One record at a time: 562. Soulwax - All Systems Are Lying

After the success of “From Deewee”, I had high hopes for Soulwax’s 2025 album “All Systems Are Lying”. This limited-edition double album, pressed on  transparent red vinyl, certainly looks impressive. Unfortunately, when I first dropped the needle, the music itself left me feeling rather less excited. It was not an immediate disaster, but neither did it deliver the rush I had been expecting.

The album does not really catch fire until the TB-303 begins to burble through the second track, “Run Free”. At that point, the record briefly finds the sort of pulse and electronic mischief I had been waiting for but relinquishes it too readily. “New Earth Time” also has some appealing touches, but too much of the album settles into repetition without creating enough tension, momentum or surprise. I have no objection to repetitive music. Much of the music I love is built around loops and patterns, but repetition only works when the thing being repeated is interesting enough to justify the attention. Here, the grooves are expertly assembled and the production is undeniably polished, yet too often the songs drift past without leaving much behind.

“Gimmie A Reason” is one of the stronger moments, with a catchy melody and synth strings that seem to hang in the ether, giving the track a pleasing sense of atmosphere. It is the sort of song that suggests the album might finally be gathering itself together. Instead, the middle is clogged with disposable avant-garde interludes that feel more like obstacles than experiments. Eventually, we emerge on the other side with more song-based tracks such as “The False Economy” and “Idiots In Love”. These provide some welcome shape, although parts of them sound alarmingly indie and do not contain quite enough electronics for my taste. A couple of shorter tracks bring the set to a close, but they do so in the same underwhelming manner that has come to characterise much of the album. All four sides end in a locked groove, which is a neat physical flourish, even if the music has already spent rather too much time going round in circles.

None of this makes “All Systems Are Lying” a bad record. It is expertly produced, occasionally atmospheric and home to a handful of genuinely good songs. The problem is that the highlights are too few and the material between them rarely demands another listen. Everything sounds carefully constructed, but the album lacks the irresistible hook, strange detail or sudden jolt of energy that might pull me fully into its world. For all its craft, it remains a record I admire more than I enjoy. 2/5

One record at a time: 561. Soft Cell - Danceteria

Following the tragic death of Dave Ball, Soft Cell ceased to exist as an active band. Their music will endure, but Marc Almond has made it clear that, without his writing partner of fifty years, there can be no further Soft Cell releases. Completed just two days before Dave died, “Danceteria” will therefore stand as the final album the pair made together. That knowledge gives the record an unavoidable poignancy, but it deserves to be heard as more than a farewell. It is also a vivid, inventive Soft Cell album in its own right.

I am playing the limited-edition gold version, originally available through the band’s website, although collectors are hardly short of alternatives. Depending on the retailer, the album can also be found on white, black, red, orange and two-tone sparkle vinyl. In other words, you pays your money and you takes your choice, although anyone determined to collect the lot may first need a quiet word with their bank manager.

The album opens with “Elusive”, a suitably electronic and vampy introduction, before moving into the title track, which bounces along on a well-judged mixture of nostalgia and contemporary dance production. “Danceteria” is not a concept album as such, but much of it looks back to early 1980s New York, where Soft Cell first found fame. “Times Square” and the ballad “The Rainbow Room” revisit the pair’s time in the city, yet Marc’s lyrics are less interested in the landmarks themselves than in the people who once filled them and are now conspicuous by their absence. The result is nostalgic without becoming cosy, haunted by the sense that the places remain even when the people do not.

That tension between past and present continues on “The Space Inside”, which sounds so much like Pet Shop Boys that resistance is almost pointless. Its cool electronic pulse and poised melody feel instantly familiar, but the track retains enough of Soft Cell’s own character to avoid becoming mere imitation. Marc’s unmistakable vocal ensures that, however polished the surroundings, there is still something slightly unsettling at the centre.

Not everything lands quite as well. “In Heaven (When I Dance With You)” feels a little too twee and "Wave To America" just feels like a repeat of a sentiment we've heard on other songs. Disappointingly two of my favourite tracks from these sessions are dropped from the vinyl, but I encourage you to check out the gloriously subversive sleaze of “Crackland” and my favourite track “What Is Your Morality” on streaming or other formats.

The album closes with a cover of Was (Not Was)’s “Out Come the Freaks”. Until relatively recently, I had little interest in the band because my knowledge of them began and ended with the dreadful hit “Walk the Dinosaur”. Exploring more of their back catalogue has at least made me more familiar with this song, and its parade of outsiders fits comfortably with the world “Danceteria” creates. Even so, the source material is not strong enough to make the closing track especially compelling for me. It is thematically appropriate, but musically it feels like a slight anticlimax after the album’s stronger original material.

Whether intended or not, “Danceteria” brings Soft Cell neatly full circle from their debut, “Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret”. We may be in a different city, but we are still wandering through questionable nightspots, watching colourful characters and questioning our morality. The album is uneven in places, and its final cover does not quite provide the ending it deserves, yet the best songs show Almond and Ball were still capable of turning sleaze, sadness and electronic pop into something unmistakably their own. The doors of the Pink Flamingo may have closed, but the neon is still glowing. 3.5/5

One record at a time: 560. Soft Cell - *Happiness Now Completed

It seems that the sessions for the album “*Happiness Not Included” were so fruitful that there was enough material left over for another album. Initially released on compact disc and as digital files, “*Happiness Now Complete” eventually made its way onto vinyl for Record Store Day 2025. As is now my habit, I didn’t join the lines of middle-aged men queuing outside record shops at an hour normally witnessed only by bakers and people regretting a night out. Instead, I waited until the band’s official webstore gathered up the unsold stock and offered it at a hefty discount. One in the eye for Record Store Day, and two in the eyes of the eBay scalpers.

The opening track on “*Happiness Now Complete” is one of my favourite Soft Cell recordings of all time. “First Hand Experience in Second Hand Love” was written and originally recorded by Giorgio Moroder in 1977, and the Soft Cell version manages the difficult trick of remaining faithful to the original while reinventing it in a more modern style. It has the pulse and atmosphere you would expect, but Marc Almond gives it that unmistakable mixture of glamour, longing and mild emotional peril. In other words, it fits Soft Cell perfectly.

Unfortunately, the second track, “Jukebox Head”, sounds very much like a reject, although it is a rather likeable one. “Quiet Rebellion” fares better. It is a shimmering electronic piece that feels like what Soft Cell should sound like in 2023, full of atmosphere without straining too hard to prove the point. Much like contemporaries Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, Soft Cell seemed to move away from electronics for a while, only to end up even more firmly entrenched in the sound they started with. Fingers crossed for Depeche Mode, eh? There must be some rule that the older an electronic band becomes, the more synthesisers it is legally required to own.

Another highlight for me is “Night and the City (2023 Version)”, which takes the original 2018 song and beefs up the drums, with Dave’s backing vocals adding to the effect. It is not a wholesale reinvention, but it gives the track a little more muscle and reminds you how good the song was in the first place. An oddity I also enjoy is another cover version, this time of Fad Gadget’s “Back to Nature”. Although the band did not have the best relationship with fellow Leeds Poly alumnus Frank Tovey, they admired his work, and this rendition pays homage with subtle dignity rather than barging in wearing a novelty synth tie.

“Murder Your Darlings” is one of the more lyrically striking moments where a former lover is discarded like rubbish so that the survivor can concentrate only on what is needed to carry on. It is a cold idea dressed in elegant language. Few bands can make emotional devastation sound quite so well accessorised.

The only track whose rhinestones do not sparkle quite as brightly is “Defiant”. Its melody is rammed down your throat by intrusive backing vocals that Marc really does not need. The song is not dreadful, but it keeps nudging you in the ribs to make sure you have noticed it, long after you have politely confirmed that you have.

