With a Grammy nomination in the US, Delbert McClinton’s Room To Breathe finds the Texan veteran rocking harder than ever. More f

Seen as the meeting point between New York’s thriving trashy rock and clashy electro scenes, the reality is that A.R.E. Weapons offer a lot more than a contrived halfway house between fashionable polarities. Far from being the slavish disciples of Alan Vega and Martin Rev their singles might suggest, Weapons Matthew McAuley, Paul Sevigny and Brain have crafted an album of ruthlessly effective 21st-century rock’n’roll, shot through with raw, lo-fi electronics.

With this concise (under 37 minutes!) debut, A.R.E. go further than the mere crossbreeding of Gotham’s current, voguish sounds; they encompass the entire fucked-up lowlife tradition of NYC rock, taking in not only Suicide but Lou Reed (particularly the Street Hassle era), New York Dolls, Ramones and early Beastie Boys.

One thing all these acts have in common (pace Reed) is a last-gang-in-town, misfit mentality. A.R.E.’s outsiderdom may or may not be counterfeit, but when tunes like opening rallying call “Don’t Be Scared” are this grimily uplifting, this downright inventive and inspirational (“Life was meant to be awesome”), authenticity of credentials barely matters.

The album doesn’t just bludgeon. There is an attention to detail, an appreciation of dynamics at work in the knife-edge narco-tension of “Strange Dust” and the eerie Assault On Precinct 13 chill of “Headbanger Face”, while the primitive synthesized drum patterns suggest more than a passing familiarity with hip hop stretching from Run-DMC through The Bomb Squad right up to the Neptunes.

For all their street-fighting posturing, A.R.E. cultivate an inclusive vibe and a generosity of spirit, epitomised by anthemic closer “Hey World”. This song for ‘the kids’is genuinely affecting, pleading for tolerance in the hope we may endure this “fucking miserable solution that we call life”.

Electroclash? This is rock’n’roll, pure and simple.

Celso Fonseca is a Brazilian singer-songwriter who has worked with the likes of Caetano Veloso, Milton Nascimento and Gilberto Gil, as well as appearing on Bebel Gilberto’s worldwide hit Tanto Tempo. Billed as his first international album, Natural is a pleasant affair of light bossa/samba, laidback in style and chilled-out in performance. The problem is that no translation of the lyrics is provided, which makes the “international” claim puzzling Mood music at best, then, for non-Brazilians.

By the late ’80s, Parker was considered a once-fiery comet who had passed off the cultural radar. But 1988’s return-to-form studio album The Mona Lisa’s Sister suggested a reassessment was in order. This live album shows Parker in pugnacious, confident form?if his moment had passed, no one dared tell him. Rumour stalwarts Andrew Bodnar and Brinsley Schwarz add support, and its old favourites?”White Honey”, “Local Girls” and “Howlin’ Wind”?shine while the previously unreleased “Sinkin’ Low” is a very palatable sad-eyed blues gem.

Hailing from the same US stable as My Morning Jacket, Hayden and Mark Kozelek, Lakis’first solo work since splitting with San Francisco’s Half Film is a weather-trodden waltz between the cracks of backwoods country and indie rock. Aided by local band The Inspectors, there’s more than a passing resemblance to Evan Dando’s slacker croon (the radical reworking of Bad Brains’ “Sailin’ On”), but the tunes owe more to the sun-scorched desertscapes of Calexico, the crumpled allure of Elliott Smith and Red House Painters at their most lugubrious.

Wurlitzers, vibes and Lakis’ winning way with pedal-steel create a melancholy magnetism that is hard to ignore.

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.