One record at a time: 517. Thomas Dolby - Astronauts & Heretics

This is the last Thomas Dolby album I needed on vinyl to complete the Music On Vinyl 2024 reissue set. This is numbered, gold-coloured 180g limited edition, also known as "the one I paid more than I care to admit for" after missing it the first time, only to watch it get reissued again in a different colour. Collector logic is a beautiful thing.

Released in 1992 this was Dolby’s last studio album until 2011, which gives an idea of the impact it had on his career. Having not learnt his lesson with his preceding album, Dolby chooses to change direction again by swapping electronic funk for louche, Louisiana-leaning stomps and soft rock. If you came here expecting wall-to-wall synth-pop bangers, you may feel like you’ve ordered a burger and been handed a salad.

The opener, "I Love You Goodbye", immediately announces that this is the album where Thomas Dolby calmly indicates, checks his mirrors, and then drives straight off the road. It’s jaunty, odd, and just familiar enough to make you think you recognise the tune, right up until you realise you’re driving across a field. 

I once had a music teacher who said that if you're writing a good song it will usually remind you of something else. "Silk Pyjamas" proves the inverse: you can also write a bad song that reminds you of something else. Only in this case you can’t quite remember what it reminds you of, and you’re not sure you want to. Not to my taste at all.

The single "Close But No Cigar" shows flashes of Dolby’s cleverness, but it is dressed in entirely the wrong clothes. The guest appearance by Eddie Van Halen on guitar only underlines how far the apple has fallen from the tree. For my money the best track is "That’s Why People Fall in Love", which comes closest to the traditional, scientifically minded synth-pop boffin persona Dolby was known for, though it’s very much an anomaly on the record. The closer "Beauty of a Dream" feels cinematic and reflective, but turns out to be one of those dreams that never really resolves in a satisfying manner.

To some extent "Astronauts & Heretics" is Dolby doing what he does: refusing to sit still. Yet the instrumentation on this album is impressively safe. So safe it practically comes with handrails. Many of us were drawn to Dolby for his wonderfully strange, inventive use of synthesisers and electronics, not because we were craving the sonic thrill of "competent drums" and guitarists with poodle perms. This record is the sound of someone casually flushing away their own USP and then shrugging as their career disappears. As an adventure it may be fulfilling to the artist, but not to the record buying public. This record is not for me, but I can respect the swing. 1.5/5

One record at a time: 516. Thomas Dolby - Aliens at my Buick!

I'm not sure I have ever understood this album. Not in the dramatic, "I don’t understand modern art" way, but in the practical, "this music makes me feel like I’m missing the instruction manual" way. The songs are often brilliant, and it was co-produced by Bill Bottrell, so it should have been a straightforward win for my ears. Instead, my ears initially asked for a second opinion and suggested we return to the safer shores of synth-pop.

Part of the issue is that "Aliens Ate My Buick!" does not feel like it is built around a big concept, or even a loose thread you can tug from track to track. "The Golden Age of Wireless" feels focused and "The Flat Earth" has a consistent mood. This one is more like a set of very competent ideas sharing the same postcode. They do not always speak to each other, but they are polite about it.

I think the problem was also the sharp change in musical direction. Dolby, previously known as the friendly neighbourhood tech geek, turns up here leaning hard into funk, reggae, and jazz. It is not a bad idea, but is a very noticeable one. It's a bit like changing your entire wardrobe and then acting surprised when someone sniggers at your kipper tie.

My first encounter with the album was the track "Airhead". It is a funny critique, packed with melody and hooks, and it also managed to confuse me, which is a useful reminder that craft and clarity are not the same thing. I enjoyed it, I replayed it, and then I wondered if I had missed a meeting where everyone agreed what kind of record this was meant to be.

Then there is "Hot Sauce", a funk song written by George Clinton, which sets expectations in a very specific direction. Lyrics like "Smother me in your hot sauce woman," sound strange coming from a politely enunciated Englishman. I cannot decide if this is quietly subversive or simply a mismatch between lyric and delivery. Either way, it is memorable. A bit like being offered a cup of tea by a bouncer.