Otherwise, “*Happiness Now Complete” is an amusing and worthwhile diversion, with a few genuine diamonds among the interesting but less essential tracks surrounding them. It inevitably feels like a companion piece rather than a major Soft Cell statement, but that is hardly a criticism when the leftovers include one of my favourite recordings the band has ever made. Not everything here is indispensable, yet even the weaker moments have enough character to justify their place. Bought at full Record Store Day price, I might have felt slightly less charitable. At a hefty webstore discount, however, it feels less like clearing the shelves and more like getting away with something. 3/5

One record at a time: 559. Röyksopp - True Electric

When I saw Röyksopp live back in 2009, they played with additional musicians wielding traditional instruments such as bass and lead guitar. I still cannot understand why electronic bands feel the need to do this, but it is a common affliction. For their 2023 “True Electric” tour, however, Svein and Torbjørn presented their music as club-focused, electronic versions that largely did away with traditional or acoustic instruments. Having enjoyed creating these new versions, the band went back to the studio and decided to package them as an album. What emerged was not so much a remix album as a reimagining of their back catalogue.

I ordered this limited-edition, numbered triple-vinyl set from the band’s own webstore in 2025 and was very pleased when it arrived safe and sound. However, my enthusiasm was soon dampened by the sticker every vinyl enthusiast dreads seeing on their latest purchase: “Made in Czech Republic”. All the hallmarks of a GZ Media pressing were present: filthy, dust covered records, absurdly tight inner bags and enough static to power a small village. Yet, after a thorough clean and a swap to replacement poly-lined inner sleeves, it became perfectly possible to live with. The vinyl actually sounds rather good, and the music is wonderful enough to transcend the deficiencies of the pressing.

The opening stretch draws heavily on “Profound Mysteries” and immediately establishes the album’s purpose. “The Ladder” remains an atmospheric opener, while the Alison Goldfrapp collaboration “Impossible” adds a beautiful bassline and enough electronic fireworks to justify the title. Best of all, “This Time, This Place” is transformed from an already excellent song into a relentless, uplifting club track fit for any dance floor with functioning foundations.

That approach continues across the older material. Familiar tracks like "The Girl and the Robot" and "Here She Comes Again" are pushed towards the dance floor without losing their identities, vocals are twisted into new shapes and the bass is generally given permission to rearrange the furniture. Some reinventions improve markedly on their originals, while others simply offer a different route through songs that were already difficult to better. Even when a version is slightly more pedestrian, it remains beautifully produced and never feels like filler.

The longer club mixes are where “True Electric” really earns its name. Rumbling basslines, spine-tingling synths and dramatically heightened drums turn the album into something more physical than a conventional retrospective. “Oh Lover” expands into a seven-and-a-half-minute monster, while “Unity” becomes tighter and more direct. Elsewhere, sweetness is stripped away in favour of pulsating tech-house momentum, making the set feel coherent rather than like a collection of unrelated remixes.

The trade-off is that a triple album built for sustained club momentum leaves less room for the quieter melancholy and delicate detail that make parts of Röyksopp’s catalogue so affecting. A few of these versions are more impressive than essential, and I can only imagine how good this vinyl would have sounded if it had been given to someone like Optimal rather than GZ. None of that matters much once the music takes hold. “True Electric” is bold, immersive and frequently exhilarating, a loving reimagining of the band’s past rather than a routine remix collection. I absolutely love it. 4/5

One record at a time: 558. Propaganda - A Secret Wish

Back in the eighties, when I was young, television did not seem especially troubled by an excess of sport. Therefore a programme I naturally gravitated towards was the BBC’s coverage of the annual Lombard RAC Rally, then the United Kingdom’s premier international motor rally. The cars were exciting, of course, but a particular highlight for me was the theme music used for the highlights programmes. I loved it so much that I recorded it by holding a cassette recorder next to the television speaker, a sophisticated audio capture technique chiefly distinguished by its inclusion of every noise in the room. I would play the tape back and marvel at the music. As I was not an avid student of the charts, I had no idea that it was a record by an actual artist, I just thought it was the theme music to the programme. 

When I finally gained unfettered access to the internet in the late nineties, I used the search engines of the day, including Lycos and Ask Jeeves, to identify music I loved but could not name. Eventually I discovered that the music used on the rally coverage of the eighties was in fact “Duel” by Propaganda. This being the period it was, I downloaded it from Napster immediately. Respectability followed: I bought its parent album, “A Secret Wish” on compact disc a few years later, and this reissued 180g LP joined my collection in 2018. It then disappeared into the shelves and escaped my first trawl through the collection, which is either a comment on my filing system or proof that records can hide when sufficiently motivated. According to Amazon, I paid only £11.87 for it, so at least my administrative shortcomings came as a bargain.

The album is now regarded as a classic, with era-defining production from Stephen Lipson. Opener “Dream Within a Dream” drifts in on bass guitar and PPG Waveterm textures while Susanne Freytag recites Edgar Allan Poe’s 1849 poem “A Dream Within a Dream”. A recurring trumpet refrain is interrupted by drums, synthesiser solos and flashes of guitar. The result is an eight-minute subversion of conventional eighties synthpop, the sort of opening track that politely informs the inquisitive pop fan that the album has no intention of behaving itself.

The sampled slap bass of “The Murder of Love” could hardly sound more eighties if it arrived wearing shoulder pads and carrying a Filofax. As Claudia Brücken sings of being strangled by charm, resistance to the groove is futile. Much as I love “Duel”, I am less taken with its aggressive, brutal counterpart, “Jewel”. For me, the majesty of “Duel” lies in the counterpoint between the buoyant PPG Waveterm bass and the Roland Jupiter-8 chords, not rocking guitars. 

The second side opens with another single, “P:Machinery”, a suitably imposing piece shaped by contributions from figures as varied as David Sylvian of Japan, Glenn Gregory of Heaven 17 and Derek Forbes of Simple Minds. It was not a spectacular chart success, but it has become an undeniable cult classic and deserves the retrospective praise now routinely bestowed upon it. History may have been late, but at least it eventually turned up.

I am less enamoured of “Sorry for Laughing”, although I suspect the muddy production is more at fault than the songwriting. There is probably a sharper song buried in there somewhere, wearing a headlamp and waiting to be rescued.

“Dr Mabuse” is something of an outlier, drawing on two sources not encountered much elsewhere on the album: Trevor Horn and the Fairlight CMI. I think the version included here is the “First Life” mix, but I am not venturing into the differences between the various mixes and running times. The bewildering number of versions makes advanced mathematics look like a relaxing alternative. What matters is that I like the track, particularly the Fairlight samples that were shared with recordings by The Art of Noise.

“The Chase” is more relaxed and melodious, but it retains that immaculate eighties production sheen and the wonderful sounds created by synth wizard and programmer Andy Richards. The album ends with two separately listed tracks that function as a single joined piece. “The Last Word” is an instrumental remix of “Dr Mabuse”, while the internet informs me that a thunderclap and the sound of rain announce the beginning of “Strength to Dream”. Together they form an instrumental coda filled with brooding textures and majestic strings, ending the record not so much with a tidy full stop as with an ominous bank of weather rolling in.

It may be illegal in certain synthpop circles to speak disparagingly of “A Secret Wish”, so perhaps a favourable verdict is compulsory. Fortunately, it is also deserved. This is unquestionably a classic of the genre, made with wit, ambition and immaculate production. It was a critical triumph, although retrospective accounts can make it sound as if everybody bought a copy on release and immediately recognised its genius. I certainly did not. I had never heard of Propaganda until 1999, when I finally identified the theme from the BBC rally coverage, and I did not buy the album until 2006. I may have arrived late, but at least I got there before the vinyl vanished into my own shelves. 4/5

One record at a time: 557. Pet Shop Boys - Disco 5

As the title rather laboriously suggests, "Disco 5" is another instalment in the Pet Shop Boys’ “Disco” series. I nearly wrote “unwanted instalment”, because the series has rather lost its way of late. What began in the eighties as a collection of remixes of the boys’ own material has gradually mutated into compilations that feature remixes they have produced for other artists. I am not especially taken with this approach as I would much rather hear inventive reworkings of Pet Shop Boys tracks than endure some of the material assembled here. Sometimes it doesn't matter how much glitter you roll a turd in, it will always be a turd.

That is my principal issue with “Disco 5”. With a couple of exceptions, I would not normally listen to music by any of the artists featured, and some I actively dislike. I will not name names, as I am not here to upset anyone or pour scorn on other people’s musical tastes. Even so, the boys’ apparent enthusiasm for remixing traditional rock artists who have previously poured scorn on electronic music leaves me scratching my head. 

