Dude gave rise to soul, made black and white chicks cream, set record-deal standards and was gunned down in a Hollywood motel. Now there’s a star. Song for stunning song, this reissue is sonic heaven in big, warm analog glory.

The band’s loss-of-innocence record spins with a boozy, freefalling joy in sing-along turns. A budding songwriting base might trump this trio’s imperviousness to the goofy major label machine.

Oh, quit your bitching that rock ’n’ roll bands no longer exist, ’cause LT puts proactive bawl and thud where the din comes out. An honest-to-Allah, anti-Bush, pro-animal, pro-chick, fuck-the-establishment, question-authority rock ’n’ roll band. As ignored and nearly as middle-fingered as was the MC5, and fronted by a troubled and spindly rock star. Remember those?

Eeeeeeyowwssa. True motor speedway rock that grins on bended knee at the scuzzy altar of Cactus, Terry Reid and ZZ Top. What’s more, there’s heart, mutual adoration and unkempt class beneath their oomph and clash.

It’s Alice Cooper’s 1973 Billion Dollar Babies tour, and we learn that glam had witty subtext, that parents really were scared, and American rock ’n’ roll climaxed at the same time as Deep Throat. [Editorial disclaimer: Smith wrote the band bios on this DVD.]From out of nowhere comes this Detroit dude - with sensitivity, warmth and a seemingly implausible songwriting platform. The Decemberists Picaresque (Kill Rock Stars): Pop as a literary launchpad is as galling and pompous as the sea shanties, Victorian chicks and Edwardian riffraff involved. It’s as affected and as close to the teen/human condition as was "Stairway to Heaven," which is (basically) why punk rock happened. Big fucking deal - Decemberist head Colin Meloy can locate Wordsworth and Byron in a library. Who can’t?

The existence of this 1957 concert tape was a surprise even to bootleggers. Full of eyebrow-raisers like a dazzling double-time on "Sweet and Lovely." In recent years, Moran has landed on lists like this for releases that incorporated Euro classics, stride piano and Afrika Bambaataa riffs. Pianist Moran is just as fresh going back to the blues and adding guitarist Marvin Sewellto his trio. This working quartet is arguably his best showcase since his days with Miles. Shorter, drummer Brian Blade, bassist John Patitucci and pianist Danilo Perez specialize in improv cliff-hangers. The 9/11 Concert (Milestone): Not the whiplash-inducing Rollins of 1986’s live recording, G-Man. This is just the brilliant heavy lifting of the Rollins of 2001.

Electric guitarist Ribot’s quartet salutes anthemic shouter Albert Ayler. Bassist Henry Grimes - who played with Ayler in the ’60s - does more than his share to propel the proceedings.

Pianist Cooper-Moore can splatter notes with the best, but he can also be whimsical, even quaint, in his iconoclastic way. First of three projected discs from a collective with bassist Tom Abbs and drummer Chad Taylor. John Zorn’s jump-cutting fusion aesthetic (as in his former band Naked City) meets his twist on the Ornette Coleman Quartet of 1959 (his more recent quartet Masada). Recorded live to be played loud.No big idea, just heated combo takes on standards. The counterbalance to his ornate big-band take on A Love Supreme.

Percussionist and composer Catlett is in New York nowadays, but these Detroit sessions - with the likes of Kenn Cox, Craig Taborn and Rodney Whitaker - are testimony to what we’ve lost: Latin jazz, freshly imagined, imaginatively played.

The mainly contemplative program ranges from interpretations of Ornette Coleman to Henry Purcell to Stephen Sondheim (even "Send in the Clowns" is understated), plus originals by pianist Stenson, bassist Jormin and drummer Motian. Their rapport is amazing.

Trombonist Harris’ worthy salute to The Souls of Black Folk. The all-star big band includes Don Byron, Hamiet Bluiett, Steve Coleman and Oliver Lake. Harris evokes spirituals, blues and the St. Louis-Chicago-NYC avant-garde of the ’70s.

Music from Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus (Luaka Bop/Ryko): Tears are just a stupid trick of God.Akuma No Uta (Southern Lord): This Japanese trio once named an album Amplifier Worship. Really, do you need any more?Arular (XL): Sleeps whole winters, wakes up and spits summers. Also sells Hondas.

Live show at 2500 Club 8/19: Heat, manic intensity and Judas Priest covers in the looming shadow of the Masonic. Righteous. Ian MacKaye and Amy Farina make terrific pop that’s modern, wiry and, yeah, still pretty angry.MMJ are bootgazers drifting in from the back 40 on a fog of comforting reverb.

Tender Buttons (Warp): If Marianne Faithfull had been born in 1975, she’d turn out to be Broadcast. In Keith and Mick’s stead, there are dudes with "haircuts."

Even the album art (Parton in painted-on jeans, fringe vest and a peace sign) couldn’t ruin it. Dolly singing "Imagine," "Where Have All the Flowers Gone" and "Both Sides Now" is not only a ballsy affront to the modern country music world, it is a glorious listen.