"Budapest by Blimp" is a wistful epic, and it is about as close to the ‘old Dolby’ as this record gets. Picked guitars and slap bass cosy up to soft vocals before the whole thing suddenly erupts into a full-on funk fest, complete with epic guitar solos and chugging basslines. For some people it is the clear highlight, the one they would point to with the confidence of a man who wears a flat cap whilst mansplaining craft beer. Whilst I like it, it's is not quite my favourite.

Robin Leach’s voice has always grated on me, and I never watched any of the glossy television programmes he was associated with, so "The Key to Her Ferrari" initially left me rather cold. But if you judge Dolby at face value, you miss what he is doing. He likes the satire, the wink, and the little gap where you can supply your own meaning. If your meaning is "this is not for me", that is also valid.

My copy is a clear limited edition Music on Vinyl pressing from 2025, and it sounds excellent. Clean, punchy, and detailed enough to reward close listening without demanding it. It is worth spending time with this record. Eventually, it starts to make sense, or at least you stop needing it to. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 515. Thomas Dolby - The Flat Earth

In 1984, synthesizers weren’t just decorating pop songs, they were driving them: bright hooks, rubbery basslines, clockwork drum machines, and a gleaming promise that music can sound like the future. In that buzzing, neon-lit melee, Thomas Dolby dropped his second album, "The Flat Earth". If you think this record is all about the punchy, bounding brilliance of "Hyperactive!", you’re in for a surprise. Dolby, the thinking person’s electronic architect, delivers an album that brims with sly intelligence, heart, and more layers than a particularly ambitious trifle.

Let’s start with "Hyperactive!". If you’ve never heard this tune, I can only assume you’ve lived in a cave without electricity or you are under thirty years of age. It’s a riot: think caffeine-fuelled keyboards, a bassline with a life of its own, and Dolby’s gleeful vocals ricocheting about your brain for days. But here’s the twist: "The Flat Earth" is no one-hit-wonder. The album peels back its synth-pop skin to reveal a wealth of sophisticated songwriting and emotional depth. "Hyperactive!" may have been the hit, but it’s the rest of the album that shows what Dolby was really about.

Take "Screen Kiss", for example. Inspired by Dolby’s own experiences, this track sidesteps the neon whimsy for something far more poignant. It’s tender, emotive, and resonates with a vulnerability that’s rare in the electronic landscape. Dolby himself holds this track in high esteem, and it’s easy to see why: the song is a slow-burning heartache, painted in shimmering synths and wistful vocals. If you’ve ever felt a pang of nostalgia, this one will have you raiding the biscuit tin for comfort.

Now, if you’re a gear geek like me, the title track is a textbook in electronic innovation. Dolby conjures lush, cinematic soundscapes using a trusty TR-808 drum machine alongside the then-revolutionary Fairlight CMI. It’s a sonic palette that’s simultaneously retro and fresh, a bit like finding an old sci-fi paperback at the back of the shelf and realising it still predicts the future, only with better bass, naturally.

Don’t skip "I Scare Myself", either. This atmospheric favourite feels like a smoky lounge at 3am, all swirling shadows and hushed secrets. It’s a haunting, mesmerising cover that nestles perfectly amongst the album’s more energetic moments, further proof that Dolby’s range is as wide as his imagination. Listening to this one alone is highly recommended, preferably with moody lighting and a glass of something strong.

For anyone looking to add a splash of colour to their collection, this 2024 limited edition (750 copies) blue vinyl is a tempting little prize. I certainly thought so, which is why I paid rather more than I care to admit for a copy. Of course, this is Music On Vinyl: just as you track one down, they announce another run in a different colour, and you can almost hear the inevitable "blue reissue" quietly warming up in the wings.

