Plucked from the apparently boundless archives of esoterica, Quantum is an unreleased “journey through sound in two parts” recorded in the early ’70s by soundtrack composer and avant-jazzbo Kirchin. While not quite the consciousness-reshaping phantasmagoria promised by the sleevenotes, it’s certainly absorbing?a soundspace where primitive industrialism, spliced-tape ambience, random babble, wandering improvisers like Evan Parker and field recordings of geese meet and merge. More curiously, it gets weirder with each listen, as the noises become fleetingly, if unreliably, recognisable: is that a dog duetting with the xylophone 15 minutes into “Part One”, or a malfunctioning toilet? Devious stuff indeed.

Up All Night is a continuation of the direction set on Scofield’s previous album,

Founded by Roop, who first emerged on the scene during the acid house years, the Urban Dub collective draw on a righteous and ragged mix of rave, techno, reggae and, distantly, jazz and the avant-garde via their classically-trained saxophonist Marjorie Paris. Explicitly anti-capitalist and arising from squat culture, this is not the dog-on-a-string’s breakfast you might fear. Rather, it’s a series of mighty, mighty detonations combining nuclear dub with a contagiously joyful inventiveness that blows back and forth through every track here. Utterly recommended?go to their website, www.urbandub.com, for more info.

Similar to fellow LA singer-songwriter Warren Zevon in his penchant for shadowy narratives of espionage, foreign policy and unwise excess, Ridgway has if anything an even less prepossessing voice, and self-produces using tinny, cut-price synths. The sleazy Burroughsian rou

Forever changes is one of those ‘classic’ albums that should have dated but hasn’t. Heavy-handedly paranoid, the product of a rock/soul miscegenation, quaintly baroque in its orch-pop/mariachi instrumentation, Love’s third album might easily have gone the way of Days Of Future Passed or other prog/psych/folk abominations.

That the album has endured is proof, to these ears, of pop’s miraculous serendipity. Here was a motley crew of vaguely sinister Sunset Strip hippies that really did just happen to be in the right place at the right time. The right band, in other words, to document life at the cusp of the psychedelic south California adventure. Nothing Arthur Lee has done subsequently suggests he was born to do anything more than that.

The obvious question about Forever Changes Live, recorded at London’s Royal Festival Hall last January, is: why? What can this give us that the original doesn’t? The only differences are negligibly negative: Lee’s voice now has a burry edge that, on “A House Is Not A Motel” or “Bummer In The Summer”, makes him sound like Paul Weller. Both “Alone Again Or” and “Old Man” seem to require the more dulcet tones of their author, the late Bryan Maclean.

The other question is: now that ‘classic’?and even never-released?albums by lost/damaged geniuses (Brian Wilson, Arthur Lee) are being given the full concert hall treatment, how many other cult opuses will be reconfigured for our edification? As fellow Uncut scribe Ian MacDonald writes in his new collection, The People’s Music, nostalgia has become an industry.

“The forward-looking fascination with things to come,” he writes, “and its consequent wish to make music with the language of today but the sound of tomorrow, has dwindled away.”

Perhaps Forever doesn’t Change after all.

The Zephyrs’ desolate sound describes their war-torn history. First Scottish label Southpaw folded the same week it released their last album. Then a literal-minded rock revival forced their soporific sea shanties off the radar. Now signed to Setanta, things are looking up for the Edinburgh-based quintet who, with this third album, have created an unhurried portrait of emotional disquiet. The outstanding “Go Slow” canters buoyantly home on a country guitar and organ loop while “One Year Many Mistakes” (with vocals by Arab Strap associate Adele Bethel) is so modestly evocative that the lyrics about stained coffee cups and seaside abodes almost seem overstated.

Comprising Dean Honer, half of the All Seeing I, and Jarrod Gosling, I Monster provide us with an intermittently inspired album of warped electro-MOR. The memorable creepiness of “Daydream In Blue” is reproduced on unsettling tracks like “Sunny Delights.” “Hey Misses” suggests a pact between Tahiti 80 and My Computer, while ballads “Heaven” and “Who Is She?” conjure up the spectre of Joe Meek communicating by ouija board. If the air of camp (“Backseat Of My Car” is low-rent Miss Kittin, “Stobart’s Blues” is bad Chemical Brothers) prevents this from being anything beyond Carry On Vulnerabilia, there’s still-enough blood here to keep you interested.