Afrobeat, punk and electro found common ground courtesy of a Congolese thumb piano and instruments made from salvaged auto parts. This is what great music can be.

Luther woo-wooed. Kem ah-ahs. And like the late king of crooners, Kem can make this brand of soul for the next decade. Steady in voice and strong in song.

The best epic stories come full circle. SV made their best album since Fantastic by sticking to their formula while riding a roller-coaster career.

The majority of the joint is buoyed by some of the D’s finest underground stars, and Wajeed and crew’s production style finally pays off with a creative and eclectic project.

Been rooting for Lo since Binary Star’s Waterworld. He lives and breathes hip hop, and his project harks back to the culture’s golden era in a beautifully cohesive way.

Killer comeback after his Electric Circus album. Though it wasn’t the classic many critics declared, it did effectively counter hip hop’s fascination with drug hustle and excess.

Possibly the most conscious and hilarious album since De La Soul’s Three Feet High and Rising. It calls out everyone in hip hop content to "coon" their way through respective music careers by reducing blacks to niggas and bitches.

Fans have frequently characterized MMJ concerts as ecstasy-inducing rock tent revivals. The group’s fourth is bold, confident, ecstatic - and, yeah, a bit holy too.

Pairing early ’70s LPs Black Merda and Long Burn the Fire, it’s a black rock thang, a soul-stirred stew of Hendrix, Funkadelic and War, and some incredibly thoughtful, politically conscious lyrics to boot.

"Appalachian griot" delivered with the fluidity of funk and the viscosity of punk. Spooky and scary, seductive and sublime - blues by any other name, but no one else is making blues like this.

Aglow with lush melodies and cinematic textures, and dipped in echoes of Brian Wilson, the Beatles and New Order, Joe Pernice’s latest is 2005’s purest pop platter, period.

Every detail of the original Who classic - vocal harmonies, guitar riffs, even the fake between-song commercials and the vinyl run-out groove - is reproduced a cappella by Haden, who in the process brings out previously overlooked nuances.

Criminally overlooked upon its initial release in 1999, the Penn-Oldham summit brings a whole lotta Memphis to UK stages and goes down as sweet as a honeyslide.

Prince on a bad hair day? T. Rex recast by 21st century boys (and girl)? Spacemen 3 minus the opiates? Creedence Clearwater gone shoegaze? All of the above, and more.

Decemberists Picaresque (Kill Rock Stars): So-called "literate pop" - like Jethro Tull minus the flute - or Belle & Sebastian on steroids, or an emasculated Smiths.

The Hold Steady Separation Sunday (Frenchkiss): Overhype alert! A shambling mess of tuneless, ironic posturing - not to mention the most annoying vocalist since Wesley Willis.

Keren Ann Nolita (Metro Blue/Capitol): Starbucks lite, hold the caffeine. I know why male rock critics like her - they equate her wispy, soporific French vocals with seduction.

Stephen Malkmus Face the Truth (Matador): Face it indeed. Pavement just wasn’t all that interesting. Nor is this solo record, devoid of riff, melody or groove.

Mando Diao Hurricane Bar (Mute): Armed with Oasis-like "we’re the best band in the universe" ’tude, these Swedes ditch walloping garage for warmed-over Britpop. They also bleep out the word "fuck" in a vocal sample. Pussies.

New Order Waiting for the Sirens’ Call (Warner Bros.): Sonically sumptuous, lyrically banal. Sappy self-help lines like "You’ve gotta hold your head up high/You’ve gotta lift that heavy load" wouldn’t make it past a hungover Hallmark card editor.

Scout Niblett Kidnapped by Neptune (Too Pure/Beggars): Don’t be fooled by overcaffeinated comparisons to Cat Power, PJ Harvey and Neko Case - there hasn’t been a female singing this aggressively tunelessly since The Shaggs.

Matt Pond PA Several Arrows Later (Altitude): Sensitivity alert! Downcast, pseudo-baroque "literate pop" (see Decemberists, above) that wants to be epic in feel but is ultimately too self-consciously moody to really connect.

Rilo Kiley More Adventurous (Brute/Beaute): More adventurous than what? Hilary Duff? Gwen Stefani? Karen fucking Carpenter? This perky platter sounds like it was assembled by an indie-rock focus group.

Josh Rouse Nashville (Ryko): Rouse is the Michael Franks of the alterna-generation. Who said quiet is the new loud? It’s not - it’s the new boring.

Twenty-first century shoegazer pop rides atop waves of hypnotic pan-African drumming and punishing bass lines. It’s as disturbing as it is sublime.

The Bavarian pretty boy - whose DJ performing style combines Bryan Ferry crypto-sophistication with a shaggy-haired indie-rock delivery - killed Detroit twice this year.

