Although a relatively new name around these parts, Kathleen Edwards has been alt-country’s nearly girl for almost a decade in her native Canada (as well as the doyenne of many campus radio stations across the States). But praise goes much further. Dylan likes her almost as much as Sheryl Crow, the Stones have had her on tour and in fact almost everyone who listens to her enjoys the way she injects warmth and lightness into musical styles normally bowing under the weight of earnestness. Voyager, her fourth LP, has an even easier manner than before. It’s good, but not quite as existing fans might expect.

Back in 2003 Edwards wrote a tune called “One More Song the Radio Won’t Like”. This, however, is full of songs the radio certainly would like. Not over here. But those FM stations in the States that take you out of the big cities into the big country before giving way to Jesus channels. Commentators on the other side of the pond have made a certain amount of the record’s co-production by Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon (with whom Edwards is now romantically linked). However, there’s no great change of style here, more an evolution from alt-country to pop-Americana, with yards of heartache and yearning.

This is Edwards’ first album since the break-up of her marriage and is split between regret and the optimism of her new relationship. From the up-tempo AOR of opener “Empty Threat” to the misty-eyed seven-minute closing duet with Norah Jones, there’s hardly a moment that doesn’t capture a sense of wide North American plains and the lives of those who zig-zag across them. Vernon himself lends vocals to “A Soft Place to Land” and “House Full of Empty Rooms”, but it is with the crunching guitars of “Mint” that the album reaches its zenith, particularly when Edwards sings “God doesn’t know you like I do.” Best listened to on the open road, this is a record that improves every time you put it on.

 

For about an hour in Hammersmith last October it seemed that all 2011's new music had coagulated into some kind of supernova and was exploding on stage. There were two drum kits, nine musicians, and a nerdy, lanky man singing like an alien. The support act had told us to expect something special and was it ever: Bon Iver’s extraordinary live reimagining of their bucolic, eponymous album took in folk, prog, soul, metal and avant garde. It also pretty much embodied my review year.

Decibel for decibel Justin Vernon's folkies were now up there with Queens of the Stone Age who'd brought the Roundhouse down in May, or the Manics who'd relived their garage-rock days in Brixton in January. And if the Welsh rockers were earnestly exhilarating, QOTSA took their thrills to an alternative high with mainman Josh Homme (pictured above) acting like a shaman to an audience of punks, rockers, and stoners.

2011 opened for me, however, quietly, with two particularly magical CD releases from female singer-songwriters. PJ Harvey later won a second Mercury award with her very worthy Let England Shake. However, as good as Harvey's record was, Joan As Policewoman's husky homage to Seventies' soul, the underrated The Deep Field, was even better. The Mercury award nominations (in July) also included two remarkable odes to two small fishing villages. Fom Devon, Joseph Mount’s Metronomy brought us the seductive The English Riviera (my CD of the year) and from Fife, elf-like King Creosote teamed up with composer John Hopkins for the sublimely evocative Diamond Mine.

Even in a bumper year for Xmas albums there comes a point where you really don’t “wish it could be Xmas every day”. After the third helping of turkey, and feeling like a cracker that has been well and truly pulled, it’s only natural to long for a glimpse of summer. Metronomy’s third album is just that. A long, hazy, coming-of-age summer on the Devon coastline.

The English Riviera shared a mercury nomination with King Creosote and Jon Hopkin’s gorgeous arthouse long player, Diamond Mine, described as a “fictional soundtrack to a romanticised life led in a small Scottish coastal village”. In retrospect the two records had much more in common than being thrown together in the Mercury hat; seasisde themes, a sense of languid nostalgia and the skilful way they blended electronica and acoustica. But the Metronomy record was younger and sunnier, even if with its tea-dance Wurlitzers it was also rooted in somewhere shabby and slightly out of place.

On some of his earlier outings Joseph Mount sounded like he was essentially composing electric pieces.But this year he wanted to make what he’d created on his Mac sound much more like a pop band. And the resulting sound was like a much more attractive, sophisticated version of the XX with an added whiff of sea breeze, and the aftertaste of candyfloss.  Even if you don’t have the album, you are almost certain to have heard “We Broke Free”, “Everything Goes my Way” and “Corinne” in the background of fashionable cafes or played over links on the telly.

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