Other baffling choices are the inclusion of a 1993 version of “Let the Music Play” recorded with Carroll Thompson which has been dragged from the vaults for no discernible reason, while a 2008 collaboration with Sam Taylor-Wood is tossed into the pot with equally little justification. The whole thing is a ramshackle mess with no obvious sense of purpose, beyond giving collectors another object to buy against their better judgement.

Naturally, as a collector, I still felt compelled to buy the limited-edition double orange vinyl set with slipmat, along with the common-or-garden black vinyl. The standard copy arrived from Amazon with a bent sleeve, although even in pristine condition it would hardly be a treasure. In truth, I cannot imagine when I will ever play this record again. Just as well it looks nice, because otherwise it might have no reason to exist at all. 2/5

One record at a time: 556. Pet Shop Boys - Performance '91

As I have mentioned before, writing these blog entries has exposed a few gaps in my collection, which I have spent the intervening years trying to fill with the measured restraint of a man who regards shelf space as a problem for his future self. This bootleg is one of those holes successfully plugged. 

I had almost forgotten I owned this LP because I keep the bootlegs and unofficial records apart from my main Pet Shop Boys collection, like a dirty secret that might somehow contaminate the respectable releases. I bought this record from my favourite second-hand emporium in April 2024, but because Discogs does not allow the sale of bootleg recordings, I had to look elsewhere to discover whether I had been charged fairly or mugged in broad daylight. Popsike suggests that “Performance ’91” has sold for between £20 and £50 over the last couple of years. As I paid towards the lower end of that scale, I can declare myself happy with the purchase and postpone the buyer’s remorse until another day.

I have another live bootleg from this tour called “Birmingham ’91”, which, as its admirably literal title suggests, was recorded during one of the shows at the NEC in Birmingham. This recording, however, was made at Wembley Arena on 7th June and includes “Being Boring”, which was not played at the Birmingham shows. With only two vinyl discs available, the final track, “Your Funny Uncle”, appears to have fallen off the recording despite still being listed on the sleeve, presumably because nobody had the heart to tell the typesetter.

As an audience recording, the sound is predictably short on dynamics and dominated by a deep, booming bass that overshadows almost everything else. In a way, this works in the record's favour because it reflects my experience of this tour. My recollection is that the kick drum on “This Must Be The Place I Waited Years To Leave” was powerful enough to move my clothing, while Neil sounded as though he were singing somewhere off in the distance with his testicles in a vice. High fidelity it is not, but vivid memories sometimes arrive wearing steel-toecapped boots.

As I have said before on this blog, I found the setlist for the Performance tour a little bemusing, and the decision to let the backing singers take over a couple of songs has always felt uncomfortable. I understand that the elaborate sets and costume changes required the band to leave the stage occasionally, but I would still rather have heard almost anything than Derek Green butchering “My October Symphony”. More than a single interval, perhaps. Or several minutes of meaningful silence might have been preferable.

As the first record ticks along, you gradually adjust to the room reverberations baked into the recording and can almost convince yourself that the sound is not too bad. There are a few clicks and pops, but I doubt the records were cut by Abbey Road engineers. They are also more than thirty years old and have passed through an unknown number of previous owners, so a little extraneous noise is hardly unreasonable. There is some wow from the source tape here and there too, although it never distracts too much. The spell is broken only when you have to turn a disc over or swap records, at which point the arena briefly becomes a room containing a middle-aged man wrestling with vinyl. 

I like this record because it comes surprisingly close to what I heard at one of these concerts. Close your eyes and turn the volume up until the speaker cones look ready to make a break for freedom, and it is almost June 1991 again. For those of us lucky enough to see the show, that gives the record a peculiar charm. For everyone else, it is probably just another murky bootleg. Perhaps that is why it belongs in the separate section of my collection after all: not because it might infect the official releases, but because nostalgia this concentrated really ought to be quarantined. 3/5

One record at a time: 555. One record at a time: Orbital - A Beginners Guide

For the past two years, a Post-it note has sat on my desk recording every record I have pre-ordered. The need for this sophisticated archival system is illustrated perfectly by the two copies of Orbital’s "A Beginner’s Guide" now sitting in front of me. They are not merely the same record, but also sourced from the same retailer, complete with the same bonus art print. It turns out audit trails are not actually a bad thing if they prevent you from ordering the same record twice; even if mine is fluorescent yellow and stuck beneath a mug.

Released in 2024, this compilation carries a bizarre warning on the sleeve aimed at the “Orbital-initiated” and the “Orbital-completist”. In essence, it tells them the record is not for them and asks that they leave this “auditory gateway” on the shelf for a newcomer to discover. As a means of alienating the existing fanbase while simultaneously making newcomers fear they are about to join a cult, it is impressively efficient.

Happily, I occupy a middle ground the sleeve-note author would probably call “Orbital-acquainted”. I own several of their albums on compact disc or as digital files, but I am no completist and none has spent much time in heavy rotation. A compilation like this lets someone like me revisit the obvious tracks while sampling a few that previously slipped past unnoticed. Further proof that this record is not intended for the “Orbital-purist” comes from the fact that all but one of the tracks appear in edited form, but as a casual listener, that does not trouble me.

Predictably, and quite properly, proceedings begin with the band’s debut single, “Chime”. As a dance classic, this song demands attention. Like many great dance records, its strength lies in the simplicity of the “Solid Bass” riff, the 303 burblings and the patient accumulation of small ideas until resistance becomes pointless. The brisk single edit presented here reduces it to its most vital components and gets out before anyone can complain. 

The Yamaha FM synthesis “Solid Bass” patch returns on “Halcyon”, but this has never been a favourite of mine because it samples Opus III’s “It’s a Fine Day”, another dance track I have never particularly liked. That rather places “Halcyon” at a disadvantage before it has even put its shoes on. Still, the arrangement is clever. Although a TR-909 supplies the beats, they are pushed back into the mix and the bass is left to drive the groove, giving the track a soft-focus momentum that is both propulsive and oddly weightless. 

“Belfast”, by contrast, is one of those Orbital tracks I love without reservation. Its chiming melody and rolling pulse manage to sound both wistful and warmly euphoric, proving that electronic music can tug at the heart without arriving with an acoustic guitar and a troubled expression. It unfolds with such graceful inevitability that it feels spacious, warm and entirely unhurried.

“Lush” is a different proposition entirely: frenetic, fantastic and apparently powered by a machine that has mistaken urgency for a moral virtue. The rushing percussion, stabbing synths and restless shifts generate a momentum that seems perpetually on the verge of running away with itself, yet the Hartnolls keep control of the whole hurtling contraption. 

I am less persuaded by “The Box”. Its cinematic atmosphere and creeping rhythms are skilfully assembled, but the track feels more like an intriguing corridor than a room I particularly want to remain in. I can appreciate the scenery, yet after a while I start looking for an illuminated exit sign.

Then there is “Style”, an annoying track that I loathe. I understand that its clattering samples, playful construction and wilful oddness are probably meant to be mischievous, but to me they resemble the contents of a kitchen drawer being shaken to settle an argument. Some listeners will hear invention. I hear my cutlery getting messed up.

And so the compilation is very much a case of swings and roundabouts. Some tracks, such as “Belfast” and “Lush”, remind me why Orbital can be so thrilling. Others, particularly “Style”, make me suspect the Hartnolls briefly mistook irritation for innovation. That unevenness is not necessarily a flaw in a beginner’s guide. Orbital’s gift is to make electronic music that is eccentric without collapsing into novelty and accessible without sanding away all the interesting edges, although “Style” gives the novelty boundary a vigorous rattle. As an introduction, it succeeds. As a definitive survey, it wisely does not pretend to be one.

The vinyl edition contains six fewer tracks than the compact disc, but sacrifices must be made if we are to enjoy that dust flecked sound and the faint sense that merely lowering a stylus counts as an event. For the newcomer, "A Beginner’s Guide" is a lively and approachable route into Orbital. For the “Orbital-completist”, the sleeve has already asked you to step away from the merchandise, although I suspect that warning will not be obeyed. 3/5

One record at a time: 554. Mike Oldfield - Tubular Bells 2003

To celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of "Tubular Bells", Mike Oldfield decided to create a note-for-note re-recording of his magnum opus, hoping to eradicate the timing errors, clumsy edits and tape hiss he heard in the original. It was less an anniversary celebration than a very elaborate act of housekeeping.

