If it ain't broke then why fix it? Fittingly, Couldn't Have Said It Better-Meat Loaf's first studio album since 1995's Welcome to the Neighbourhood-is squarely in the lung-belting rock-operatic mould of dynamic former classics such as Bat Out of Hell-that's to say none of it is a million miles away from Vegas-era Elvis, The Rocky Horror Show and what German composer Richard Wagner might have sounded like if he rode around on a large motorbike courting ladies in his favourite frilly shirt. Yes, in Meat Loaf's wide-of-girth pop world all songs are super-animated epics in which lusty choirs soar, hearts are thumped and hankies are wrung, where grand pianos are assaulted in a manner which would make Jerry Lee Lewis flinch and where the production work makes Phil Spector's Wall of Sound look like a garden fence. But that's what folks like about the big fella-Meat Loaf doesn't do "understatement". At one end of the scale, the mighty soft-metal title track-one of a number of songs copenned by James Michael and Motley Crue's Nikki Sixx-is so overbearingly beefy it can only be likened to being seduced on the sofa by someone from World Wrestling Entertainment while the rollicking, testosterone-dripping over-exuberance of "Tear Me Down"-replete with a loopy, spoken-word Texan history segment-is essentially Robbie Williams' "Let Me Entertain You" in a hairy chest wig. At the other end of the spectrum, even soppy ballads such as "Did I Say That" are about as subtle as an avalanche. Couldn't Have Said It Better is noisy polished fun all round. It is audibly apparent that Mr Loaf still possesses meat in abundance. -Kevin Maidment.

One Wild Night? Well, that's not strictly true, as this live album was recorded on several different nights at a series of Bon Jovi concerts spanning three decades. But why be pedantic when the result is a live album that effectively doubles as a greatest hits collection? Bon Jovi's songs have always sounded tailor-made for stadiums and arenas and the choices here all sound bigger than life, from classic fists-in-the-air rockers ("Livin' On A Prayer", "Bad Medicine", "You Give Love A Bad Name", "Runaway") to lighters-in-the-air numbers ("Keep The Faith", "Wanted Dead Or Alive", "Something To Believe In"). The career-re-launching single "It's My Life" sounds right at home here, as do two great cover versions: Neil Young's "Rockin' In The Free World" (recorded, appropriately enough, in Johannesburg in 1995) and the Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays" (performed with Sir Bob Geldof). One Wild Night is the perfect companion piece to Bon Jovi's Best Of collection Crossroad, only this time, there's an audience. -Robert Burrow.

In All This Time Sting performs in Italy in front of a select, sympathetic audience drawn from his fan club. As often in recent years, he revisits much old material, often radically recasting it. Such classics as "Roxanne" and "Don't Stand So Close To Me", originally notable for their energy and attack, have mellowed with age, acquiring some new chords, stripped down instrumentation and a rhapsodic, lyrical character. Some may miss the old vitality, but elsewhere Sting hits harder with a loose-limbed Afro-Cuban reading of "Set Them Free", a slamming "Every Breath You Take" and the shuffling boogie of "Brand New Day". As ever, Sting's soft spot for jazz, always evident in the sophistication of his writing, is given flesh in his top-drawer sidemen, among them Christian McBride, Chris Botti and England's own Jason Rebello. Jazz also leads him to turn "Roxanne" into a low-down medium swinger with a beautifully gravelly and sadly short-lived trombone solo from Clark Gayton. There are times when Sting's voice is perhaps over-stretched (when for example he affects an Armstrong-like growl in "Moon Over Bourbon Street") and there's a sense of tokenism in the too-brief glimpses of his talented sidemen, but the delighted audience on this balmy Tuscan evening show no sign of dissent. -Mark Gilbert.