Following the promise of last year’s mini LP The King Will Build A Disco, TBFB’s nefariously enchanted pot of country, weird pop and deconstructed folk remains a heady brew. With the Folk Orchestra’s Timothy Victor at the controls, and Samantha (Be Good Tanyas) Parton guesting on “Devil In The Details”, this carries the same strain of bastardised rural tradition as labelmates Candidate, a sexual twistedness akin to Lyndon Morgans’ Songdog (“Don’t Leave That Woman Unattended”; “Hitting Women”) and wordplay reminiscent of Stephen Malkmus. Daubs of pedal-steel and banjo add allure. File somewhere between Pavement and the prairie.

BEATIN’ THE HEAT

Arena Rock are currently reviving US indie with a slew of rainbow-hued rock groups, and the label’s loopiest hopefuls are Mink Lungs. This experimental psych-pop quartet merge post-punk guitars with growled cartoon vocals on this, their second album. “Men In Belted Sweaters” is joyous punk frippery while “Sad Song Of Birds” moves into mock-mournful, country-inspired territory. The result is as eccentric as an Edward Lear illustration.

But without the strong melodies or metaphysical beauty of The Flaming Lips, it borders on being novelty rock.

They may hail from Lowestoft, but The Darkness are Britain’s most triumphantly OTT rock band. The four-piece?who have in Justin Hawkins a falsetto-favouring frontman of awesome capability?tap into a genre so time-honoured it’s positively Pleistocene and, although their debut is an unashamed composite of AC/DC, Van Halen, Bon Jovi, Thin Lizzy, Kiss and Cheap Trick, it’s no less effective for that. The Darkness are genuinely in thrall to the power of stadium rock in all its bombastic, unreconstructed glory, and that they recreate it without recourse to irony is a testament to their talent. Silly? Quite possibly, but staggeringly skillful, and a strangely touching expression of unbridled joy.

Ocean Colour Scene are inextricably linked to a mid-’90s era which now seems hideously pass

In the current garage-rock feeding frenzy, The Star Spangles, though no doubt signed as Strokes knock-offs, have honestly raucous intent. Co-produced by Daniel Ray (The Ramones) and fitting in a Wayne Kramer/Johnny Thunders cover, they have natural, swinging guitar punch, sometimes forced down such tight sonic channels that they roar. But with strictly 1978 sleeve and clothes, and no new ideas, they just don’t matter like their models did.

Initially introduced to the world via Stereolab’s Duophonic label, Broadcast have perhaps benefited from their relative cultural isolation (they’re based in Birmingham) to cultivate a brand of avant-indietronica that is truly unique. Broadcast deploy an arsenal of electronic devices both antique and modern to complement and scar Trish Keenan’s often unnervingly childlike vocals. In a world supersaturated with electronica, Broadcast are nonetheless bold, rare and crucial.

On their seventh album, DJ Premier and rapper Guru have the amoral, musically simplistic idols of hip hop in their sights. The self-explanatory “Put Up Or Shut Up” delivers a killer blow; elsewhere literate, dizzying verbal sucker punches leave their opponents reeling. Best of all are Premier’s inventive backing tracks, hotwired with weird strings, unexpected piano and horn riffs, allowing Guru’s superior patter to rain down righteously. All told, a class act still in their prime.

With their hearts exhibited loftily on their sleeves, no one could accuse Longview of being dead inside. Yet underpinning the vulnerable, Red House Painters-inspired veneer of songs like fine single “Further” is an enduring worldliness that recalls U2 or Elbow. While cascading guitar chords and plaintive strings soar skywards, the lyrics repeatedly posit the idea that love is akin to collapse. This simple conceit is used to devastating effect on the drowsy, love-drunk ballad “Falling For You”. Frontman Rob McVey unravels a tumbling vocal style which apprehends the giddy uncertainty of romance in its infancy. Soft-coloured but deeply stirring music.

Glossy, glamorous Pete Yorn and his model good looks tested the bottled waters of the Hollywood star circuit with his debut disc Music For The Morning After, accompanied by a celebrity-fuelled fan club. His powered-up pop-rock style fits his image, and he name-drops so many famous folks he’s obviously banking on his connections. Songs like “Crystal Village” and “Committed” are literate, polished efforts, but Luddites who prefer a bit of hard graft might smell a marketing rat.