In 2003 vinyl was regarded as having no purpose beyond occupying space in the loft, so this album wasn't originally issued as an LP. However, by the time 2025 swung around vinyl had become the middle-aged man's format of choice, so Warner Music Spain pressed this transparent blue edition. Manufactured by Optimal, it offers clear sound, strong dynamics and no extraneous noise.

Where the 1973 release consisted of two side-long parts, "Tubular Bells 2003" divides the composition into 17 distinct tracks. When the needle drops, we are greeted by the familiar introduction, or the "Exorcist Theme" if you prefer. At first it resembles a clockwork version of the original, until the synth bass begins doubling the electric bass in a rather jarring collision of old and new. The reverbs are noticeably longer, while synth pads and strings occupy the middle of the mix with all the restraint of someone spreading out across three seats on a train.

The organ on "Fast Guitars" lacks the acidic rasp of the original, and the third movement, "Basses", seems short of power. One genuine improvement is "Latin", which sounds deeper and more dreamlike than before. It then moves into the wonderful "A Minor Tune", now furnished with synth pads that give it a suitably lush atmosphere.

At this point I begin to wonder whether this is what Oldfield envisaged but could not realise at nineteen, or whether it is simply revisionism with a very generous recording budget. I can sympathise with his position, because the original has always sounded a little raw and muffled to my ears. Even so, this recording is not quite what I, or many other fans, expected. When I first heard about the project, I assumed Oldfield would use the same instruments as he had in 1973, so the modern synthesisers and ROMplers came as a surprise. Perhaps he was such a visionary that he could already hear sounds from machines that would not exist for another thirty years. Frankly, I would not put it past him.

As well as using instruments that did not exist in 1973, Oldfield makes what is, to my mind, another substantial mistake. When we reach the iconic "Finale" of Part One, a new master of ceremonies appears. What possessed Oldfield to think John Cleese would be a suitable replacement for Viv Stanshall is beyond me. Cleese's clipped, seemingly ironic style is nowhere near as delicious as Stanshall's original delivery, and it never quite fits. It feels less like the grand unveiling of the instruments and more like an announcement about a delayed train.

Even on the original, I have always found "Part Two" more difficult to digest, although the polished versions of "Harmonics" and "Peace" sound nice enough. "Bagpipe Guitars" is more noticeably altered: the timpani sit so low in the mix that they are almost inaudible, although they do appear to be in tune this time, which is progress of a sort. The vocals on "Caveman" have attracted plenty of criticism for lacking the visceral anger of the original, but I can live with them. The closing piece, "Ambient Guitars", is much smoother, and its timing is impeccable by comparison. Once again, Oldfield tries to send us away smiling with a rendition of "The Sailor's Hornpipe". It is pleasant enough, although it seems to begin more slowly than the original before making the familiar rush to the finish, this time with a few synth pads still hanging around as if nobody has told them the session is over.

The original was born out of struggle; this version finds Oldfield working in comfort, without teenage angst and with what appears to have been an unlimited recording budget. The raw edges have been polished away and everything sounds pristine, yet the result is terribly sterile. Yes, here I am, an electronic music enthusiast, complaining about digital tools and synthesisers on a record. Apparently there are limits, even for me. In the end, all that may really have been needed was a sympathetic revision of the original, and to my ears the mix Oldfield made in 2009 corrected several of the problems I had with it. It turns out that most people prefer a little sand in their Vaseline. 3/5

One record at a time: 553. Mike Oldfield - Collaborations

I was in two minds about blogging about this record, but eventually decided it fitted the self-imposed rules of my original posts, in which I reviewed every album from a box set individually. Admittedly, those rules worked better when I remembered all the records in the box.

"Collaborations" was the compilation disc included in Mike Oldfield's imaginatively titled 1976 box set, "Boxed". The original reason for the collection was that Oldfield and engineer Phil Newell had remixed his first three albums using a proprietary surround-sound system called SQ Quadraphonic. Despite support from numerous record companies, the format never gained a significant foothold and was quietly put out of its misery in the early 1980s. This makes me wonder how many people have ever heard these albums as intended. A quick search online suggests that the audio can be captured and decoded using software, but that sounds like rather a lot of effort when I already own the music on various DVD and Blu-ray releases in the Dolby 5.1 format. Vintage decoders are also predictably expensive, so stereo will have to do this time. My ears have agreed not to lodge a formal complaint.

"Collaborations" was reissued as a stand-alone album in 2016, but I did not feel it warranted another purchase, as my copy from "Boxed" had only seen daylight once. That copy appears to be an undocumented Discogs variant, which makes its vintage uncertain. However, the box carries a distinctive W.H. Smith price sticker, so I asked AI whether it could help date it. The answer was delivered with magnificent confidence: "The lone digit 6 before the price actually narrows down the date: it represents the year 1976. Before the era of universal barcodes, massive UK retailers like WH Smith used centralised mechanical pricing guns that included internal date-coding. To track inventory and age on the shop floor, the operator would input a single digit to represent the year of processing." Therefore, if you trust AI's detailed knowledge of 1970s pricing guns, this is an original pressing from 1976. For a fifty-year-old set, everything is in remarkably good condition, and the records look as though they have been played only a handful of times. Either that, or someone was exceptionally good with a cleaning cloth.

The album opens with electronic instruments on "The Phaeacian Games", a composition from David Bedford's album "The Odyssey". As Bedford races up and down the keyboard, Oldfield follows with his customary skill and dexterity, making for a pleasant introduction. The second track is an extract from Bedford's "Star's End", in which a timpani pounds out the beat while Oldfield's guitar wails over the orchestra. It is interesting stuff, although hardly indispensable listening. Side one closes with an agreeable recording of the sea shanty "The Rio Grande", taken from another Bedford solo album and featuring Oldfield's guitar alongside a choir of schoolchildren. It is an unusual combination, but prog was never a genre troubled by the phrase "perhaps we shouldn't".

On the flip side is "First Excursion" which was co-written with David Bedford and released as a B-side. It is pleasant enough, but also the very definition of progressive rock: Oldfield's guitar supplies the long, meandering melodies while Bedford accompanies him skilfully on grand piano. You could probably leave the room halfway through and return without feeling that you had missed much. "Argiers" is another traditional piece used as a B-side, featuring collaborator Leslie Penning on recorder and Oldfield on acoustic guitar. Again, the tune is pleasant, although it sounds as if it may have been more enjoyable to play than to sit and listen to.

Next is the non-album single "Portsmouth", another traditional sea shanty that Oldfield somehow turned into a substantial hit. "In Dulci Jubilo" is the sort of tune that reappears every Christmas whether invited or not, and although it was released under Oldfield's name, Les Penning's contribution on recorder qualifies it for inclusion here. The less said about Bedford and Oldfield's disastrous vocals on "Speak (Tho' You Only Say Farewell)", the better. They may be gifted instrumentalists, but as singers they make a persuasive case for recording studios without microphones. 2/5

One record at a time: 552. No-Man - Scatter (Lost Not Lost Volume Two: 1991-1997)

Back in 2001, I was on a No-Man mailing list. Every so often, a tatty-looking envelope would fall through my letterbox containing a newsletter and offers for exclusive releases. One such offering was a CD-R called "Lost Songs: Volume One", boasting no fewer than fourteen rare or unreleased tracks. When it arrived, I was impressed, and I regarded several of the songs a hidden gems. Fast-forward twenty-five years and the band added another track, repackaged the collection as "Scatter", and positioned it as a companion to their more recent "Swagger" compilation. The real bonus for me was finally getting the album on vinyl, something that would have seemed faintly absurd in 2001, when vinyl was considered deader than the dodo and only marginally more fashionable.

My copy is from the first edition that appeared on limited red vinyl and it sold out so quickly, the band pressed a second edition on orange vinyl for those who missed out. Ironically, according to Discogs, only a third as many people own the orange version, making it arguably the more collectable of the two. Mine also came with a signed postcard, which was generous, although it did rather suggest the band had looked at the sleeves, looked at the pens and decided that some smaller bits of card would involve considerably less admin. So, with the pressing history dealt with and the postcard safely filed among my most valuable pieces of signed stationery, what does "Scatter" actually sound like?