So in conclusion, ‘The Flat Earth’ is a multilayered delight, serving up both pop fizz and emotional substance. Whether you’re here for the bangers or the ballads, Dolby delivers with his trademark wit and warmth. So slap on the album and let Dolby take you somewhere delightfully flat but never dull. 4/5

One record at a time: 514. Thomas Dolby - The Golden Age of Wireless

As I worked my way through my record collection for this blog, I realised there were a few holes I really should fill. One such gap was the work of Mr Thomas Dolby. My tastes were far too immature to appreciate the subtlety and guile of Dolby when albums like this first appeared. My young head was turned by whatever loud, shiny pop leapt out of the radio back in those days. Today I’ve grown fond of music that takes a second to unfold. I can now appreciate the intricacy and craft of Dolby’s work, along with the mischievous glint in his eye.

I rushed to buy this numbered silver vinyl when it was reissued in 2024, because it was limited to a thousand copies and I have the self-control of a magpie near a shiny bin lid. In hindsight, the panic was unnecessary as it has since reappeared as a similarly limited turquoise version, and the original silver is apparently limbering up for yet another return. This album clearly sells well enough to keep the pressing plant in fresh colours and furnish the marketing department at Music On Vinyl with smug grins.

"The Golden Age of Wireless" sounds like a clever bloke with a stack of ideas, a sharp ear, and just enough mischief to stop things getting precious. It sits in that sweet spot where the tunes are catchy enough to whistle at the kettle, but the details keep tapping you on the shoulder like, "Oi, did you hear what I just did there?"

Despite Dolby's reputation as a computer boffin, this album actually sounds like it was played rather than programmed. There are songs here that strut, songs that glide, and songs that behave like they have been left alone in a room with too many ideas and a fresh pot of tea. When the album goes for big pop moments, it lands them with a grin rather than a grimace. When it gets a bit odd, it does so with purpose.

My favourites are a neat little tour of Dolby’s range. They also make a strong case that he didn’t need the Fairlight to be inventive, because most of this record was already up and running before that chapter began. "Windpower" has a propulsive swagger, all clipped rhythms and crystalline PPG Waveterm sounds. Underneath, the Simmons drums keep shouldering the track forward until it lands, part punchline and part propulsion.

"Flying North" has that lovely sense of motion and air, the kind of track that makes you stare out of the window with a thoughtful expression, even if you are actually just stuck at the traffic lights outside Aldi. And "Europa and the Pirate Twins" is pure storybook pop: odd, cinematic, and confidently bonkers in the way only a properly talented writer can get away with. It is the musical equivalent of finding a treasure map in your coat pocket, then realising the treasure is a chorus you find yourself humming absent mindedly.

Lyrically, Dolby comes across as the kind of narrator you would trust to fix your toaster, then accidentally end up discussing philosophy with you while he is at it. The words are playful, sometimes sly, and often sharper than the music’s glossy surface suggests. It is pop with a brain, but thankfully not pop that makes you feel like you have accidentally enrolled in an evening class.

What surprised me most, listening now, is how well it holds up. Plenty of records from this era sound like they are stuck in a time capsule with a complimentary can of hairspray and an unsolicited shoulder pad. This one still feels alive. The arrangements have space, the hooks do their job, and the humour keeps it from turning into a po-faced exercise in cleverness.

Worth noting, especially if your brain automatically shouts the title in Magnus Pyke's voice, is that "She Blinded Me with Science" is not on this album (as per the original UK tracklisting). You might expect that to leave a crater, but it really doesn’t. "The Golden Age of Wireless" stands on its own perfectly well, like a dinner party that somehow goes better once the loudest guest has taken their leave.

If you have only ever known Thomas Dolby as "that fellow with the catchy single", this album is the friendly proof that he was doing far more than making a pop culture splash. Start with "Windpower", "Flying North", or "Europa and the Pirate Twins" and you may find yourself eyeing up your own household appliances as potential bandmates. 4/5

One record at a time: 513. Dollar - Shooting Stars

There are people who insist there’s no such thing as a “guilty pleasure”. If something takes your fancy, it does so for a reason, and you should be able to enjoy it without anyone lobbing judgement your way. Fair point. And yet, surely even that theory needs a stress test. My inner critic can’t help raising an eyebrow and making studious notes when it stumbles across "Shooting Stars" by Dollar in my collection. I could argue the record only set me back a few quid in a charity shop and that it contains four Top 20 hits. But one glance at the sleeve photo and my defence starts packing its bags, quietly, and in the dark.