Dizzee Rascal is the best rapper this country’s ever produced, period. His words are as sharp as prime Tricky, his delivery sharper; he’s got bags more personality than anybody in the British rap scene. These local comparisons add up to faint praise, though, so how about this: 18-year-old, East London-bred Dizzee Rascal is as good as any MC currently active on Earth.

Every UK garage MC brags about how his style’s unique, and virtually every MC does it using the same flow and timbre. But Dizzee really does sound “identical to none”, from his blurting, jagged phrasing to his frayed, edge-of-losing-it grain (like he’s on the brink of lashing out, or sobbing, or both simultaneously). Better still, he’s got something to say as well as a unique way of saying it. Too much, maybe: listening to his torrential wordflow, you feel like his head’s surely set to EXPLODE. When he spits that he’s “vexed at humanity/Vexed at the earth”, you can hear the ingrown cyst-like rage of a generation for whom social-political deadlock is just “standard business”, kids who’ve never seen in their own lifetime so much as a glint that change is possible.

Boy In Da Corner is bookended by “Sittin’ Here” and “Do It”, two songs that open up whole new emotional terrain for garage rap (and that sound bizarrely like Japan circa “Ghosts”/Sylvian-Sakamoto). Dizzee is voicing the fragility and doubt underneath the thug’s invincibility complex, the tenderness behind the you-can’t-touch-me/you-can’t-stop-me armour. “Sittin’ Here” features Dizzee as the painfully acute observer: “I watch every detail/I watch so hard I’m scared my eyes might fail.” Those eyes have seen too much in too few years: on “Do It” Dizzee mourns how “everyone’s growing up too fast” and confesses “sometimes I wake up/Wishing I could sleep forever.”

This ain’t exactly So Solid Crew, then. Oh, Dizzee’s got few peers when it comes to boasts and threats, slaying rivals who wanna test him with a murderous exuberance: “Flushing MCs down the loo/If you don’t believe me bring your posse and your crew.” But it’s not the gun talk that’s the draw, it’s the vulnerability that peeks out, exposing the hard’n’ heartless posture of every mannish boy as desperate sham.

Gotta mention the music, which is self-produced (Dizzee’s like Dre’n’ Eminem in one body) and stunning. This is a totally post-garage sound that draws on beat-science from ragga, electro, gangsta and gabba. (And, on the uproarious “Jus’ A Rascal”, opera and Sepultura-style thrash-metal!) The result is as angular and futuristic as any German weirdtronica, as shake-your-ass “dutty” as Southern bounce, as aggressive as punk.

On which subject, it turns out that Dizzee’s a Nirvana fan?especially the ultra-gnarly In Utero. It may only have creased the outer edge of the UK Top 30 but his savage war-of-the-sexes single “I Luv U” is a “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for the new millennium.

In summation: Boy In Da Corner is a front-runner for this year’s Mercury (yeah, right?big deal). Mike Skinner should be shitting his pants. So should everyone else. Because next to Dizzee Rascal everybody looks pale, uninteresting, and irrelevant.

Always renowned for his showbiz trappings, the great Todd treated his Japanese fans to a greatest-hits-plus Utopia-style set, with a side order of zen archery and go-go girls. The sights, sounds and smells of his labours are well captured here with faves like “Real Man”, “Can We Still Be Friends?” and “Hello, It’s Me” jammed up against class-A rockery like “The Want Of A Nail” and the punked-out “Love In Action.” Our own Paul Lester pens an illuminating note to go with a sleek package. Toddtastic, as per.

It’s safe to say The Wind is the most highly anticipated new album of Warren Zevon’s 37-year career. With the grievous news last summer that Zevon’s days were numbered due to inoperable lung cancer, and subsequent outpouring of love and respect for him by his peers (from Bruce Springsteen, Dwight Yoakam, Jackson Browne and Emmylou Harris to Ry Cooder, David Lindley and Jim Keltner, all of whom play supporting roles here), Zevon’s presumed swan song has been the subject of unprecedented speculation, not a little heartache, and perhaps some concern that too many cooks would spoil the broth. Or worse, that Zevon would not have time to finish the record.