The album starts with "Gothgirl Killer", which sounds as unhinged as the title suggests. Wonky samples are augmented by funky drumming and a buzzing bass guitar, while Tim sings about dirty underwear and letters that never came. I really like this song and have always felt it deserved a wider audience than an "official bootleg" CD-R from a mailing list could ever provide. Next comes "All The Reasons", which drifts along purposefully on a pleasing drum loop and some classy Steven Wilson guitar work. "Samaritan Snare" is another track whose inventive majesty makes its omission from a proper album genuinely mystifying. "The Night Sky" contains elements borrowed from other No-Man songs, before a lovely electronic section appears after three and a half minutes and then politely returns everything to the band's more traditional sound, as if nothing unusual had happened.

I'm not sure whether "Paradub" is a remix of "Painting Paradise" or a stand-alone track, but it is rather nice to hear something purely electronic among the washes of guitar and softly spoken vocals surrounding it. Another re-exploration of an existing track is "Hard Shoulder", the more experimental and slightly weirder sibling of "Soft Shoulder" from "Flowermouth". Like most siblings, it is best experienced in small doses and has a habit of outstaying its welcome. "Love Amongst The White Trash" sounds like it is trying hard to be a catchy hit single and ends up sounding a little naive as a result. "Amateurwahwah" is a sparse, guitar-driven song that never quite catches fire and eventually expires with all the ceremony of a damp sparkler.

As the album closes, "Drug Me" stands out as another driving track that deserved a place on a proper album, or at the very least as an extra track on a single. Meanwhile, "Catford Gun Supply", "Pale As Angels" and "Days In The Trees (Bach)" are short pieces that amount to little more than sketches. Even so, each works perfectly as a vignette: brief, intriguing and sensible enough to leave before anyone starts checking the time.

At first, I thought reissuing the album might be a misstep, but repositioning it as "Scatter" makes the collection feel far more cohesive, almost like a legitimate album that was somehow shelved by a miserly record company in the late nineties. I know the music is not strictly electronic and will only ever reach a niche audience, but that is part of its appeal. Twenty-five years after it first arrived in a tatty envelope, it still feels like a little secret. Keep it to yourself, although the orange vinyl pressing suggests nobody needs much persuading. 3/5

One record at a time: 551. No-Man - Swagger (Lost Not Lost Volume One: 1989-1990)

“Swagger” is a compilation of early No-Man material released as a companion piece to the "Housekeeping” box set. Both appeared in 2024, but while “Housekeeping” offered a glossy and comprehensive view of the band’s output for the OLI label between 1990 and 1994, “Swagger” rummaged through the cupboards and exposed the raw underbelly: studio experiments and early recordings made in 1989 and 1990, before No-Man had a record deal or, in some cases, a convincing idea of what No-Man should sound like.

In some ways, issuing these recordings is a brave move. They are raw, unpolished and date from a period when lead singer Tim Bowness affected a gruff, hairy-chested baritone that contrasts wildly with the soft, lyrical voice for which he is known today. It is rather like a novelist publishing the story they wrote for an A-level exam, or opening their teenage diary to the public. The only difference is that writers do not usually get to press the evidence onto shiny sky-blue vinyl. Whilst this record looks nice, the sound reproduction isn't the best and it is issued in a PVC sleeve whose seams seem to fall apart if you so much as look at it the wrong way.

Proceedings begin with a song that would lend its name to the band’s finest album, despite never being in any danger of appearing on it. “Flowermouth” is a frenetic piece driven by distorted guitar and very loud drums, and was originally included on a four-track, cassette-only EP sold at the band’s early gigs. Songs like this find No-Man caught awkwardly between synthpop, rock and the lusher atmospheres that would later become their trademark. The position was apparently so uncomfortable that they were still using the rather limp name No-Man Is an Island, which sounds less like a band and more like a disappointing team-building exercise.

The second track, “Bleed”, sounds typical of No-Man’s more recent output, although Tim’s vocal flits wildly between his gravely rock persona and the natural tone we hear today, as if two versions of him have turned up for the same session. “Life Is Everywhere” shows the green shoots of the arty pop sound for which the band would become known, while “Mouth Was Blue” is a polished production dragged down by the eighties trappings draped over it. There is a good song in there; it is simply wearing too much upholstery. The fifth track, “Curtain Dream”, was recorded during the same sessions as the first four but remained unused until this release. It was re-recorded for another collection of early material, “Speak”, in 1999, leaving this original version to sit on the shelf for thirty-five years. 

The final four tracks begin with “Learn to Fear”, whose bassline sounds as though it has been lifted from Front Line Assembly or Skinny Puppy. Tim’s vocal and Steven Wilson’s fondness for high-pitched, piercing snare drums soon banish any notion that the song has much in common with Canadian industrial music. “See No Angels” throws in trip-hop grooves and plastic Korg piano sounds that sit slightly out of place; a few well-judged mutes on the mixing desk might have turned it into something capable of holding its head high on an album as accomplished as “Flowermouth”. “Sit Silent” is a highly arty, abstract piece reminiscent of something Sakamoto might have produced, while closing track “Swirl” was issued as an extra track on a single. B-side material is probably a fair assessment of its status, which at least saves everybody the embarrassment of pretending it was a lost masterpiece.

So this is an album for completists and collectors. Existing fans will find it fascinating, and some may even like it. Personally, I am glad it exists, in much the same way I am glad my teenage photographs exist: safely stored, occasionally inspected and in no danger of joining the regular rotation. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 550. No-Man - Loveblows & Lovecries: A Confession

Back in 1994, I discovered No-Man through their seminal masterpiece, "Flowermouth". Keen to hear more of the band I sought out their debut album, "Loveblows & Lovecries: A Confession" that had been released 12 months earlier. After a short but frustrating pursuit I managed to find a copy of the limited-edition double CD in HMV. 

Yet when I popped the disc in the CD player and pressed play, I became thoroughly confused. Instead of more sophisticated, spine-tingling pop, I got angular, lurching rhythms and complex, meandering melodies that never quite caught fire. Even the artwork seemed dull and lifeless. Combined with the pretentious title and toe-curling sleeve notes, the whole package felt less like a musical landmark and more like a sixth-form art project that had somehow secured a record deal.

Fast-forward more years than I care to mention and I rediscovered the album thanks to a disappointment. While mooching around my favourite second-hand record shop, I turned a corner and saw one of my Pet Shop Boys collecting holy grails clinging to the wall in one of those PVC sleeves reserved for records that are about to cause a domestic argument. I carried my treasure to the counter with another other selection I had made. The owner immediately took the Pet Shop Boys record from my hands and said, "Oh no, I’ve already sold that to a lady who just came in and reserved it for her boyfriend." I gave the polite laugh one uses when a joke is taking slightly too long and reached for my credit card. We locked eyes. He placed the record behind the counter and repeated, "Sorry, that one is sold." 

Apparently moved by the sight of a grown man becoming visibly crestfallen over a Pet Shop Boys record, the owner offered an olive branch, "Tell you what, by way of an apology, take that other one for free." So I left with a complimentary copy of No-Man’s "Only Baby", which was not the treasure I had entered the shop seeking but was at least considerably cheaper. I knew the song, of course, but because it appeared on "Loveblows & Lovecries" I had rarely played it. Still, I felt I owed my unexpected gift at least one spin.

As the opening bars began, I found the familiarity comforting and also realised that the song was much better than I remembered. I decided to revisit the parent album to see whether I had been too harsh all those years ago. I cannot pretend that I now like this album as much as "Flowermouth", but I do like it enough to buy this transparent teal vinyl limited-edition reissue from 2026, complete with a poster. This is, of course, exactly what every middle-aged man needs: a giant 30-year-old photograph of three slightly fey young men for the living-room wall. The vinyl itself is yet another GZ Media abomination, although it sounds acceptable once thoroughly cleaned and approached with suitably modest expectations of sonic fidelity.

As "Sweetheart Raw" begins, the first thing you notice is the superb fretless bass, which oozes quality. A glance at the credits reveals Mick Karn, prompting the inevitable response: of course it is. Richard Barbieri is credited on keyboards and Steve Jansen handles the drum programming, effectively turning the track into a No-Man composition performed by most of Japan. At this point, my younger self begins to look less discerning and more wilfully inattentive. Why on earth didn’t I listen to this more?

