Some artists chase the mainstream like a bus they've already missed. Julie Paschke, by every indication of her work, simply stood at a different stop altogether and built her own timetable. "Nowhere," the latest single and video in her remarkable bimonthly procession of releases, finds her once again working from the most private of studios — her own home in Melbourne — and from the most private of impulses: the conviction that a life lived sideways to convention is not a deficiency but a discipline.

Three tracks, two of them recycled and one of them new, and the whole exercise lands with the unhurried confidence of someone who has stopped trying to prove anything. Amanda Emblem made her case last September with *The Wood*, a ten-track album that stretched out, took its time, and asked listeners to settle in for the long haul. This EP does the opposite. It is *The Wood* with the fat trimmed and the bones rearranged, and the surgery suits it.

Heartbreak songs usually arrive in one of two postures: prostrate or vengeful. Neo Brightwell skips both and walks straight onto the dancefloor instead, which turns out to be the more dangerous move. "Break Me Like a Promise," the opening shot from his forthcoming album *Burn Bright, Stay Free*, doesn't grieve a love affair so much as throw it a leaving party and insist everyone dance properly.

Every so often, a song arrives that feels less like a new release and more like an old friend finally showing up at your door — weathered, road-worn, and carrying stories you somehow already knew. Erik Neimeijer's *Birds Of A Feather* is precisely that kind of song. The Dutch singer-guitarist, riding the momentum of his soul-rock single *Green Eyed Soul*, has chosen to close his album of the same name with a track that has been gestating for over two decades, and the patience paid off. This is music that has been allowed to breathe, to settle, to find its own shape — and it sounds like it.

The finest songwriting always begins with a question the writer cannot answer alone. Johnny Cash ruminated on sin and redemption. Springsteen has spent five decades interrogating the American dream. And now Mark Winters, an aerospace engineer from Texas who moonlights — or perhaps it is the engineering that is the moonlight — as a singer-songwriter, poses his own quiet, essential question: Can I rise? Will my roots hold me down? That it takes a song co-written with his son to surface the question properly tells you everything you need to know about what "Can I Rise" is really doing.

The most subversive thing about *Fun Intended*, the debut album from Chicago's DadJoke, is how completely it refuses to condescend. Not to children, obviously — children's music that talks down to its audience is so commonplace as to be unremarkable. No, what Reminick refuses is the more pernicious condescension: the kind that assumes "music for small people" must therefore be small music. This album is enormous. Ludicrously, thrillingly, almost aggressively enormous.

There is a particular kind of album that refuses to announce itself. It doesn't arrive with a manifesto or a provocateur's flourish. It simply appears, quietly, like a letter pushed under a door — and you only realise its weight after you've already read it twice.

Power, as any good rock and roll record understands, is its own kind of comedy. The suited man at the podium, trembling with borrowed authority, mouthing words written by someone else about a crisis managed by no one — it's farcical theatre, and Dexter Flew have clocked it with the precision of people who've been watching very carefully from the cheap seats.

Let's get one thing straight before we go any further: the story of Frank Gusenberg is not one that invites subtlety. Shot fourteen times in a Chicago garage on the morning of 14th February 1929, he was found breathing by police who arrived expecting nothing but bodies. "Who shot you?" they asked. "Nobody shot me," he replied. He was dead within hours. The man took fourteen bullets to the chest, refused to name Al Capone's hitmen, and died with his loyalty intact and his lips sealed. If that story doesn't demand a song that rattles the walls, nothing does.

There is a peculiar audacity to the cover version, when done with genuine artistic intent. Not the karaoke audacity of note-for-note reproduction — that wan exercise in nostalgia which serves only to remind us how much better the original was — but the audacity of reinterpretation: of taking another writer's beloved architecture, respectfully demolishing a few load-bearing walls, and rebuilding something that illuminates both the source and the interpreter simultaneously. Rusty Reid, Seattle-based Texan by birth and temperament, has constructed his entire fifth album, *Lone Stardust: Masterworks of Texas Songwriters*, around precisely this kind of courageous creative audacity. The album's lead single, "All Through My Days," demonstrates just how deftly that gamble can pay off.