Antony’s songs of beauty and tenderness mixed with his hilarious onstage banter had a sit-down crowd on its feet, mixing laughter and tears. The grinding pussy-power finale by sister act Coco Rosie wasn’t a bad opener, either.

This is one of about a dozen stellar original productions and remix projects released this year by Gabor Schablitzki & Sören Bodner (better known as Robag Wrühme and Monkey Maffia). Who says ketamine house doesn’t rock? Does it ever, and weirdly.

A CD collecting a series of 7-inch gems released by Berlin digital dubmaster Mark Ernestus with a little help from his friends Sugar Minott, Paul St. Hillaire, Freddy Mellow and others. Ya, let Jah love come down.

Parisian Marc Nguyen Tan’s existential space-disco has roots planted in the sweet, cathartic misery of Joy Division and the Cure. Ideal for mid-tempo dancing in a world falling apart.

Detroit’s Matthew Dear blows it up on his midnight rambler alter ego, throwing rock, acid house and trance into one bombastic, danceable package.

A thunderous punk-rock coda to a North Korean propaganda film that slams George Bush, Gold Medal thievery at the 2002 Winter Olympics and all things American.

"Something for everyone who ever wishes Neil Young would arm wrestle Conor Oberst while whacked out on glue fumes." -Archibald McGinty, New Fresh Express.

"The ladies from Oregon finally burst through the post-feminist, male-rockist paradigm by subverting its mechanics from the position of an interior dialogue - again!" -Herb Trescott, editor of ManSized Lady Fun.

"Why they didn’t include ‘That Thing You Do’ is beyond me. Otherwise, a flawless package of schmaltz, throwaway and timeless pop created by master craftsmen at the peak of their craft." -Murray Particular, That’s My Sound Weekly.

This power trio’s eponymous third album favors a sound somewhere between the Midwestern muscle of Smokin’ OPs-era Bob Seger and the mod pop of the Small Faces. They’ve been adored in Detroit for years, and on the strength of the new record it seems possible that they could win the rock-star lottery.

O’Connor has mined her daffy Catholic-Rasta spirituality for artistic pay dirt. With expert help from Sly and Robbie, this collection of reggae covers is a mature and spiritually uplifting work.

The Reigning Sounds’ newest is a straight-up tear-in-my-beer opus that finds the band in country-soul mode, delivering sob-inducing performances that bring to mind Charlie Rich, Spooner Oldham or Dan Penn.

Cast King is a heretofore unknown 79-year-old country songwriter who’s been toiling in obscurity since the earliest days of rock ’n’ roll. King’s deep, weathered baritone carries so much emotional weight in each note that this record is heavier than any metal.

The Cobras’ third long-player is more refined and less bombastic than its predecessors. That’s not to say the band has been entirely tamed. It’s more that their sound has shifted closer to the R&B side of their roots and away from the punk tonalities.

Quantic is the stage name of electronic dance artist Will Holland. For Pushin’ On, he assembled a live band that brings blaxploitation funk into the 21st century. It’s filled with burbling bass lines, a stabbing horn section, sweeping strings and chunky guitars. This is proof that they haven’t yet built machines that can replace human musicians.

This charming pop trio’s electric organ-drenched songs feature just the right level of grit to keep the sing-along rockers rolling. It’s only a matter of time before the creamy pop number "Milk and Sugar" becomes a commercial for dairy products, the sugar industry or tea importers.

Pre-War Revenants (1897-1939) (Revenant): This is the last collection of material put together by John Fahey for release on his Revenant label before he died. It’s raw, just as Fahey liked it, and it’s essential for blues fans (or any fan of high-powered music that’s holier than church and weirder than hell).

Coltrane Live at the Half Note (Impulse): This is everything that Coltrane was - a limitless improviser and a tireless soloist. But it also shows off the chops of ’Trane’s gifted pianist, McCoy Tyner.

Live at the Blue Note (Half Note): Most of Carter’s recordings have been theme-driven, and the saxophonist is at his best when challenged. The slugfest between Carter and baritone saxman Hamiet Bluiett on R. Kelly’s "I Believe I Can Fly" makes this date worth the cover charge.

Saxophonist Sonny Rollins is 75 but still blows with all the piss and vinegar of a young horn player. On "Global Warming," Rollins’ improvisations are simply mystifying.

It’s refreshing to hear jazz musicians perform something other than jazz standards. Saxophonist James Carter, pianist Cyrus Chestnut, drummer Ali Jackson, and bassist Reginald Veal ambush alt-rock darlings Pavement with a jazz makeover.

The Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra ventured outside its comfort zone to tackle the complex, whimsical and often politically charged work of the late bassist Charles Mingus.

This is a definitive big-band record. Wilson’s arrangements are crisp; a mix of young and seasoned musicians pump life into such standards as "Love for Sale" and "So What."

This tribute to women of color isn’t loaded with trite lyrics; what’s beautiful is you believe Townsend genuinely admires his subject matter.

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