The poignancy of this concert lies in the fact that bassist Bernard Edwards died later that same night. Otherwise, it’s a dismal spectacle. Ironically, Edwards and guitarist Nile Rodgers play superbly throughout, but one listen to guest guitarist Slash ruining “Le Freak” will make you weep.

For a group so dependent on elegance and delicacy, it is somewhat humiliating to experience a past-it Sister Sledge warble “We Are Family” for 10 minutes, to witness them plodding with Steve Winwood through Hendrix’s “Stone Free”, and to hear them reduced to segueing “Good Times” into “Rappers’ Delight”. They deserve a better memorial.

And so, thankfully, once again, here are Black Box Recorder to dispatch a cold bucket of sarcasm over the chronically lukewarm indie/pop scene. Passionoia, superficially, doesn’t seem quite so bleak and mordant as Luke Haines & co’s previous work. The spindly, sophisticated, John Barry-esque strings and electronica of “The Facts Of Life” have been eschewed in favour of a shiny, bouncy sound. Certainly there isn’t quite the sense of serial killers lurking in the rose garden?but don’t be deceived.

“School Song”, the opener, returns to the theme of “England Made Me”, with prim vocalist Sarah Nixey playing the role of the sort of bitterly authoritarian schoolmaster responsible for emotionally crippling the nation’s youth. (“You lot need a bit of toughening up… you’re weak and spoilt.”) There’s something almost kinky (a good BBR word) about Haines and John Moore employing Nixey as a mouthpiece for this nightmarish recollection of schoolboy misery but all involved seem to enjoy the perversity. There’s playfulness, also, in the numerous instances of pop pastiche. “GSOH QED” alludes to Tupperware Bacharach/David pop classic “I’ll Never Fall In Love Again”. Only for Nixey, the price of passion is death threats and intimate pictures on the Internet from two-faced impotent spineless reptiles”. Then there’s “Andrew Ridgeley”, with its impudent steal from The Human League’s “Love Action”. “This is Sarah Nixey talking…”?ah, the triple-axled irony. “Andrew Ridgeley” is a defiant cri-de-coeur on the part of a generation weaned on the most shinily insipid aspects of the 80s. Still more intriguingly worrying is “The New Diana”, in which Nixey yearns to be just that, “lying on a yacht reading photo magazines”.

A fairy tale wish or a death wish? As ever, BBR’s absinthe-flavoured acid drops give you a great deal more to suck on than the rest of pop’s confectionery selection. Savour their sourness.

Claudia Barton and Ian Williams inhabit a familiar London dream-world of charity shop glamour, bedsit bohemia and adored icons including Gallic chanteuses, Weimar ice divas, noir film scores and femme fatales, soiled with Soho seediness.

Williams’ melodramatic, semi-classical, piano-led arrangements frame Barton’s breathily versatile voice in these arch tales of romantic doom: The Tindersticks, Jack, even Saint Etienne have been here before, but Gamine’s eccentric, underground self-belief leaves them sounding like no one else.

In a few years, Julian Cope will write essays celebrating the brilliance of this debut full-length album. Formerly a confrontational noise band from Rhode Island, Black Dice now live in Brooklyn, record for the radically hip DFA label, and have organised their art-skronk into pulsating pieces in an avant-shamanic tradition that includes late Boredoms, early Popol Vuh and Coil. The dominant tone is violent ambience so that, remarkably, the noise eruptions seem no more malign than the superficially quiet passages that precede them. It all adds up to a genuinely psychedelic record.

“Special Day” is just one of the tracks where New Jersey’s Jaheim perfects an audacious match of R&B ancient and modern: his high, grainy voice slides from church supplication to soul abandon, bathed in strings, harmonies and brass, the singing, playing and arranging as lush and heartfelt as any jukebox favourite, even as they bounce in a subtly digital mix. Dedicated to his dead mother, Still Ghetto reflects on relationships with women with a warmth rap refuses, but the downbeat title track dives into Jaheim’s home streets with dark sympathy worthy of Curtis Mayfield circa Back To The World.

Ten years ago, Dirty Three established a uniquely formidable sound. Brooding, emotionally wrought instrumentals that drew on Celtic folk and gothic gloom via feedback-drenched menace. They haven’t deviated much since, but this album shows their idiosyncrasies are still intact. Mood-wise it’s their bleakest yet, with their turbulent ebb and flow unleashing both joy and sorrow. Even when apparently serene, that wound-coil tension is palpable. This makes Godspeed You! Black Emperor sound about as intense as Gomez.

