Gawd help us, Trev, lighten up a bit. For those that don’t know, Trev Williams acts as a sort of one-man Faringdon music scene (at least since the promising Belarus went south), turning out earnest acoustic laments by the barrel-load. I found his early stuff dull, detecting nothing but sophomoric self-pity, but enjoyed his full-length ‘Guiding Star’ record, mostly for its subtle arrangements and excellent vocal harmonies

Sadly, for this demo, Williams has junked all that, preferring to fly solo, with pretty insipid results. ‘Do you know me?’ at least shows Trev in good voice, displaying the acuity of a young Cat Stevens, but the tune itself is nothing but the usual compendium of sad-sack singer-songwriter commonplaces.The level doesn’t improve with ‘Hide and Seek’, a short minor-key dirge, which nevertheless feels too long.

Even Williams’ strong vocal ability is defeated by the truly awful piano ballad, ‘Honey trap’, during which he sounds like his nuts are being periodically scraped with a cheesegrater, and the tune ends with a desultory blues solo. Huey Smith he ain’t.

It may be a bit rough to diss these songs too much, given they are clearly very rough demos, and Williams’ strengths as an arranger haven’t been brought to bear on them yet. Still, even making allowances, the tunes seem far inferior to his ‘Girlfriend’, ‘I did it for you’ and others. Perhaps he is more concerned with his group, The Follys. But I would nonetheless be worried about the lack of maturity in the lyrics and the musical predictability. Williams, like Chris Martin, seems a man with nothing interesting to say, but compelled to write songs in any case. This is the sound of a potentially decent singer-songwriter treading water.

“8-Hour Jazz Marathon: 2 songs will be played”. Not the best Simpsons joke in the world, but you know what they’re driving at.That is, that most normal human beings see jazz as esoteric, indulgent and elitist. Cropredy four-piece, The Colins of Paradise (no relation) are none of these things, although their brand of smooth jazz-pop is intimidatingly slick.

‘139′, which opens this EP, highlights the classy tenor playing of Jon Seagroatt and the summery vocal nuances of Bobbie Watson, the latter combining the coolness of Sade, the effervesence of Cyndi Lauper and an airiness seemingly all her own.The tune itself is functional funk, anchored by an icily solid rhythm section, and is full of scary modulations, apparently designed to overburden the humble rock donkey.On repeated listening it becomes more enjoyable, but I must warn that there is a bass solo at the end.Did I hear someone say “Commercial Death?”

‘Be Still’, a syrupy Rhodes piano-led confection, is a little glutinous for my taste, but provides balm to soothe the senses of bolshie girlfriends, so it has a place in the world, I reckon. I like the chord changes in the chorus, but there is more lyrical repetition than in an eighteenth-century opera aria.

The closing ‘Pearls’ bears a significant resemblance to Lauper’s ‘Time after Time’, before loping cheerfully into periods of jazz-disco. Come again? Yes, it’s a double tenor-sax solo, but you can dance to it! Genius. Bobbie’s singing is urgent and thrilling, and although the song itself is an unwieldy beast, it is essentially loveable. Think the aardavark or duck-billed platypus of jazz-funk.

The Colins have plenty of lively ideas, strong musicianship and an excellent lead singer. I’m not sure many folk on the Oxford scene will get what they are doing-sometimes they seem to playing Channel 5 shag-music and sometimes elevator muzak. But in between the cheesy bits, there are some cool tunes. Perhaps Jazz isn’t a four-letter word after all.

Jeez, some of this is pretty painful. And that’s a shock, as I’ve heard Bethany Weimers live and found her impressive. She certainly has the attributes- an ultra-flexible clear alto voice, decent guitar and piano chops and a couple of decent songs. Some acts sound good on record and can’t cut it live- it is rare when the converse is true.

The EP starts with ‘I’ll be Waiting’, a gloomy pastoral fit for a modern-day Jane Eyre, consisting of vocal, acoustic and some plangent but basic violin. Bethany sings the opening section like a young Joan Baez but then ruins things by trying to sound like Grace Slick or PJ Harvey in the louder passages and the effect is overwrought and harsh. This forms a pattern for the rest of the record: when she underplays she’s rather good, but when she tries to raise the emotional level the quality of the singing plummets.

