Steve Earle and the Del McCoury Band: "The Mountain" (Grapevine)

"You wanna be in the band, you gotta put your hat on . . ." Steve Earle is calling the shots as usual, and this time it is hat music - but not of the anaemic kind that has recently plagued Nashville. The hats are those worn by bluegrass players in the style of the genre's father, Bill Monroe, whose spirit pervades this latest memorable collection from Earle. He has enlisted the wonderful Del McCoury Band and a glittering guest cast (Emmy-lou Harris, Iris DeMent, Gillian Welch, Marty Stuart, Pete Rowan, Jerry Douglas) to help him mould the 14 tracks into a lively and engaging package. In true bluegrass tradition the playing is deliciously dextrous, particularly on mandolin and fiddle, while Earle's songs display his usual mixture of social concern and personal travail.

Joe Breen.

Cian: "Three Shouts From A Hill" (Independent)

From the tight flutter of flautist Brian Dukes' lips to the micro-thresher of Tim Murray's guitar accompaniment, this young Ennis-centred trad outfit send the familiar dance tunes running around like chickens on slimming tablets and hit the speed limit as often as possible. It certainly gives a nice pert edge to the sessions. Murray has a nice timbre to his voice, too, but puts more guitar elbow into the songs than vocal commitment. Dukes' new tunes aren't nearly as lived-in as the old stuff, while Padraig Rynne's are ecstatic variations on the duchas, particularly when he's playing them solo. He's a fine concertina player, with some lovely use of the chord buttons over the flying clods of Damien Quinn's bodhran. Bright, effortless-sounding music; I likes it more and more.

Mic Moroney.

Enchanted: "Praying for the Rain" (Twin Records)

It helps to drag deep on the waterbong to truly get to the heart of this woolly-headed album of worldy-gurdy New Age party music. Most tracks are spaced 10-minute jams of guitars, vague funk bass, gowping didgeridoos, jaw's harps and African percussion (with accordion and fiddle for some Celtic mist).

Occasionally, they offer sonically tasteful vocal moments but it is musically chaotic, goofing off on effects pedals, pitch-bends and Native American flutes, and overlaid by the kind of wailing paeans to trees and foghorns and sun-gods that would make a man reach for a sick-bag. Philip King's Hummingbird is disseminating this kind of material in this jurisdiction, but as for praying for rain - if these New Age travellers turn up in the flood-lands of the West, take a big stick to them.

Mic Moroney.