Clearlake are crucially compassionate. Jason Pegg’s voice betrays his own uncertainty but also the need to reach out to the listener. The opening “Almost The Same” rocks, but in a post-Neu! way. The lightness of touch balances out the often sinister lyrics (“I’d Like To Hurt You”). The heartbreaking “Keep Smiling” utilises Beatles harmonies as it decries conformity and compromise. The pinnacle is the extraordinary closing sequence of “It’s All Too Much” (excoriating self-hatred), “Treat Yourself With Kindness” (a hand offers to rock the unstable cradle) and “Trees In The City” (a final gesture towards hope). A beautiful record.

Sounding like a cross between Mazzy Star, Portishead and Throwing Muses, Devics have been playing their doom-laden, cinematic songs to audiences in LA for a decade now. Led by Sara Lov’s plaintive vocals and Dustin O’Halloran’s guitar-scapes, they sound like the kind of band who would receive a personal invitation to play at David Lynch’s funeral. Ten torch songs for a rainy night in.

Dan Bern’s New American Language scored highly in Uncut’s 2002 critics’ poll and established him as the leading pretender to wear the mantle of Bob. The Swastika EP is arguably even better?five topical songs issued not as a piece of product but because they demand to be heard, just like they used to publish them in Broadside and Sing Out back in the Greenwich Village days. “Talking Al Kida Blues” is the bravest, truest post-September 11 song yet written (if it’s the worst disaster on US soil ever, what about the Indians and slavery?). Suffice to say that, had the Twin Towers existed and been destroyed in 1963, you’d like to imagine this is the song Dylan would have written. World Cup contains five acoustic songs in a lighter vein, written during a trip through Europe last summer. The best of them is “My Love Is Not For Sale”, a kind of equivalent of Bob’s “Boots Of Spanish Leather”. Neither EP has anything to do with commerce, marketing or industry. These 10 songs exist simply because they have something to say that we need to hear. What a subversive idea.

There exist groups who, regardless of how interesting their music might be, are rendered unlistenable by their singer. Pram’s Rosie Cuckston deploys the same couldn’t-care-less stylings as Stereolab’s Laetitia Sadier in a way that goes beyond atonality. Dark Island’s more approachable than 2000’s Museum Of Imaginary Animals, but despite attempts at poignancy such as “Goodbye”, that voice is a barrier, and the sub-Morricone mood pieces (“Peepshow”) and ’60s French un-pop (“Penny Arcade”) would have sounded dated even in 1994.

Miracle Mile is essentially Trevor Jones, who makes albums of gentle enchantment such as 2000’s acclaimed Slow Fade. The follow-up is just as beguiling, and as a songwriter he recalls David Gates of Bread, particularly on “Wilful”, which has one of the loveliest melodies you’ve heard since “Baby I’m-A Want You”. Fans of Stephen Duffy’s Lilac Time might also care to investigate. The pedal steel, by BJ Cole and Melvin Duffy, nudges proceedings in an alt.country direction, but these remain essentially pop songs in the most honourable sense of the term.

Blair Jollands (El Hula), a white-suited New Zealander, has conjured up an epic and elegant debut, surprisingly produced by Strokes man Gordon Raphael. Jollands’ voice jets through shades of Scott Walker and Ziggy, and he only lets himself down with lapses into Cave-ian grunge. Most of this, like the arch-Associates swoon of “Bitter Girl”, is exceptional, big soul stuff. This year’s Rufus Wainwright, at least.

It’s four years since we had a new album from one of Britain’s greatest living songwriters?Thompson’s longest period of silence in a prolific career that began with Fairport Convention in the late ’60s. The Old Kit Bag is his first album since he turned 50, so he’s probably entitled to a rest, although the delay probably has more to do with looking for a new home after the expiry of his contract with Capitol.

Thompson remains the most British of songwriters. His last album was called Mock Tudor and the one before that was a song-cycle about the Industrial Revolution. The Old Kit Bag’s subject matter is more universal, but the imagery?both musical and lyrical?is still uniquely Albion across a dozen exquisite songs, supported by a rhythm section he refers to as “the chaps” (Danny Thompson on double bass and drummer Michael Jerome), with occasional backing vocals from Judith Owen.

