In a pirate television (pirate television!) broadcast from 1992, a large group of Russian youths in flat top haircuts and leather jackets discuss Depeche Mode's appeal. “It's romantic style,” suggests one with absolute assurance, “it's music for the lonely.” It is just one touching, funny moment in a film packed with them, but it also sums up what The Posters Came From The Walls is about. This “music for the lonely” by a band of awkward blokes from Basildon has brought this group of young people together, as it has all the legions of devoted lovers of the band that we see throughout the 58 minutes.

Rihanna, Russian Roulette (Mercury)

I strongly suggest anyone who believes the sound of US mainstream pop is somehow homogenised and safe take another look at the current charts. Standing over them like android colossi are Lady Gaga and Rihanna - who not only look exactly as pop stars were always going to look "in the future", but sound apocalyptically insane. This song is in the standard melodramatic modern power-ballad style of writer/producer Ne-Yo, but the combination of Rihanna's piercing voice and the lyrics that circle in the non-specific manner of nightmares around death, obsession, loyalty and points of no return - with (no shit, Sherlock) a heavy whiff of sado-masochism - make it an incredibly harrowing but addictive listen.  The flip side to "Umbrella"'s promise of protection, it's scary pop music for scary times.  "Russian Roulette" on Amazon. "Umbrella" on Amazon. (JM)

Little, it seems, falls beyond the musical compass of Ryuichi Sakamoto. After cutting his teeth with synthpop pioneers Yellow Magic Orchestra, Sakamoto branched out like a one-man synthesis of Messrs Byrne, Bowie and Eno, investigating world and renaissance music, chamber pieces, orchestral works and movie soundtracks.

It’s girls’ night out. Walk in, the waves of scent and hairspray go right up your nose. And now here’s Lily, sloping on with a half-blonde half-black hairdo like a cross between Nancy Sinatra, an Afghan hound and a very pretty Jimmy Savile. As she crosses the Vegas-style stage, there’s even a touch of Wendy Richard about the high-pitched squeak and bum-wiggling dance. She’s wearing a tiny black sequined number and suggestive seams, and after a lame "Hello London! Is it Friday night or what?", she apologises because her tights are falling down.

"Welcome to the second night of my depressing acoustic tour," said Malcolm Middleton by way of introducing his set. The statement plays on his well-established reputation for miserabilism. Later on he asked the audience, "Enjoying yourselves?" to which a smattering of "yeahs" could be heard. "Then I'm not doing my job properly," deadpanned Middleton.

Charm. Lisa Hannigan has it in bucketfuls. An unusual charm, like her unique take on her self-styled “plink plonk rock”. Something homely, warm and very unshowbiz. Whereas her American counterparts might lose themselves in fad diets and obscure activism, Hannigan knits and writes blogs on her favourite recipes. She shouldn’t be a pop star at all. One might be tempted to describe her as being “girl next door”, except nobody really lives next door to anyone this cute and talented.

There are occasional days when the Royal Festival Hall really feels like the people's palace it was always meant to be – and yesterday, with its free concert of live improvisation mixed with dubstep and electronica in the RFH bar, was absolutely one of them. Rave kids, pensioners, parents with babes in arms and some particularly energetic school-age children all proved that given the right context music the border between “challenging” music and entertainment is more porous than some might like to believe.

Watching some jazz musicians play live, you're made acutely aware of the intense effort that goes into their performance. Conveying a non-verbal message that roughly translates as “this shit is really hard, you know”, tell-tale signs include the pained rictus of deep concentration, the sotto voce grunts, groans and exhalations, and the self-communing, head-down-to-the-floor mode adopted for solos of five minutes or longer.

Melodically rich, harmonically daring, rhythmically subtle, pianist Gwilym Simcock's quartet piece, “Longing To Be”, which kicked off last night's Queen Elizabeth Hall gig was one of the most jaw-dropping performances I've heard at this year's London Jazz Festival.

Why aren’t more bands like Transglobal Underground? This is not a fatuous question. After all, we live in a joyously multicultural society so one would expect more ethnic influences would have seeped into the mainstream by now.  But no, apart from some African guitar riffs adding a veneer of ethnicity to the occasional white college-boy rock group, and some bangra beats spicing up the odd dancefloor hit, the UK and US pop scene seem on the whole to remain hermetically sealed against such exotic musical DNA.