This is an early contender for 2003 summer album. More or less halfway between Air and Daft Punk, Wizman and Errera provide us with glorious, single-length house anthems like the Moroder-sampling “Each Finger Has An Attitude” and “Men Are Not Nice Guys” as well as ingeniously arranged tunes like “Slap Bass” with its manic tubular bells and decelerating middle section. Ron and Russell Mael from Sparks drop by to lend a hand to two tracks: the touching “La Nuit Est La” (the techno ballad 10cc might have written) and the berserk “Yo Quiero M

In title alone this is much more downcast than their 2001 debut Chuck Berry Vs IBM, and with good reason. The death of Venus Ray drummer Steve Smith midway through recording turned this otherwise confident successor into an involuntary epitaph. Maybe it’s coincidence but there’s definitely something hauntingly melancholic about the Pavement-ish opener “Melody” or the gentle, soporific “Sunglasses”. At least Smith went out rocking, drumming up a storm on “Hurricane”, typical of their Big Star-meets-Joe Meek soundclash.

A faintly preposterous man, much of Topher “Gold Chains” LaFata’s music concerns the international pursuit of well-dressed booty. In a way, he’s a classic hip hop reinvention: a computer geek rebranded as globe-straddling love-magnet who raps, a touch emphysemically, like Tone Loc. Nothing on Young Miss America quite matches GC’s superb first two EPs. Nevertheless, he and producer Kit Clayton still filter R&B, techno, Bollywood, electro and much else through their laptops, and the elaborate raps?more serious than they first appear?make for an inventive debut.

This follow-up to 2000’s Mercury-nominated Sincere once more sees classically-trained producer MJ Cole (Matt Coleman) calling on special guests to help produce a UK garage album that people too old for Ayia Napa can buy. The finest contribution is from Jill Scott on the soulful “Perfect Pitch”, although clearly-barking dancehall star Elephant Man is great on “Madman”. Unfortunately, Cole’s production is so smooth that the album does occasionally slip off the coffee table and into wallpaper territory.

“Excuse me while I go insane,” pleads D’Arby on “Drivin’ Me Crazy”, but sadly he hasn’t gone insane here?TTD was always at his best when he gave free rein to his manias. He may now call himself Sananda Maitreya, but the name D’Arby is printed large on the cover, indicating a crisis of confidence.

There are infuriatingly large numbers of interesting ideas on this album, particularly on tracks like “Girl” and “My Dark Places” which touch on idyllic avant-psychedelia, but repeatedly his rasping ‘soul’ voice brings the project crashing back to earth. “O Divina” and the Bond-like “Shadows” may be potential hit singles, but what the album really needs is a Trevor Horn or a Neptune to elevate D’Arby beyond the status of Prince-lite to the realms of the satisfyingly peculiar or truly strange.

Finnish bands: always a good idea. They like their rock’n’roll, but they’re also a bit mad. Excitedly celebrating their record collections, the Stukas hit the ground running with a vigorous mix of Cochran and Holly, ’60s pop, ’70s Sweet, 12-bar a-go-go and a closing epic dressed in Suede. Realistically, there’s little need for the preposterous whistling solos, the sudden falsettos, the bursts of strings, the howling dogs and the maniacal laughter that arise throughout this likeable kicking-up of heels, but it comes with the turf. The Screamin’ Stukas are fun, and funny, and, naturally, “everything’s all right”. So that’s OK, then.

Formed from the ashes of bluesy experimentalists Red Red Meat, Califone’s earliest incarnation saw singer Tim Rutili knocking out ditties on an Apple Mac. After a couple of self-titled EPs, their first full-lengther?2001’s Roomsound?was built around the sequenced beats, found sounds and fuggy rock dynamic of Rutili, Ben Massarella and Brian Deck, along with a revolving door of like-minded cohorts from Tortoise, Eleventh Dream Day and Fruitbats.

Quicksand/Cradlesnakes, again recorded at their own Clava Studios, raises further the tension between Roomsound’s old-time American folk and high-tech sleight of hand. At the heart of Califone’s sound is Massarella’s wildly inventive percussion, teasing improvised studio tics, hisses of static and arcane blips of noise into slowly rolling rhythms. Amid the weird loops and bowed bass thrumming like giant elastic bands, Rutili’s voice sounds dredged from the same rustic creek as Will Oldham. There are brushes with conventionality (a deep-bottomed swamp riff on the Delta bluesy “Mean Little Seed”; the strange back-porch mutation of “Stepdaughter”), but even these are thrillingly opaque. There’s plenty of beauty, too. The transfixing acoustic throb of “(Red)” and “Michigan Girls”, for instance, or the way “Horoscopic.Amputation. Honey” twists pinpricks of noise into lovely patterns.

The addition of multi-instrumentalist and walking country-folk oracle Jim Becker on mandolin, banjo and fiddle adds authenticity, particularly on the rakish “Million Dollar Funeral”. Good luck decoding Rutili’s elliptical imagery (“Early minor Japanese pitcher sidearm slow tic/A wolfish mouth/On a mouse-ish face lady from Shanghai third man/Shot wild in the house of mirrors” is one of the clearer passages), but hell, just sit back and admire titles like “When Leon Spinks Moved Into Town” and “Your Golden Ass”. This is one glorious murk.