"Lovecries" is a fine composition, but the funky rhythm programming feels forced and out of place. Underneath it sits the natural sound of No-Man, apparently being prodded towards the dance floor by someone from the record company holding a clipboard. Art rock and early-1990s trip hop were not impossible bedfellows, but here they seem to have spent the night arguing over the duvet.

"Tulip" shoehorns in some Nellee Hooper-style piano riffs, while Steven Wilson offers a creditable Nile Rodgers impression. There is more funky guitar on "Break Heaven" which gives the song a lift, but the ill-suited TR-909 beats do little for "Beautiful and Cruel". The album’s finest moment is the closing track, "Heaven’s Break", which sounds much closer to the No-Man of "Flowermouth" that I fell in love with. It is telling that the less the production tries to sound fashionable, the more timeless the music becomes.

I do like this album, but I remain frustrated by the make-up it wears. I can hear the real No-Man beneath the beats and housey piano riffs, yet it often feels as though record-company demands led them to repaint their compositions until they were barely recognisable. Tracks such as "Heaven’s Break" sound genuinely unsullied and are all the better for it. So my younger self was not entirely wrong: "Loveblows & Lovecries" is still awkward, over-dressed and occasionally desperate to impress. What I missed was the quality underneath. It was not a sixth-form art-rock project after all, although the sleeve notes may still deserve detention. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 549. Nitzer Ebb - Showtime

The first Nitzer Ebb album I heard was a borrowed compact disc of "Showtime" in 1990. I felt compelled to listen because the blistering neon sleeve looked as if it might burn through the plastic case, the carpet and possibly the floor beneath (for some reason no camera seems to accurately reflect the true colour of the artwork). Thirty-four years later, I found the vinyl in one of my favourite second-hand record emporiums, and buying it felt less like a decision than a simple administration task.

Whilst Flood returns in the production chair, the album moves away from the stark minimalism of its predecessor "Belief". A sampler appears to have wandered into the studio control room, presumably wearing boots and looking suspicious, bringing with it added mood, texture and a slightly broader sonic palette. This shift is nowhere more pronounced than on "Lightning Man", the first piece of music I ever heard from the band. As the chorus kicks in, Bon Harris's usual crushing synths are complemented by clarinet samples that wind themselves around the melody with the guile and menace of a Boa constrictor. 

Another single, "Getting Closer", moves from distorted synths and stuttering rhythms into a grinding dance groove built around distinctive drum samples. It is impossible to identify a particular drum machine anywhere on this record as the sounds seem as unique as the group themselves. "Fun to be Had" is another obvious single, all clenched momentum and industrial swagger, although the title remains one of the more optimistic statements in the Nitzer Ebb catalogue.

Elsewhere, the drunken stumble of "Nobody Knows" is a bit of a misfire, although the music is at least perfectly suited to the lyrics. "One Man's Burden" has flashes of the sound Flood deployed on Depeche Mode's "Violator" around the same time, while "Rope" delivers a relentless four-on-the-floor groove that is equal parts sinister and danceable. That combination is difficult to pull off without sounding like an aerobics class held in a disused warehouse, but here it works beautifully.

I like this album, but I still find myself preferring its predecessor, where the groove was starker and more sinister. That is not to say "Showtime" sounds like Lionel Richie, although the very thought may require a lie down. It is more that some of the hard, aggressive corners have been rounded off as the band lean into a more structured style of composition. The result is still forceful, still menacing and still very much Nitzer Ebb, but it feels a little less like being chased down a corridor by a murderous robot than I'd like. 3.5/5

One record at a time: 548. Nitzer Ebb - Belief

I was playing this album on my computer one day when it struck me that, although I already owned “Belief” physically on compact disc, it didn't feel enough. The CD had done sterling service, of course, sitting there in its little plastic case like a well-behaved office worker with excellent attendance. But some albums seem to demand the full ceremonial treatment: a sleeve, a spine, a place on the record shelf and respectable smattering of dust to prove you actually play your records. After a quick visit to Discogs and several days waiting for Royal Mail to complete its customary snail-like procession, I became the proud owner of an original UK pressing.

Like a lot of people, I first became aware of Nitzer Ebb through their association with Depeche Mode and Mute Records. They were clearly not as commercial as their labelmates, but there was something about their raw, disciplined and unrelenting sound that I found fascinating. Not least because their music felt properly electronic rather than merely decorated with electronics. Released in 1989, “Belief” captures the band at a point where muscle, machinery and menace all seem to be working from the same instruction manual.

The irresistible opening track, “Hearts and Minds”, has a chorus that showers sparks as if the synthesisers have been left unattended in a fireworks factory. It is urgent, severe and oddly thrilling, which is not a combination most artists manage without sounding like they have mistaken shouting for conviction. “For Fun” has a peculiar rhythm that would probably force listeners to dance as though they were suffering from a dislocated shoulder, making it truly intriguing and only mildly hazardous. Doug's vocal on the centrepiece, “Control I’m Here”, is delivered with suitable menace while Bon Harris’ synths grind away underneath like heavy machinery with a grudge.

The production skills of Flood, along with the sound of his Roland System 700, are really prominent on this album. The record does not feel built from familiar presets, or from the showroom demonstration mode of someone’s new keyboard. Nothing drifts by politely. “Belief” arrives, points at you, and expects a response.

The standout on the second side is “Shame”, a masterclass in aggressive minimalism. It proves that you do not need layers of ornamentation when you can simply deploy rhythm, repetition and attitude with the confidence of someone kicking open a fire door. Things tail off slightly on “Drive” and “Blood Money”, but every album has a lull, and at least Nitzer Ebb’s lulls still sound like they could pass a fitness test. The final track, “Without Belief”, is a driving closer that serves as a thematic bookend to an album that constantly seems to ask, “What is it to be human?” Admittedly, it asks this question while sounding like it has confiscated your chair and replaced it with a steel bench.

Industrial music, or electronic body music, is rarely this deep. “Belief” makes you engage your brain while your feet are busy filing a formal complaint. It is stark, inventive, confrontational and far more thoughtful than its surface aggression might suggest. A record that fully earns its place on the shelf, even if it looks as though it might start an argument with the albums on either side. 4/5

One record at a time: 547. New Order - The Best Of

For reasons best left to a therapist, or at least someone with a clipboard who looks over the top of their glasses, I seem to be starting a lot of posts recently with a reminiscence. This is either charmingly reflective or an early warning sign that I now communicate mainly in flashbacks. Either way, this record takes me straight back to 1994: walking to college under the full weight of youth, which at the time involved equal parts stress, joy and questionable life choices.

I always knew New Order made music I ought to like. They were, and remain, Pet Shop Boys adjacent, which in my world is less a description and more a recommendation. But beyond the odd admiring glance, I had never actually bought one of their records until this shiny new compilation appeared. As I mentioned in my review of "Power, Corruption and Lies", New Order had always felt a little too enigmatic for me to risk actual money on when I was poor. This album, though, tempted me for two very practical reasons: firstly, in a rare and beautiful development, I actually had some money; and secondly, a best-of compilation promised the sort of direct route to the good stuff that a normal album, with all its inconvenient artistic ambitions, might not.

My compact disc of "The Best Of" gave many years of loyal service before quietly settling into semi-retirement when digital files made life that bit easier. Still, some records have a way of tugging at the memory, and when a modern repress on blue vinyl appeared in July 2026, it felt less like a purchase and more like a small reunion. A reunion with slightly better packaging and fewer bus fares.

We kick off with the undisputed king of the ring, “True Faith”, one of the band’s biggest hits and the song that first brought them to my attention back in 1988. The mix here is the “’94” version, given added polish by Stephen Hague, and it sounds great while remaining faithful to the original. “Bizarre Love Triangle” was a track I wasn’t as familiar with when I first heard this album, but it only took a few seconds of its FM synth bass and orchestra hits before I realised this was very much my kind of music. Subtlety, clearly, had been shown the door and asked not to come back until it had bought a synth.

