Call it psychobilly, punkabilly or voodoobilly, The Cramps were the band who initiated punks into the subterranean realm of 1950s rockabilly. Formed in 1976 by husband and wife duo Lux Interior and Poison Ivy, the black leather-jacketed Addams Family of rock's kinky, everyday-is-Halloween trash aesthetic hotwired 70s punk with primordial first generation rock'n'roll - because what were Charlie Feathers, Hasil Adkins and Link Wray but the original punks?

Proving that juvenile delinquency is a state of mind, The Cramps seemingly would have lasted forever if the cadaverous Interior hadn't died aged 60 in February 2009. But their impact lives on. Perhaps their greatest legacy is that you can go to any rockabilly weekender and see fresh generations of The Cramps' spiritual progeny: sullen greaser punks characterised by their black T-shirts, werewolf sideburns and tattoos.

This compilation goes back to the raw source, trawling through the original vintage songs that The Cramps gleefully tore apart, plagiarised, re-interpreted and deconstructed over their long career. While genres like tear-jerking doo wop ("Death of An Angel" by Donald Woods and The Belairs), blues ("It's Mighty Crazy" by Lightnin' Slim) and raunchy Rhythm & Blues ("Baby Let Me Bang Your Box" by The Bangers) are represented here, unsurprisingly the emphasis is on rockabilly.

Songs the Cramps Taught Us is a reminder how 50s rockabilly at its wildest still sounds stark, strange, threatening - almost futuristic, like science fiction. Rockabilly is a glimpse into weird America, made by amphetamine-crazed hillbillies with names like Vern, Hank and Dwight. Take Charlie Feathers' wracked, sensual, atmospheric and eerie "Can't Hardly Stand It", his hiccoughing, lecherous vocals wreathed in echo. "Her Love Rubbed Off" by Carl Perkins packs a sinister throb, while the anguished thrashing of "Love Me" by The Phantom is a frantic howl of lust, checking in at just one minute and 32 seconds.

To be fair there is no shortage of Cramps-inspired compilations of this type featuring many of the same songs (In the 1980s there were the six volumes of the Born Bad collection; there's already a compilation called Songs the Cramps Taught Us Vol 1 ). But to paraphrase Mae West, too much of a good thing can be wonderful! The tunes compiled here are lurid stabs from the jukebox jungle, an irresistible invitation to swallow a fistful of bop pills, drag a comb through your Gene Vincent pompadour and hit the dance floor.
Graham Russell

This New York two-piece were lucky enough to record at London's renowned Olympic Studios (which has previously hosted such obscure acts as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin) shortly before it closed its doors for good. Here, they created new versions of songs from their three full-lengths - this year's Hush, Citrus (2006) and Asobi Seksu (2004), plus a luscious cover of "Suzanne" by Hope Sandoval (Mazzy Star).

Frequently compared to the shoegazing likes of Slowdive, Chapterhouse, Ride and, of course, My Bloody Valentine, the duo weave some dreamlike soundscapes but avoid sounding like they're straight out of the early 90s indie scene. A more recent reference point might be Blonde Redhead, though Asobi Seksu are softer sounding, less hip, more concerned with atmosphere than driving choruses.

Singer Yuki Chikudate writes in both English and Japanese and is somehow winsomely affecting even when you don't understand what she's saying. Her voice is clear, soothing and perfectly suited to these acoustic tracks.

An album which comprises a selection of a little-known band's back catalogue played acoustically isn't likely to bring them out from under the radar. But it should, and in a fairer world it would. This is a well-timed release too: perfect winter music, these gentle songs evoke the feeling of being snowed in, drawing magical landscapes on the window condensation.

Charting their career while re-imagining the songs with a refined sense of their sound, this record is a good starting point for newcomers while also being of interest to hardcore fans. This may be the end for Olympic Studios, but it heralds a new phase for Asobi Seksu and their increasingly sophisticated songwriting.
Alexis Somerville

Only a few showbiz personas are so strong they seem totally immersed in worlds the rest of us merely glimpse in old movies and well-thumbed books. From Nick Cave's gothic through Kraftwerk's retro robotic to Chas and Dave's Ealing comedy boozer, they appear to have stepped out of another age.

Possessing more than a convenient back story – a Seasick Steve train or Bon Iver hut - such characters become so synonymous with their selected imagery that we suspend disbelief, never questioning how they find their way to the recording studio let alone go shopping or surfing the net.