Those worries were unfounded. Zevon has done, if not the impossible, then the unlikely. Under the direst circumstances, he has painted his masterpiece. His high-profile guests play respectful, if pivotal, roles, giving a remarkable set of songs the kind of density and attention to detail they need. Yet the record feels loose, full of camaraderie and little revelations. And a lot of smiles.

The backdrop, of course, is mortality?the artist’s, inevitably, but really everyone’s?but then that’s nothing new; Zevon’s last two records dealt directly, unflinchingly, with such matters. But, in typical Zevonian fashion, the songs here mix unbearable poignancy with crazed humour, the spectre of the gallows with the prospect of an all-night party.

On opener “My Dirty Life And Times”, autobiography begets self-mythology begets, finally, a kind of Zen-like reconciliation?the wild-eyed, vodka-swilling thirtysomething LA-noir songwriter coming face to face with the older, wiser family man of later years. It’s a perfect opener, full of wry wordplay and featuring Yoakam’s hillbilly backing vocals and a bit of The Carter Family’s “Wildwood Flower” in its timeworn melody.

As Zevon himself would probably tell you, everything’s a matter of tone, and the man is in perfect form here. Echoing his growling aside of “Draw blood!” on the fade-out of his 1978 hit “Werewolves Of London,” Zevon resurrects that little stylistic bent on several cuts. “Here we go, hit me harder,” he demonically exhorts on “Disorder In The House,” as Springsteen reels out a blistering guitar solo. “Can I get a witness, hey!” he shouts, as “Numb As A Statue” kicks into overdrive. But when it comes time for more heart-rending material, Zevon’s singing becomes sweeter than a hummingbird in spring.

“There’s subtext all over the place,” Ry Cooder says about the recording sessions, and it’s hard to escape, no matter where you are among the disc’s 11 cuts. Even on seemingly mindless party anthem “The Rest Of The Night”, a throwaway line like “We may never get this chance again” leaves its mark. On the hard-scrabble Chicago blues “Rub Me Raw,” feelings are much closer to the surface. Powered by Joe Walsh’s slide guitar, Zevon spits out a venomous catalogue of images that would make Howlin’ Wolf do a double take: “This goat-head gumbo is keeping me alive,” he growls.

Zevon has structured The Wind in such a way that you can take from the songs what you will. On its surface, it sounds like just another collection of smart Zevon rock’n’roll, a nice mix of rabble-rousing rockers and vulnerable ballads. But linger too long on one lyric and you’ll start to tear up. He balances precariously between the personal and the universal throughout, yet this is no stuffy, sentimental goodbye. Laugh-out-loud lines abound, yet the sorrowful undertow is unmistakable. “I’m on the periphery of a lot of despair,” he told The New York Times last autumn, “but at the same time, the songs have never come like this.”

It’s a mark of the strength of Zevon’s writing that a nicely textured cover of Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door,” strong as it is (“Open up, open up for me,” he pleads as the melody melts into a wall of guitars) fades to the back of the pack. Instead, two of the record’s undeniable highlights are four-to-the-floor rockers. “Disorder In The House” is loose as hell, fuelled by Chuck Berry rhythms and Springsteen’s paint-peeling guitar. It finds Zevon waxing apoplectic (“There’s zombies on the lawn, staggering around,” he intones), cataloguing in typically peculiar fashion the entropic deterioration surrounding him. “Numb As A Statue” is less of a bull in a china shop, but no less affecting. Riding a bouncy, piano-driven melody and a delicious David Lindley signature guitar figure, this song surely captures Zevon’s predicament in the most graceful of terms. It’ll have you singing along?”I’m going to beg, borrow and steal/Some feelings from you/I’m going to beg, borrow and steal/So I can have some feelings too”?before the absurdity of its sentiments sink in.

Zevon gets down to ominous cases with four ballads that subtly infiltrate the album’s second half. Regret, longing, benediction, and, finally, on “Keep Me In Your Heart”, a remarkably lucid vision of the effects of his death on his loved ones, leaven the album with a bittersweet fragility. “Please stay, please stay/Two words I thought I’d never learn to say,” Zevon pleads on the de facto title song. With Emmylou Harris’ floating harmony and perhaps Zevon’s most measured singing ever, this is searing audio-v