This album is from 1979, so it predates Dollar’s commercial synth-pop zenith, the era when Trevor Horn took the production and songwriting by the lapels and gave them a good shake. Here, Christopher Neil sits in the producer’s chair and, to be fair, he does a tidy job. Solina strings and Minimoog noodling are blended with acoustic drums and disco-tinged bass guitar. The sound isn’t the issue. The problem is the songs, which too often feel like they turned up to the session, signed in, and then asked if they could leave early.

The strangely monotone title track is a good example of what’s going wrong. I’m fairly sure there’s a chord change in there somewhere, but it’s hardly Steely Dan. Still, it must have had some appeal as it broke the Top 20 in the UK. It’s just that I can’t hear it, and I’ve tried, in the way you try to enjoy a colleague’s holiday photos. The Vocoder on “Star Control” is fun and faintly reminiscent of ELO, but at six minutes it outstays its welcome by a good three minutes and a small apology.

On the flip side, “Who Were You with in the Moonlight” has a decent chorus, which is handy because the verses do their best to take the air out of the room. There’s some really nice slap bass popping up here and there, but the production is otherwise fairly traditional, like it’s wearing sensible shoes and calling it a night at half ten.

The big single here was “Love’s Got a Hold on Me”, which sounds like it absorbed more than a bit of the Bee Gees along the way and then refused to give it back. There are some nice synth tones woven into its middle-of-the-road exterior, but it never quite escapes the beige, and this one definitely isn’t for me. Another Top 10 hit from the record is a cover of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”. I’m a fan of covers that reframe a well-known song and add a bit of the artist’s personality, rather than simply photocopying the original and hoping nobody notices. There’s no doubt this track achieves that, and it’s one of the few moments where the album feels properly alive.

The rest of the tracklist mostly just occupies space. It’s hard to mount a serious defence for things like “Love Street”, or the full-on horrors of “I Need Your Love”. If you’re Dollar-curious, the hits will give you the gist. As for the album as a whole, let’s call it a fascinating artefact, best enjoyed at arm’s length, preferably from the other side of the charity-shop counter. Not so much a guilty pleasure, more a guilty purchase, the kind you justify on the walk home and quietly consider re-donating a week later. 1.5/5

One record at a time: 512. Digitalism - Idealism

Back in 2007, a few life events had me taking refuge in music, which remains one of my healthier coping mechanisms. Conveniently, it also felt like electronic music was having a proper revival at this time with Gui Boratto, Justice and Simian Mobile Disco stepping into the light and soundtracking my minor existential wobble. One of the albums I played to death during this time was "Idealism" by German duo Digitalism. I missed the original vinyl release, so this 2024 triple-disc neon green edition was never going to be a "nice to have". It was essential.

The album lands right in the sweet spot between high-energy electro house and the indie-rock habits of the mid-2000s, back when bands like Klaxons and Kasabian decided they quite fancied dance music, nicked a few moves, and tried to pass it off as rock ’n’ roll. Digitalism flip that idea on its head. This is the dance lot borrowing a bit of guitar, feeding it into the laptop, and somehow making it sound like the correct life choice.

If you ask the internet, "Pogo" is the headline track, but it has never been my favourite because it edges a little too far into indie territory for my taste. If you want Digitalism with the synths turned up and the guitars politely shown the door, "Jupiter Room" is the one. It is easily among their best productions, a huge, bruising anthem that still hits with the same reckless confidence today as it did when it was released almost twenty years ago (gulp, is it really that long ago?).