From there, the album simply keeps throwing hit after hit at me, with the magnificent “Fine Time” riding hot on the heels of “1963” and “Regret”. While “Shellshock” will never be one of my favourites, it is placed in such exalted company, alongside “Run 2” and the truly astounding “Vanishing Point”, that I began to appreciate its charms despite myself. If that procession of brilliance hadn’t already knocked you sideways, “Round & Round” was waiting in the wings to finish the job with admirable efficiency.

Things become a little stickier with songs like “Ruined in a Day” and “World in Motion”, although the latter’s swagger is at least more forgivable than most attempts to put sport and synthesisers in the same room. But when a classic like “Blue Monday ’88” emerges towards the end, it becomes possible to forgive almost any transgression and simply marvel at the genius at play.
 
This album did not quite become a gateway drug, but it definitely lifted a veil. It made New Order feel less enigmatic and gave me enough confidence to explore their back catalogue over the years without getting too stressed. While albums like "Get Ready" and "Waiting for the Siren’s Call" mean I remain a little wary of New Order, this record proves that, in their pomp, they were untouchable. Perhaps communicating mainly in flashbacks is not such a terrible affliction after all, especially when the soundtrack is this good. 5/5

One record at a time: 546. Neon Neon - Stainless Style

I cannot recall how I discovered this album back in 2008, but I am very glad I did. On paper, Neon Neon should not really appeal to me: it is a collaboration between hip hop producer Boom Bip and Gruff Rhys, frontman of rock band Super Furry Animals, neither of whom would normally wander into my musical postcode. However, when they decided to join forces and make a concept album about the life of John DeLorean using eighties-tinged electronic music, they were suddenly parked squarely in my lane.

Although the compact disc and MP3 files had been my main way of listening to the album, this glitter-covered limited edition of 300 felt like a compulsory purchase in 2024. Acquiring it was not entirely straightforward. The postman left my first copy in the rubbish bin while I was on holiday, whereupon a well-meaning neighbour put the bin out for collection. I can therefore confirm that only 299 copies of this limited edition still exist. Happily, Rough Trade were very understanding and furnished me with a replacement. All's well that ends well, apart from the record that ended up in the incinerator.

As the basis for a concept album, DeLorean's life is an intriguing and attractive prospect. Things begin with the breezy 'Neon Theme', apparently co-written and performed with Boom Bip's friend Marty Sataman. The first disappointment arrives quickly in the form of 'Dream Cars'. Somewhere along the production line, the master tapes appear to have taken a wrong turn, because the version on this vinyl is markedly different from the mix I know. The song itself is excellent: the original oozes the effortless charm of DeLorean's suave, debonair image, Gruff Rhys delivers a terrific hook and the lyrics are very clever. Unfortunately, the lacklustre mix presented here makes this pressing feel less like a dream car and more like an Austin Allegro.

One of my personal favourites comes next in the form of 'I Told Her on Alderaan'. This track juggles a wonderful melody, Fairlight ARR1 flourishes and silky lyrics, before topping it off with a Star Wars reference. It is geek heaven, with considerably fewer trade disputes than the average trip to a galaxy far, far away.

'Raquel' is a dance number propelled by crisp percussion and a driving bassline. Written from DeLorean's perspective, it concerns his rumoured romance with Raquel Welch, something I knew nothing about until hearing the album. This proves that a concept album can be educational, provided your preferred curriculum includes eighties sports cars and vintage celebrity gossip.

Then we reach the first of the album's three problematic tracks. 'Trick for Treat' is entertaining, but I cannot pretend it is what I boarded this particular DeLorean for. Whilst highly polished new wave and electronic music feels perfectly suited to an examination of DeLorean and his eighties heyday, hip hop is a less comfortable fit. The same applies to 'Sweat Shop' and 'Luxury Pool', which leave dirty great tyre marks across an otherwise immaculate showroom floor. 

On a brighter note, 'I Lust U' is a terrific track, marrying electro beats with ethereal vocals as it reflects on DeLorean's playboy lifestyle. Unfortunately, this pressing appears to contain a previously unreleased mix, which I am attributing to an inept tape operator retrieving the wrong reel from the storeroom. I have precisely zero evidence for this theory, which has never stopped a good vinyl conspiracy before. 'Belfast', meanwhile, refers to DeLorean's failed attempt to establish his car company at the expense of the UK taxpayer: 'Belfast, uh oh. You know my mind by eye. It's just, I thought. I could take you for a ride...' 

Perched at the top of the tree, looking down on everything else, is 'Michael Douglas'. If this track is not genius, I would like to know what is. The synths bump and grind while Gruff sings about consumerism and DeLorean's desire to glimpse his own reflection in Michael Douglas's mirrored sunglasses. It is an absurd premise executed with a conviction that matched the reality.  Proceedings close with 'Stainless Style', a sombre lament that provides the perfect bookend. 

Thanks to the misplaced rap tracks, the album is far from perfect. Yet 'I Told Her on Alderaan' and 'Michael Douglas' generate so much atmosphere that any self-respecting electronic music fan should investigate it as a matter of priority. I would, however, avoid this particular pressing and seek out a version containing the original mixes, which give these songs the treatment they deserve. Consider this edition the gull-winged display model: very sparkly, highly collectible but with a broken flux capacitor. 4/5

One record at a time: 545. Münchener Freiheit - Traumziel

There is a seller on eBay called Momox_UK, which sounds reassuringly local but they are, in fact, based in Germany. This is not a scandal, obviously, but it does feel like the sort of naming choice designed to give a false sense of security. Their business model is simple enough: buy people’s unwanted media in Germany, then sell it on the internet to people like me, who apparently still need more CDs, DVDs and vinyl records despite all available evidence. They are essentially the German version of MusicMagpie. With 2.3 million items sold and positive feedback from 98% of customers, they clearly get things right most of the time. However, they do make mistakes. 

Sometime in 2024, I ordered the CD single of “Eve of the War (Remix)” by Ben Liebrand for no grander reason than a nostalgic trip down memory lane, which is where many middle-aged purchases begin and PayPal statements go to die. Rather than send me the CD, Momox_UK sent me the 12-inch single, along with a copy of “Traumziel” by Münchener Freiheit. I have no idea whether they sent me someone else’s order or simply invented a new lucky dip model for online retail. They did not reply to my emails and appeared perfectly content to absorb the negative feedback like a large Teutonic sponge. Still, at least I did not pay any postage.

Until this record arrived, I did not really know who Freiheit were. Their full name, Münchener Freiheit, seems to have been shortened in non-German-speaking markets, presumably because record companies feared British radio presenters would see the umlaut and quietly resign. A little research revealed that I did at least know one of their later hits. Unlike this album, “Keeping the Dream Alive” was sung in English and became a UK hit in 1988, so I knew the band were competent and capable of writing the sort of tune that lodges in your head. Despite owning “Traumziel” for two years, I had never actually played it, which is poor behaviour even by the relaxed standards of accidental record ownership. So, having acquired it through what may or may not have been German mail-order roulette, it seemed only fair to finally give it a spin.

What I am expecting, based on very little beyond the sleeve, the band name and the knowledge that I did not order it, is polished German pop with strong melodies and possibly the sort of production values that make you imagine a spotless studio full of men in excellent knitwear. The danger, of course, is that it may turn out to be the musical equivalent of being trapped in a continental hotel lobby with a very enthusiastic keyboard salesman who wears shades even when he is indoors. 

As soon as the needle drops, I am caught off guard by how much I like the opening track, “Es gibt kein nächstes Mal”. As far as I can tell, this song was released as a single, and I can see why. It oozes super-slick 80s synth-pop production from every carefully conditioned pore. Fretless bass guitar, twinkling PPG synths and that unmistakable DX7 BASS.1 preset all come together to provide a brilliant backdrop for some very strong vocals. I had expected polite continental competence. Instead, I got a track striding confidently into the room wearing shoulder pads, expensive aftershave and absolutely no doubt whatsoever about its chorus.