As promised, this long-awaited full-length collaboration bears the hallmarks of Bacharach's classic 1960s work with the likes of Dionne Warwick-full-force melodies, traditional pop instrumentation, clever and occasionally pained lyrics. Painted from Memory finds Costello and Bacharach revelling in their gifts on a dozen tracks that range from concise under-three-minute gems ("I Still Have That Other Girl", which sounds like the great lost Chuck Jackson single) to sprawling art songs ("Toledo", the pair's Grace of My Heart contribution "God Give Me Strength"). On the latter Costello meets his match in a co-writer who knows when to let the excesses flow and when to stem the tide; his occasionally straining vocals only add to the album's heightened effect. The result is some instant classics that stand head and shoulders above much of Costello's 1990s work. -Rickey Wright.

Despite the signals in other recent Clapton recordings, the title track of Reptile will have some of his followers checking their CD decks. It's not blues, nor reggae, but a very plausible take on smooth bossa nova guitar, redolent of George Benson or Ronny Jordan. Clapton's voice, not always convincing in the past, is also on exceptional form, if not reinvented: it's almost always resonant, sure-footed and tuneful, particularly on his growling cover of Ray Charles's "Come Back Baby". Stylistic departures appear elsewhere too, in the samba of "Believe In Life" and the jazz balladry of "I Want A Little Girl", but the blues remains Clapton's cornerstone. It's there in whatever style he plays, especially in tunes like "Got You On My Mind" and "Broken Down". Fans of his guitar-playing might wish he'd stepped back from the mike more often, but on any terms this is one of Slowhand's strongest albums for many years. -Mark Gilbert.

Randy Newman's 1974 concept album explores the modern contradictions and early 20th century history of the Deep South with his bracing mix of irony, affection, and empathy for twisted psyches and hungry, venal dreams. What sounds like Southern gothic material plays as a virtuosic balancing act between light comedy and political broadside, shivering with moments of unexpected pathos: "Birmingham" is a booster anthem, "A Wedding in Cherokee County" a tableau of dysfunctional romance at once grotesque and touching, "Guilty" a probing confession of addiction, and "Louisiana 1927" a Copeland-esque tragedy of the ravages of that year's historic flood. Capping it all is his classic, double-edged indictment of racism, "Rednecks", which turns the knife back on smug outsiders blind to their own prejudices. -Sam Sutherland.

Tom Waits wasn't always the intense, even bizarre pop expressionist he'd become by the 1980s. Before the brilliant dementia of his later work, Waits was just another soft-spoken troubadour with a wicked sense of humour and a special fondness for jazz, blues, and the Beat generation. The roots of his music are revealed within the 13 tracks of The Early Years, a collection of previously unreleased 1971 demo tapes. Waits never intended these recordings for public consumption. But the wise guy pathos of "I'm Your Late Night Evening Prostitute" and the intentionally bad puns of "Had Me a Girl" hold up well as intelligent, charming, early snapshots of an important artist. -Steve Appleford.

That Up exists at all is faintly miraculous. Over the past seven years, with guests including Youssou N'Dour, Peter Green, Blind Boys of Alabama and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Peter Gabriel has held recording sessions in Senegal, Atlanta, Singapore, the French Alps and on a boat on the Amazon, as well as spending lengthy sojourns in his own Real World studios. Having written and prepared over 150 songs, it's amazing that Gabriel's managed to cut this huge body of work down to just 11 tracks. It's still more amazing that these tracks should be so consistent, and so contemporary. This quality springs from a thoughtful (and rare) layering process, with Gabriel combining his usual tribal rhythms with complex backing vocals, myriad samples, rock guitars, deep piano and-crucially-electronic sound effects. Indeed, the opening "Darkness" begins like the Prodigy before slipping into a quiet discussion of vulnerability and fear. Elsewhere, there is the funky gospel-rock of "Burn You Up, Burn You Down", the dreamy, Peter Hammill-like fragility of "The Drop" and the vocal pyrotechnics and orchestral heights of "Signal to Noise". Throughout, Gabriel uses water metaphors, from droplets to oceans, to examine human troubles and put forward his positivist message. It's all brilliantly done-sophisticated and soulful both. The man's a marvel, and this is a big, big hit. [+]