One record at a time: 566. Telex - This Is Telex

The final addition to my Telex vinyl collection is the 2021 double-LP compilation “This Is Telex”. The packaging is a perfect match for the music, with the records pressed in vivid pink and green, a colour combination that is both arresting and just the right side of kitsch. This is not a comprehensive ‘best of’, but it does bring together twelve of the band’s singles, along with a couple of previously unreleased cover versions thrown in because, well, why not? Every track was newly mixed and remastered from the original tapes by surviving band members Dan Lacksman and Michel Moers.

As a collection, the record offers an enjoyable overview of the trio’s work across three decades. Its playful covers and wry originals may not be instantly recognisable to the uninitiated, but that is rather the point. Telex remain a well-kept secret among synthpop enthusiasts. The general public can keep walking.

The collection opens with one of the newly unearthed cover versions, “The Beat Goes On/Off”. Although no recording date is provided, its samples and synth sounds place it fairly confidently in the nineties. From there, the album rattles through the band’s singles, with highlights including the gloriously plastic horns of “L’amour Toujours”, the classic electronic throb of “Moskow Diskow” and the crisp electro beats of “Radio Radio”. As a loyal Pet Shop Boys fan, I shall withhold comment on Sparks’ involvement in two tracks, given the history between the groups*.

The inclusion of “La Bamba” feels a bit like a misstep, largely because I have never recovered from the version that dominated the charts in the eighties. The Beatles cover that rounds out proceedings, however, is inspired. Originally included on “The White Album”, “Dear Prudence” is one of John Lennon’s more affecting psychedelic numbers. Telex replace McCartney and Ringo Starr with synths, while Michel delivers a vocal that wisely avoids imitating Lennon and instead finds something fresh in the song. It should not work quite as well as it does, which is often when Telex are at their best.

“This Is Telex” may not be the definitive account of the band, but it captures their peculiar appeal: playful, inventive and knowingly artificial, yet capable of producing moments of genuine warmth. For existing admirers, it is a handsome reminder of why Telex still matter. For everyone else, it is an excellent place to discover what they have been missing. 4/5

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One record at a time: 565. Telex - Neurovision

“Neurovision” is Telex’s second album, originally released in 1980. I am playing the 2023 remastered vinyl edition, which can still be found on various websites at an astonishingly low price. As well as giving the music a fresh sheen, the surviving members of the band retrieved the original master tapes from the vault and made a few subtle changes to both the mixes and the running order. Having never heard the original version, I cannot say whether those alterations significantly affect the overall impression the album makes, although at this price I am not inclined to worry either way.

The record broadly follows the formula established by the debut: jaunty, deceptively simple pop songs constructed from bright analogue synthesisers, clipped rhythms and melodies that lodge themselves in the brain with suspicious efficiency. Reserved vocalist Michel Moers alternates between a cool, detached deadpan and an unexpected croon, depending on what the song demands or, perhaps, how sociable he was feeling that day. Throughout, Telex perform with tongue firmly in cheek and a knowing look that suggests they are simultaneously celebrating pop music and quietly taking it apart to see how ridiculous it can become.

There’s also something strangely subversive, and rather thrilling, about a band entering the Eurovision Song Contest with a song that gently mocks the very competition in which it is appearing. Telex did exactly that with “Euro-Vision”, Belgium’s entry for the 1980 contest. It is a lightweight, jaunty and deliberately facile song that captures Eurovision’s fondness for bright tunes, forced enthusiasm and the occasional costume that looks as though it has been assembled during a power cut. The band reportedly hoped to finish last, but even here things did not quite go to plan: they came 17th out of 19 entries. For most acts that would have been a disappointment. For Telex, it was arguably an irritating brush with success.

That same knowingly playful approach continues with “Tour de France”. It has nothing to do with the Kraftwerk song released three years later, beyond sharing a title and demonstrating that electronic musicians were already surprisingly interested in professional cycling. Where Kraftwerk approach the subject of the race literally, capturing the rhythm, machinery and physical exertion of the race itself, Telex do something rather more inventive. They turn the Grande Boucle into a metaphor for pursuing an elusive love interest across France, transforming the gruelling cycle race into an equally exhausting romantic chase, albeit with rather less Lycra and fewer clandestine blood transfusions.

Songs such as “We Are All Getting Old” or the cover of “Dance to the Music” are so catchy that they remain lodged in your head long after you have lifted the needle. That is usually the sign of a memorable tune, although occasionally it is merely the symptom of an especially persistent one. With Telex, the distinction hardly seems to matter. They leave you humming their melodies whether you want to or not, which is surely exactly where they want you: impressed, mildly irritated and unable to shake them.