From the get-go on the hypnotic “Gethsemane”, we are reminded that Thompson is one of our most distinctive guitarists. When it’s followed by the bluesy “Jealous Words” and the ’60s-tinged “I’ll Tag Along”, it’s apparent this is basically a rock album. Even “A Love You Can’t Survive”, which starts as a dark acoustic ballad, ends with one of his most powerful solos.

“One Door Opens” is a mandolin stomp, and “Destiny” is probably the nearest he’s ever going to get to a conventional pop song. “Got No Right” at first sounds an oddity, a jazzy, late-night tale of broken love, but develops into one of the album’s key songs. “Pearly Jim” is another tough rocker before we hit the home straight with the over-dramatic “Sight Unseen”, the sombre “Outside On The Inside” and the accordion-drenched “Happy Days And Auld Lang Syne”, which manages to sound about two centuries old but isn’t.

The Old Kit Bag doesn’t quite make it into the Thompson solo Top 10 alongside I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight and Shoot Out The Lights. But it’s good to have him back.

With Mushroom having left the band and Daddy G taking a sabbatical from the studio to concentrate on family life, it falls to Robert Del Naja (3D) to carry forward Massive Attack into the beyond, in collaboration with Neil Davidge, the producer of their third album Mezzanine (1998).

Without Mezzanine’s layers of guitar, which left some Massive Attack lovers narrowing their eyes doubtfully, 100 Windows seems at first subdued. Much as shapes only gradually reveal themselves in an initially pitch black room, so it is with this album, which takes a few listens to become accustomed to. The devil is in the detail, nestled deep in the layered backdrop.

“Future Proof”, the opener, seems like generic Massive Attack, with its pulsing, see-saw riff and velveteen ambience, before abstract muezzin shapes hove into your face like bats. “Everywhen” features regular MA vocalist Horace Andy, but there’s something disquietingly irregular about the orbit he’s in here.

There were always ominous overtones to Massive Attack, but 100 Windows is especially stark, inculcating the sort of trepidation that comes with staring at the night sky for too long, or staying up too late discussing Noam Chomsky.

There’s a radioactive air about the album which, coupled with the use of Eastern, Arabic strings, brings to musical life a palpable sense of post-September 11 tension. 3D himself admits that “the state of the world has rubbed off on the record”.

Sin

As a Mercury Music Prize judge, this writer has been dismayed by how dull most of the British jazz entries in recent years have been. Now, shining like a beacon comes the visionary debut from the British bassist/composer Anthony Tidd and his group, Quite Sane. Long delayed while he’s been busy producing Roots and Jazzyfatnastees, given his own head he’s come up with an effortless, groundbreaking fusion of modern jazz, streetwise beats and hip hop. The dynamic tunes, thought-provoking lyrics, imaginative arrangements and general air of utter contemporaneity make it the most accessible, exciting modern British jazz album in years.

Almost uniquely among the anti-folk crowd, New York resident Mason isn’t preoccupied with lo-fi aesthetics. His well-observed ditties may be furnished with little more than acoustic guitar, but a nasal whine and knack for turning out fully-constructed songs give him a robustness lacking in many of his contemporaries. As with fellow tunesmith Jeff Lewis, Daniel Johnston’s influence looms large, as do Dylan and Sonic Youth, but Mason has a wry way with words. His take on love? “My mitten became a glove/My chicken became a dove”. Charming.

Indie hopefuls Buffseeds have an ace in the hole in lead singer-songwriter Kieran Scragg. On “Sparkle Me”, the opening track of the band’s debut album, you’re convinced it’s a woman’s voice. Then it slowly dawns you’re listening to a male falsetto?like a castrato Michael Stipe against a backdrop of subtly shimmering contemporary psychedelia. Scragg’s songwriting is as ambitious as his voice is unusual and he’s not afraid to tackle such subjects as political corruption, personal cowardice and family illness in his impressive compositions. If the best of last year’s new UK bands were The Electric Soft Parade and The Coral, then 2003 has already produced one to rival them.