The cheap plastic synth horns on “Geheime Wünsche” sound absolutely fantastic, which is a reminder that 80s pop often worked best when it embraced sounds that would bankrupt a modern producer’s credibility in three seconds. The melody in the verses is fascinating too, even if the chorus sounds as though it is about to wander into the band’s biggest hit, “Keeping The Dream Alive”, without asking permission. Unfortunately, “Herz Aus Glas” finds it necessary to borrow from The Beatles, and synth-pop almost never sounds comfortable when it starts copying the world’s favourite Scousers. I cannot wait for that one to finish. Happily, “Mach Die Augen Zu” moves us back into true 80s synth-pop territory, with fantastic production and, more importantly, a proper hook. Hooks are useful. History has shown that songs tend to go better when they have one.

On Side B, the vocal harmonies of “Angst Vor Der Liebe” give way to a mid-paced track that leans a little closer to conventional rock than anything I have heard so far. It is far from offensive though, and has enough neat synth touches to stop anyone feeling like they should be wearing a denim jacket with sow on patches and chains attached. “Venus Und Mars” is more uptempo and fun, but it is not disposable pop; there is too much craft in the arrangement for that. 

The gated snares of “Viel Zu Viel” show that producer Armand Volker knew exactly what he was doing in the context of contemporary eighties pop, which is another way of saying he knew when to make a snare drum sound like someone shutting a warehouse door. The classic wedding of electric guitar to the DX7 BASS.1 arrives on “Schachmatt”, which would not have sounded out of place on the soundtrack to Top Gun, ideally during a scene involving aviator sunglasses, unresolved tension and a man looking thoughtfully into the middle distance. This grown-up, polished pop continues on closing track “Aus Und Vorbei”, where the band say over and out in a mid-tempo groove rather than anything too dramatic.

In summary, I was genuinely and rather annoyingly surprised by this album. It does get weaker as it goes on, and there are moments where the polish does more heavy lifting than the songs, but some of the melodies are truly brilliant and the quality of the vocals comfortably transcends my ability to speak German. Sometimes I do not care what they are singing. It just sounds good. For all I know they could be reading out the warranty terms for an appliance with emotional conviction, and I would still be nodding along as if deeply moved by a clause in the guarantee for a tumble dryer. 

What began as an accidental extra in a misdelivered order has turned out to be a very enjoyable slice of grown-up 80s synth-pop. I am not sure Momox_UK deserve full credit for the discovery, but they may at least receive a reluctant nod of appreciation, posted second class and addressed vaguely somewhere in Germany. 3/5

One record at a time: 544. Men Without Hats - Folk Of The 80's (Part III)

There are certain records you buy because you have been hunting them for years, stalking Discogs listings, waiting for the right pressing to appear at a price that does not require a small bank loan. Then there are records you buy because you find them in a charity shop whilst idly flicking through a smelly box of James Last and Perry Como LPs. This copy of Men Without Hats’ “Folk of the 80’s (Part III)” definitely falls into the second category.

Finding this record in the wild felt like enough of a minor miracle to hand over the money. My expectations were modest, which is often the safest position to adopt when approaching charity shop vinyl, along with checking for scratches and pretending you are not judging the previous owner’s taste. EMI really knew what they were doing when it came to pressing records in the mid-eighties and this vinyl sounds very good to my ears. The fact that it is so flimsy you could use it as a wobble-board offers quiet but persuasive evidence that the modern obsession with 180g vinyl has rather less to do with sound quality and more to do with separating you from your cash.

Released in 1984, “Folk of the 80’s (Part III)” is listed on Discogs as “Electronic Rock”, which sounds less like a genre and more like the result of two forum users having to settle on an oxymoron to resolve an argument. Still, it is oddly appropriate. With a title like “Folk of the 80’s”, the band were clearly not frightened of contradiction, confusion, or making the listener do a bit of administrative work before the needle even touched the vinyl. If you have the original album, the sleeve helps by mislabelling the track listing on the back and the promotional sticker on the front adds another small puzzle by making you wonder which way up the sleeve image is meant to be. This may be a design choice. It may be an accident. Either way, it feels like the band would approve.

The opening track, “No Dancing”, is a slow-moving and atmospheric introduction like the album is politely clearing its throat before deciding whether to make eye contact. It establishes a slightly uneasy setting, only for “Unsatisfaction” to kick the door open with enough guitar-driven swagger to justify that “Electronic Rock” label after all. “Where Do The Boys Go?” has a definite hint of Eurythmics in their “Sweet Dreams” phase, which is no bad thing. There are worse places to borrow atmosphere from than a record that sounded as though it had been lowered from synth-pop Olympus by two impeccably dressed angels programming a drum computer. 

“Mothers Opinion” (sic) is the most ambitious and polarising track on Side A, and also the one most likely to clear the room if anyone has come expecting another brisk synth-pop singalong. It largely abandons traditional pop structure in favour of long, repetitive electronic loops, shifting sound textures and spoken-word interjections, all apparently designed to prove that Men Without Hats were not merely pop, but art. Possibly art with a clipboard. 

Side B is a more uneven affair, though not without interest. “Eurotheme” sounds rather like a track that began confidently enough before everyone realised nobody had brought any lyrics, at which point the band simply decided to press on and hope the synths could cover the awkward silence. “Messiahs Die Young”, by contrast, benefits from production that is rather stronger than the composition itself, giving the impression of an expensive frame around a slightly cheap print. “I Know Their Name” appears to contain the faint whiff of acoustic drums, but it remains perfectly inoffensive. The title track serves as the album’s ideological mission statement, imagining a future in which traditional folk music has been almost entirely absorbed by electronics. It is an interesting idea, and very much in keeping with the album’s oddball ambition, but the song itself feels slightly too pleased with the concept to remember it also needs a tune. 

Ivan Doroschuk’s voice, meanwhile, will divide opinion. At its best it brings character, drama and a faintly theatrical edge. At other moments the vocal flips and oral gymnastics threaten to become the main event, like someone auditioning for every part in a new wave musical while the rest of the band wait politely for their turn. The synths fare rather better. They are used imaginatively, adding atmosphere and colour but aren't allowed to take over the show entirely (boo). It is really the guitars that let the side down. They are not disastrous, but they do occasionally arrive with the subtlety of a pub band wandering into an art school by mistake.

Overall, “Folk of the 80’s (Part III)” is a far better record than my casual neglect of Men Without Hats deserved. It is uneven in places, and Doroschuk’s vocal style will probably remain something of a Marmite proposition, but there is imagination, energy and enough oddball charm here to make me glad I rescued it from the charity shop afterlife. I went in expecting a curiosity and came out thinking I should probably have paid more attention years ago. Not a lost masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, but certainly a rewarding listen and a reminder that sometimes the most interesting records are the ones you buy because they were not Perry Como. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 543. M - New York, London, Paris, Munich

M was not really a band in the traditional sense, but rather Robin Scott’s solo project, with session musicians and people who knew where the right studio buttons were brought in to fill the gaps. As a result, this album includes Phil Gould on drums, Wally Badarou on keyboards, Gary Barnacle on saxophone and esteemed producer David Richards as engineer, which is a quietly absurd amount of talent for a record many people now remember for only one single.

The crackly but thankfully unscratched vinyl begins with “Pop Muzik”, which arrives with the sort of confidence normally reserved for people who wear hats and sunglasses indoors. It is catchy, odd and completely aware of its own ridiculousness, which is probably why it still works.

After that, the album proves why M are considered a one-hit wonder. “Woman Make Man” is brief, odd and disturbing, but thankfully Wally Badarou’s distinctive contributions stand out more than Scott’s sleazy and frankly appalling vocals. “Moderne Man/Satisfy Your Lust” is a disco number that uses an orchestra, but rather than capturing the vibe of classics like “Night on Broadway”, it sounds more like the theme tune to a seventies comedy show that was cancelled after one series.

“Made in Munich” leans into the record’s European gloss, while “Moonlight and Muzak” is probably the strongest evidence that Scott sold his soul to the devil of disco. “Cowboys and Indians” is stranger than it needs to be and makes me feel like I have slipped into a parallel universe or am experiencing some sort of drug-induced psychosis. “Unite Your Nation” wraps things up with more nausea-inducing nonsense.

Overall, “New York, London, Paris, Munich” is very much a record of its time and, as someone who was alive in 1979, I can say with some confidence that not every moment deserves a revival. I don’t hate many records, but this one is making a surprisingly strong case for admission to that small and unfortunate club. Is it the done thing to ask for a refund of a pound from a charity shop? 1/5