I also like the opening track "Magnets" and the bleepy chic of "Zdarlight" is hard to resist, but it is another track that kicks the door in. "Idealistic" is all squalling synths, clipped beats and gloriously overcooked electric piano. If you have neighbours, this is the track that tests how well you actually get on with them. At the end of the flip side "Echoes" is a firm favourite of mine as it balances melody and mood in a way I would normally associate with the calm competence of Röyksopp. This is the sort of track that compels you dance with a smile on your face. 

On the second disc, “The Pulse” is another cracking electronic cut, all shimmer and forward motion, and it keeps the album moving along nicely. Aside from "Pogo" the only other track I don't like much is the disposable indie-rock clutter “Anything New”, which feels like it has wandered in from a different record and is now pretending it was invited. This edition also throws in five previously unreleased bonus tracks from the original sessions, which is basically the musical equivalent of finding you’ve still got half a portion of chips hidden under your fish. Pass the ketchup.

So, does Idealism still hold up? Absolutely. It is loud, bright, slightly chaotic, and impossible to sit still through, even if your knees now make the kind of noises that were not a problem in 2007. The neon green triple-vinyl reissue feels fitting for an album this vivid, and the extra session tracks are a welcome bonus rather than padding. If you have any affection for the mid-two thousands electro revival, this is a no-brainer. Just clear a bit of space on the shelf, and maybe warn the neighbours. 4/5

One record at a time: 511. Depeche Mode - The Singles 81→85

I first heard this album on cassette via a Goodmans SW850 ghetto blaster, sometime around 1988. Even the muddy sound of cheap speakers couldn't ruin the magic of the songs coming from that borrowed tape. As a gateway to the world of Depeche Mode, this album was hard to beat in the eighties. Having only ever owned it on CD, I recently decided to buy a copy on LP, because who doesn’t like paying through the nose for a format that includes fewer songs than all the others?

To listen to "The Singles 81 to 85" is to witness a remarkable transformation. This isn’t just a collection of hits; it is a chronological map of four young men from Basildon, outgrowing the neon glow of the early 80s and stepping into a darker, more industrial shadow that they would eventually come to own. While this album stops short of the majestic "Black Celebration" and "Music for the Masses" albums, you can sense them approaching, like electricity in the air.

The journey begins with the pure, crystalline synth-pop of the Vince Clarke era. Tracks like "Dreaming of Me" and the immortal "Just Can’t Get Enough" are relics of a simpler time, unabashedly bright, melodic, and full of youthful naivety. At this stage, Depeche Mode were the choirboys of the synthesiser, crafting pop so sugary it felt as though it could float away. Yet they were good. Really good.

But the departure of Clarke, and the rise of Martin Gore as the primary songwriter, changed everything. You can almost hear the band’s loss of innocence as the tracklist progresses. By the time we reach "See You" and "Leave in Silence", the melodies remain, but the atmosphere begins to chill. There’s a newfound yearning in Dave Gahan’s vocal, and a hint of the baritone gravitas that would later fill stadiums.

The mid-point of the collection is where the "Depeche Mode sound" truly hardens into its definitive form. With "Everything Counts", the band traded bright synth-pop for industrial bite. They began sampling the world around them, clanging metal, grinding gears, and the cold reality of corporate greed. It was a bold, brilliant pivot. They became an unlikely bridge between the dancefloor and the factory floor.

Then come the heavy hitters, "People Are People" and "Master and Servant". These weren't just pop songs; they were sonic experiments that pushed the boundaries of what electronic music could say. They were provocative, metallic, and strangely soulful.

The collection culminates in the haunting "Shake the Disease", a song that serves as the perfect bridge to their "Black Celebration" era. It is moody, sophisticated, and deeply human, a long way from the bubbly teens of 1981.“The Singles 81 to 85” proves that Depeche Mode didn’t just survive the 80s; they redesigned them. It’s the sound of a band finding its soul in the machinery, and it remains an essential masterclass in how to evolve without ever losing your grip on a great hook. Unfortunately this album is also a reminder that they later relinquished that grip in their shift towards pseudo rock-god status. 4/5