy Harper, and wanted to do an acoustic solo record. It got a bit more expansive when I got Steve [Shelly] and violinist Samara Lubelski to complete my, er, power trio. *Was it a conscious decision to go “pop”? I think our last album with Jim O’Rourke – Sonic Nurse – took us as far as we could in terms of improvisation and noise. I thought it might be radical to step back and go avant pop! Everyone loves Blondie, don’t they? And if you don’t accept Blondie then you’re just a noise poseur…

Like their pals, Arctic Monkeys, Reverend And The Makers are another Sheffield sensation whose rise was precipitated by word-of-mouth wonder and MP3 demo sharing, leading to the band – a vehicle for 25-year-old manic street preacher and local hero Jon McClure – selling out a 1,000-capacity hometown venue long before they'd signed a deal. McClure, an agreeably unhinged frontman and nifty wordsmith, spins colourful tales of humdrum living in his South Yorkshire accent. His ear for detail and provocative delivery recall veteran Manchester punk-poet John Cooper Clarke, who, it turns out, is McClure's mentor. While McClure's message is essentially the same as Alex Turner's – McClure tends to be more sympathetic towards his hapless characters – Reverend And The Makers' medium is, perhaps surprisingly, groovy electro-funk with a gleaming pop sheen. If you've heard the Makers' hit, anthemic rat race rant "Heavyweight Champion Of The World", you'll know their blend of Black Grape boogie and Kaiser Chiefs-sized choruses is a boisterous no-brainer. Like a disco medley of Little Britain sketches, this floor-filling formula is repeated a number of times on 'The State Of Things': on "He Said He Loved Me" (about unwanted pregnancy), "Bandits" (fruit machine scammers), and "The Machine" (daily office drift). So far, so Carter USM, but what keeps the album sounding alive is the sheer force of McClure's personality. In each song there's a sparkling line or two. "Once he'd been in your knickers, the rows and the bickers didn't matter so much anymore", he sings on "Sex With The Ex", later remembering, "A chance encounter with one I love so dearly… A free ride on a guilt trip". Even the rotten cod-reggae of "Sundown On The Empire" becomes tolerable. Ultimately, the record is a tribute to McClure's charisma and unswerving self-belief. A pop star who doesn't mind looking a bit stupid is always good to have around. PIERS MARTIN

The Thatcher-loving ex-squaddie, who had the temerity to become the biggest artist on the planet without ever garnering a scrap of approval from Her Majesty’s Music Press, is unlikely to win over the more cynical listener with album number two. It’s not, however, as bad as you’d think. The songs, co-written with reliable journeymen like Max Martin, are well-crafted ‘70s rock pastiches, recalling, variously, Elton John (“1973”), Gilbert O’Sullivan (“One Of The Brightest Stars”), and Wings (“Give Me Some Love”). The drawback, as ever, is Blunt’s warbly, whining, strangled voice, which sounds increasingly like a bad Weird Al Yankovic parody. JOHN LEWIS