’Weapons and Things’is a good song and works well live. There is a genuine creepiness to some of the passages, which sound sophomoric on paper but when they are rendered by Bethany in an obsessive mutter make me glad I am not an ex-boyfriend:

‘ And oh, how my hate for you would put you first in line if I had a gun! It’s a good thing in England there are laws against weapons and killing and things.’

But again the high notes on record are pretty unpleasant to listen to. Whether it’s a technical problem or whether she’s striving too hard for effect, the result will send casual listeners running to the hills.

Much better is ‘Hold On’, a basic but effective torch ballad in which Weimers’ singing is throttled back a notch or two. As a song, it works OK on acoustic guitar, but might benefit by some subtle production: if the guy that produced Fiona Apples’s Tidal record is at a loose end, perhaps Weimers should sign him up

The record ends with ‘Trigger’ an obvious and tiresome anti-war rant. The only memorable thing about it is Weimers’ curious but energetic piano playing, a bizarre hybrid of Bob Dylan and Rachmaninov.

Bethany Weimers clearly has talent, but at the moment it is immature, unguided talent. The lyrics are vivid but unsophisticated, the arrangements are too basic for a modern audience and she doesn’t seem to be in control of her singing at certain points. Lots to fix then , but plenty of promise too.

“It was country as hell. But it was funky country”. Thus Ronnie Hawkins (the godfather of rock ‘n roll, if you didn’t know) on ‘Music from Big Pink’, the groundbreaking debut of his erstwhile protégés, The Band. The Hawk was a wise old bird, knowing that country music needed an injection of new values and influences if it wasn’t to go the way of Doo-wop, skiffle etc. and become a museum curio. Although The Epstein on this, their debut album, rarely sound like the Canadian masters, they too have treated country music reverently, but have thrown a fair few wild ideas into the mix. The results are mostly wonderful.

A good example is ‘The Dress She Wore’ which starts like an old Tennessee waltz but develops in odd but satisfying ways. For example, frontman Olly Wills sings the song like an English ballad rather than something you might hear in some bloodletting bar in Mississippi (there are even moments that suggest The Moody Blues!) and later on the backup singers transform the material into a sort of celestial carnival ride. Like The Band, The Epstein know the importance of harmony singing in this kind of music and the singing here and elsewhere is fabulous: otherwordly but human, massive and yet mystifyingly lonely. Jon Berry’s slide guitar meshes with these voices beautifully.

These qualities are also present in the beautiful little tone poem, ‘6:06p.m.’, which seems to capture the pain and resignation of country music perfectly, in the way that certain Grandaddy songs used to. It’s tiny, and you might miss it on first listen, but it forms a lovely interlude at the heart of the record.

‘Dance the Night Away’ owes a slight debt to The Mavericks (not least the title), but its incorporation of various Mexican and Latino influences prevent the song becoming too stereotyped. Notable among these is the fine Mariachi trumpet solo near the end. Altogether, the song is rather generic, but it’s undeniably vivid and romantic.

Other songs represent examples of almost pure Americana. ‘Leave Your Light On’ is old-timey string band music, whereas ‘Black Dog’ is an infectious goodtime stomp, full of cackling banjos and sly fiddle flourishes. On these songs, the group are competing directly with an entire subsection of the American music industry, but the quality of the songwriting should make converts over there as well as over here. My own personal favourite is ‘I’ll be Gone’, which comes close to a Lynrd Skynrd tribute song, but the beauty of the instrumental work, backup vocals and especially the stoic toughness of Wills’ lead vocal triumphantly trumps criticism.

The only disappointment on the record comes at the last. My first encounter with the group was on hearing a rollicking number called “nyc blues”. It is track 10 on the album, but in a radically slowed down and laid-back form. Pretty as it is, I can’t help thinking of Eric Clapton’s lame-o version of Layla that became so depressingly popular. Rev it up again, boys!

Still, this is small beer compared to the excellence of the album as a whole. The Epstein is a top-rate band and they have produced a record that is moving, playful, energising and sincere. They will have to fight a powerful prejudice against country music from UK music fans and press, but judging from their current popularity (they played Glastonbury this year), they have all the equipment they need to climb the mountain.