For those under the impression that the current Brooklyn scene consists entirely of garage-rock rehashes and electroclash posing, the lazy, hazy sound of Folksongs For The Afterlife will set you straight. Like some otherworldly combination of Mazzy Star and vintage My Bloody Valentine, they employ wan female vocals and layers of moody guitar in a mind-bending manner whereby even the uptempo songs feel like ballads. Without venturing into overproduction, Put Danger Back In Your Life conjures a rich sound capable of carrying you off into the daydream of your choice.

ADF have expanded their line-up and brought in Adrian Sherwood as executive producer. However, their energy and principles are the same as those that infused and undergirded 2000’s Community Music. Asylum-seekers, post-September 11 politics and the optimism engendered by ADF’s contacts with cells of cultural resistance are covered here, with an angry gusto drawn from punk, dub, techno and bhangra. The new members bring a new virtuosity and up-to-date rhythmical sensibility to the mix; best track is “1000 Mirrors”, a dub-soaked, impassioned protest against domestic violence delivered by Sin

It’s churlish to accuse the Soledad Brothers of inauthenticity, given that their raw and rickety blues are indebted to the sounds of the Crawdaddy Club, Richmond, circa 1963. We should forgive, then, this young Detroit trio for most of their iconographic waffle about death letters, gospels and devils. Especially since they play pretty well, a menacing chug through the standard “Going Back To Memphis” being the highlight. Nevertheless, the Soledads never quite transcend the role of canny revivalists?unlike their drummer’s housemate, Jack White.

Producer Ry Cooder reckons the second solo album from the septuagenarian Buena Vista Social Club star is “the Thriller of Latin music”. Ferrer has not so far been seen dangling babies over balconies. But under Cooder’s expert tutelage, he’s made a beautiful record that expands the horizons of Cuban music. His voice may have thinned with age but he compensates with a ripe confidence and an outrageous improvisational ability that puts him up there alongside such legendary names as Beny Mor

Longwave may be extravagantly coiffed and pals with The Strokes, but they’re aurally closer to fellow NYC overcoat rockers Interpol. Yet while Mancunian angst-rock is discernible, Longwave wisely mediate such touchstones with The Flaming Lips’ fractured wonderment and Radiohead’s imperious FX squalls. Epic but rarely overblown, the album is rich in nimble detail, shifty atmospherics and an aura of calm invincibility. The real trump card, though, comes with the songs: memorably melodic, plaintive and bigger than skyscrapers.

The intense materialism of much recent hip hop and R&B is tough to satirise, not least because arch-perpetrators like Jay-Z are so knowing and funny themselves. Respect, then, to Bronx seditionary and Majesticons creator Mike Ladd (and friends like EI-P and Cannibal Ox), whose ongoing parody program succeeds through imagination and an affection for the music, if not the morals. In his elaborate fiction, the Majesticons are a bunch of ghetto fabulous robots opposed to rootsy freedom fighters The infesticons. Beauty Party is a concept album, but it’s an entertaining one. And critically, one with tunes so strong?from Timbalandish exotica to buffed nu-soul?they could pass muster in the most discriminating circles.

Despite a horrible cover and an irritating name, Missy Roback has made a fine debut album. Produced by Rain Parade’s Steven Roback and mixed by American Music Club’s Tim Mooney, Just Like Breathing is as melodic as those connections would suggest. But dreamy, lo-fi Americana and haunting, psychedelic arrangements are only half the story. Add Roback’s voice, which has that angelic quality associated with classic ’60s American girl groups, and the juxtaposition is glorious.

Subtle, simmering ‘new acoustic’ debutThese gentle, vaguely retro acoustic stylings from British songwriting duo Hudson and McDevitt exude real charm, evoking melancholy memories, tempered optimism and warm pints in cold country pubs. Reference points include a less tortured Turin Brakes or less populist David Gray, though ticking clocks, babies’ cries and the mesmerising “For You” will have you digging out your crusty copy of Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Bursts of energetic violin from Chris Goddard give it an extra edge. Pastoral peaks.

Nasir’Nas’ Jones