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