If Gillian Welch floats your boat, chances are Laura Veirs will, too, though her take on homespun Appalachia is tempered by modernist tendencies. Anyone familiar with 1999’s eponymous guitar-and-voice-only debut will be taken aback here, ditching much of its thorny agit-folk for dreamily intoxicating balladry, sawing strings and near-perfect vocal phrasing. Opener “Lost At Seaflower Cove” and “Tiger Tattoos” are flawless backwoods country pickers, while Danny Barnes (see Roundup, right) duets on the folksy “Ballad Of John Vogelin” and jazz legend/sometime Jeff Buckley collaborator Bill Frisell provides classy fretwork. Scintillating stuff.

It’s now two years since the British music press took leave of its senses in praise of The Strokes-a band whose only mistake was being merely very good when their excessively enthusiastic champions had us believe they were the saviours of rock’n’roll. Like the belated lionisation of The White Stripes that same year, the climate The Strokes instilled?a sometimes desperate reliance on the US underground as the source of hitherto untapped rock’n’roll thrills?seems to have endured.

Which is why, after last year’s introductory self-titled EP (five cuts of sparse, sassy, twangy power-punk) and its equally brilliant follow-up single “Machine”, this first album from fellow New Yorkers the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is already the most eagerly anticipated debut of 2003. The danger of such hype, of course, is that, like The Strokes, people can expect too much.

There’s nothing shockingly new about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs formula; it’s a fairly minimalist bass-free set-up of vocals (the enigmatic Karen O, somewhere between Polly Harvey and Poly Styrene), one guitar (Nick Zinner, somewhere between Link Wray and Jon Spencer) and drums (Brian Chase, somewhere between Art Blakey and Topper Headon).

And yet, in the cold sober light of day, every hysterical column inch already thrust upon them, including Uncut’s own pledge last summer that “the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are going to be COLOSSAL”, seems justified. Reason being that Fever To Tell is, quite simply, magnificent.

Twelve tracks and not a filler among them, Fever To Tell moves with calculated stealth. The first six songs alone cumulatively rival the opening halves of Nirvana’s Nevermind and The Pixies’ Surfer Rosa in terms of punk-guitar savagery, rhythmic brutality and lyrical audacity. Zinner’s riffs are from classic rock’n’roll stock but never sound second-hand (new single “Date With The Night” and “Black Tongue” twang like Dick Dale twang genius) while the echoing harmonic bleeps heralding “Rich” and “Y-Control” are inspired. But the real joy, and surprise, is Karen O, who exceeds all “new Courtney” press tags to emerge by the end of Fever To Tell as the most electrifying female voice since Polly Harvey. One moment she’s gorgeously provocative (“Boy you’re just a stupid bitch and girl you’re just a no-good dick!”), the next she’s a gibbering harpy hyperventilating through “Tick”.

The crunch comes with the album’s final third, where O’s voice assumes an emotional honesty that’ll knock you sideways. It begins with “Maps”, her earnest address to boyfriend Angus Andrews of The Liars (“they don’t love you like I love you”) sung with crucifying tenderness; it’s got ‘Love Song For A Generation’ written all over it. “Y-Control” is a bitterer pill, though just as stirring as O yearns “I wish I could buy back the woman you stole”.

Then the show-stopping “Modern Romance”, a sleepy Galaxie 500 drone over which O chirps with a vulnerable innocence not heard since Moe Tucker on the Velvets’ “After Hours”. And just when you think it’s over comes the killer blow of poignancy, the hidden track “Poor Song”, where Karen beseeches her betrothed “don’t be scared of love” and the crack in her voice tells you she means every syllable.

This is as revitalising a debut as could be hoped for. COLOSSAL, in fact.

Whichever way you slice it, this is a banker. Langford’s recent rollicksome rip-’em-ups with The Waco Brothers are among his most inspired, while Toronto’s largely unheralded Sadies, led by brothers Travis and Dallas Good, are modern roots-rock’s best kept secret, tripping all switches from surf and chicken-scratch country to garage, psychedelia and Morricone twang. Langford leads the charge with his throaty gallop, spitting political venom (the war-baiting “What Makes Johnny Run?”), fellow ex-Mekon Sally Timms adds silver tonsils to “Shipwreck” and pedal-steel great Bob Egan is outstanding throughout.

Subtitled ‘The Bedroom Recordings’, Sadier, with sometime assistance from Pram, airs tracks assembled between 1996 and 2002. And the quality varies. At times displaying her parent band’s exquisite Kraut-MOR arrangements (“Vol De Jour”), more often Socialisme is flat and threadbare (“Un Secret Sans Importance”, “Un Express”). To her credit, Sadier moves away from familiar Stereolab territory. Nocturnal folk and wonky trombone diversions create a lulling atmosphere, while “Graine De Beaut

Michel Amato aka The Hacker is principally known outside of his native France for The First Album, created with long-term collaborator (and current electroclash superdarling) Miss Kittin.

Amato’s solo releases have always recalled early-’80s electro, and his selection here shows the extent to which that sound has mutated with 19 pristine drum-driven tracks, courtesy of amphetamine robo-funkateers Artists Unknown, The Advent, Adult., Dopplereffekt, and The Hacker himself.