Little Feat aficionados are the sort to have scoured the globe for bootlegs, so will enjoy these collections of rare ’70s material. Raw Tomatos is the pick of the vine since it includes original Lowell George items like “Crack In Your Door”, a superbly sparse “Fat Man In The Bathtub” and a funked-up “Strawberry Flats”. The live Ripe brace may be more familiar, although it’s worth picking up on for terrific versions of old Feat classics like “Teenage Nervous Breakdown”, “Dixie Chicken” and the timeless “Apolitical Blues”. The quality control includes decent liners and updated Neon Park artwork for good measure.

Ital house has a cheesy, chequered past. But with Spiller, Jolly Music and now Stylophonic, it’s finally getting good again. Here Parisian filter funk and NY hip hop are twisted into loop-da-loop thrills that combine messy hedonism with pristine precision. There are occasional flirtations with acid jazz, but more plentiful are the familiar ’80s synth sounds, creating a sense of fresh urgency. Fontana has an assured touch. All he lacks are the gargantuan confidence and guile of Daft Punk.

Like Fennesz and Four Tet, Julien Locquet (aka Dorine_Muraille) takes folk-inflected acoustic melodies and scrambles them through his laptop to create digital pastorales. Unlike them, however, Locquet seems to have a conflicted attitude towards the prettiness of his sources.

On Mani, his British debut, he stretches chansons with impressive rigour. Guitar and piano passages are deconstructed in a way that evokes millions of ants shredding a carcass very quickly.

The results are messy, then, but also technically dazzling and often beautiful in spite of Locquet’s frenetic micro-edits.

He’d benefit from calming down a little, nevertheless.

Average song length: two minutes, but the staccato post-punk of Spoon’s own work is retuned by Crewe into clipped, neurotic sexual and verbal aggression more akin to new wavers like Joe Jackson, and even new wave of new wavers like Sleeper (who are lyrically quoted).

Sneeringly in control when not running into trouble or falling apart, Crewe’s persona is inspiring and insulting.

Fresh, frisky pop for mature, modern girls and boys.

In a classic global-village journey, young Chilean dance student Alejandra Iglesias fell in love with vintage electro sounds and eventually wound up as a DJ in New York City, spinning under the name Dinky. Already a couple of years into a fully-fledged recording career, she turns out a seamless blend of techno, contemporary electroclash, and Kraftwerk-loving retro.

Spare, sparkling and danceable, Black Cabaret is the soundtrack to the minds of the electro-minions that scour eBay for the keywords “minimalist synth”.

“People look at me wrong, because I’m so different,” says Ms Jade at one point. More likely, they’re wondering where they’ve heard her before. Timbaland’s new prot

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Clocking off at a fighting-fit 21 minutes, with a sequel promised soon, Raveonettes mastermind Sune Rose Wagner and accomplice Sharin Foo come on like a rockabilly Jesus And Mary Chain. Minor guitar chords clang gloomily through overloaded, feedbacking tracks as Wagner moans dissolutely. The pastiche garage-punk field is crammed, and the Reids’ life or death fury can’t be faked. But while it’s on, it works.

John Fahey’s reputation rests on his’60s recordings, elaborate explorations of acoustic folk/blues that erased distinctions between roots music and the avant garde. By the ’90s, however, Fahey had become disgruntled with his legacy. He switched to electric guitar, dabbled in industrial murk and seemed studiously indelicate. Red Cross, finished just before his death in 2001, marks a surprising reconciliation with his old style. Fahey’s playing remains hesitant, but for contemplative rather than alienating ends, as he turns uptown standards by Irving Berlin and the Gershwins into spectral, rustic laments. A bewitching last testament.

Perhaps because he lacks the proper bad-boy image, Tim Easton has yet to be recognised as the rightful heir to the roots-rock throne occupied by Ryan Adams. Easton’s introspective troubadour-ing and alt.country mystique speaks to the same demographic, but his lyricism is more oblique, shying away from big statements in favour of small surprises. Two of the best songs here are by Burn Barrel’s JP Olsen, whose compositional presence says as much about Easton’s respect for his roots as it does about Olsen’s top-notch writing.

They may hail from Illinois, but this quartet containing two brothers and their sister owes allegiance to every strain of Britpop from The Stone Roses to early Radiohead. Atmosphere is everything, as provided by waves of echoing guitars and shimmering vistas of keyboard. Sixties influences are filtered through a late-’80s shoegazing sensibility, eliminating overtly derivative elements. The male-female vocal blend floats ethereally atop their grand art-pop tableaux, but things never get too airy for the occasional grungey power chord.