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