Not many are capable of persuading us once – very few then reinvent themselves just as convincingly. But Tom Waits did manage such a transformation more than twenty five years ago, abandoning a successful career as a barroom bum / maudlin balladeer to establish himself as the razorblade gargling chief barker and lead percussionist of his own barmy carnival troupe. Sadly, despite being ringmaster of a macabre circus designed to slip into town in the night and haunt your dreams, Waits seems reluctant to visit too many places these days. While a DVD would be superb if anything close to the quality of the 1988 video Big Time, for now the Glitter and Doom Live double CD will have to satisfy those of us inhabiting parts last year's tour failed to reach.

On the first disc, vocal gravel, pounding thuds and unearthly guitar and wind section flourishes suggest a glorious blues jam between Louis Armstrong and a brassed-up Birthday Party orchestrated by Kurt Weill and The Devil. But it's disc two, Tom's Tales, that really stands out. In anyone else's hands this collection of between song patter and anecdotes could be self-indulgent, but with Waits, it becomes stand up – even sit down at the piano – comedy of the highest order.

He now has his own official website www.tomwaits.com from where you can download a complete transcript of his observations "in case you missed a few sentences". So Tom Waits does live in the modern world after all, at least in cyberspace.
Simon Charterton   

In Big Sexy Noise, her new collaboration with the alternately brooding and explosive British swamp rockers Gallon Drunk, Lydia Lunch seems to be glaring over her shoulder at the past. In the 1970s as the No Wave movement's teenaged death kitten in a baby doll nightie, Lunch cut a path of deliberate destruction. In 2009 as a mature artist, punk's ornately tattooed high priestess seems ready to reflect - even if it means looking back in anger.

The CD opens with a viciously low-slung reinterpretation of the song "Gospel Singer", which Lunch originally recorded with her short-lived punk band Harry Crews in 1988. On "God Is a Bullet" she revisits the Charles Manson fixation she first explored with Sonic Youth in 1985 on "Death Valley '69". Lunch has frequently cited Lou Reed's legendarily bleak 1973 album Berlin as a transformative early influence; here she pays tribute by covering Reed's "Kill Your Sons".

Elsewhere in Big Sexy Noise, Lunch frequently sounds like she's channeling the music that soundtracked her pre-Teenage Jesus and The Jerks sulky juvenile delinquent adolescence in Rochester, New York: the aforementioned Lou Reed, The Doors, The Stooges. In fact the sound of The Stooges circa Funhouse – when their music was driven along by blurting, honking sax – underpins this album (Big Sexy Noise reunites Lunch with her frequent musical partner-in-crime, multi instrumentalist Terry Edwards. The combination of her embittered sneer and the dissonant skronk of Edward's sax is a marriage made in death jazz heaven).

But rest assured, Lunch is far too perverse and defiant to be nostalgic: Big Sexy Noise opts to blast the listener's face off rather than comfort. While Lunch adopts the persona of a vengeful biker mama and vents her myriad frustrations in an increasingly deeper, darker and harsher rasp, the band expertly crank up an abrasive blues punk / heavy metal hybrid - the kind of music you imagine booming out of a sleazy biker bar (only truly smart people can make a racket this brutally, primitively moronic). Meanwhile, "Dark Eyes" is driven, pissed-off and gloomy. On "Diggin the Hole" Lunch's ragged howl, drenched in echo, evokes Jennifer Herrema of Royal Trux, and the nasty, finger-snapping jazz of "Bad for Bobby" recalls the film noir vibe of Lunch's 2004 album Smoke in the Shadows .  

Big Sexy Noise is the sound of Lunch having a scary, malevolent good time. Who could resist a hard, dirty pounding from Lydia Lunch?
Graham Russell

Casting off those chord organ blues and getting down to business in a proper studio, Daniel Johnston has contrived to make what sounds very much like the most accessible album of his career. The big rock sound is there, the slick production is there and the airplay should surely follow. But the problem here is that the album lacks that special Daniel magic.

"Queenie the Doggie" may have sounded cutesy and intriguing if recorded on toy piano but instead, like a lot of the tracks, it just sounds average. 2001's Rejected Unknown contained moments that could well have graced late period Beatles albums (Johnston’s heroes), but there are too many moments here that sound like Oasis cover band outtakes.

The sense of pleading longing does sometimes surface, such as on "I Had Lost My Mind", but you can’t get away from the fact that this sounds very much like someone else’s guitar-rock album with Johnston guesting on vocals. The recently re-issued early albums are far more worthy of your time and money, and will allow the uninitiated a chance to see what the fuss is about and why so many bands take the time to namecheck Johnston in interviews.
Iain Aitch