“Neurovision” may not be a dramatic reinvention of Telex’s debut, but it develops their peculiar formula with confidence and no shortage of good ideas. Its wit can occasionally feel more memorable than its songs, yet there is enough invention, charm and melodic persistence here to make it far more than an electronic curiosity. It is a clever, enjoyable album by a band who understood that pop music could be taken seriously without having to behave seriously. 3.5/5

One record at a time: 564. Telex - Looking For Saint Tropez

Another gap that became apparent during the initial expedition through my collection was the work of Telex. I’ll be honest: I had barely heard of the band until they remixed a Pet Shop Boys track in 2006, and even that wasn’t enough to make me investigate further. 

Apparently I needed another seventeen years and the reassuring hand of a trusted record label before taking any action. What finally pushed me towards the Telex back catalogue was when they began a partnership with Mute Records, who reissued the band’s discography. If Telex were good enough for Daniel Miller, I reasoned, they were good enough for me. 

This is, of course, a slightly daft system of quality control, as Mute have signed plenty of artists I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole, even if the barge pole came with a limited-edition coloured vinyl pressing. Still, the remastered albums were very reasonably priced, and principles become surprisingly flexible when an LP costs less that twenty pounds.

Telex’s debut album dates from 1979, yet much of it sounds as though it could have been recorded yesterday. Admittedly, it would have been recorded yesterday by three eccentric Belgians surrounded by vintage synthesisers, wearing expressions that suggested they knew exactly how silly pop music could be and intended to prove it. Even so, the album has aged remarkably well. Its electronics are crisp, minimal and playful rather than lumbering, while its detached vocals make everything sound both sophisticated and faintly absurd. It is music that keeps a perfectly straight face while quietly moving the furniture behind you.

“Moskow Diskow” is the epitome of European electro-disco, driven by a pulsing bassline, vocoder rasps and French-language vocals that make catching a train sound like the height of continental glamour. There is also a wonderfully odd cover of “Rock Around the Clock”, and I still can’t decide whether it is an affectionate tribute, an elaborate joke or a genuinely inspired reinvention. The answer is probably all three, which is very much Telex’s preferred operating model. 

Another cover arrives in the form of “Ça plane pour moi”, a version of a song that already sounded like a parody and is therefore subjected to the musical equivalent of placing a hall of mirrors inside another hall of mirrors. It is still well worth sticking around for. My favourite track, though, is “Victime de la Société”. Its riff is so strong that it could have been written by Vince Clarke in his pomp, while Michel Moers’ spoken vocal oozes effortless cool. He sounds less like a singer performing a song and more like a stylish European stranger calmly informing you that your evening plans have changed.

In 1979, the album’s extensive use of synthesisers must have made it sound startlingly modern. By the middle of the eighties, when electronic pop had become shinier, grander and polished to within an inch of its life, Telex may have seemed almost terribly naïve by comparison. Now, of course, artists spend considerable time and money trying to recreate precisely that unpolished character, sometimes using software designed to imitate equipment Telex probably bought because it was all they could afford. As a result, the record has completed a full circle. It now fits neatly into the zeitgeist, sounding fresh because it is old and modern because it refused to behave properly in the first place. The history of electronic pop, encapsulated in one mischievous Belgian album. 4/5

One record at a time: 563. Sunscreem - Change Or Die

Some records become rare through mystique, others through neglect. Sunscreem’s "Change or Die", released in 1996, appears to have achieved a little of both. Back when this album was released, most of us were buying CDs, so relatively few vinyl copies seem to have escaped into the wild. The LP now sits on more Discogs wantlists than shelves, while Popsike records just two eBay sales, both more than two years ago. Despite this, nobody has thought to repress it in thirty years. It remains difficult to find, although thankfully not yet expensive enough to require a meeting with the bank manager.

I acquired my copy from Discogs a little over a year ago. It is in very good condition, with only the occasional crackle expected from a thirty-year-old record. Better still, I paid considerably less than the Discogs median price, suggesting that the record-collecting gods had smiled upon me once again, or at least briefly looked up from ruining somebody else’s afternoon.

Proceedings begin with the single “Exodus”, which I bought on release more out of loyalty than genuine excitement. It is not a bad song, but it lacks a strong hook and never quite catches fire, despite a pleasing TB-303 riff lurking in the mix. From there, the album slides seamlessly into “Ice Screems”, which has a stronger rave pulse and samples vocals from “Chasing Dreams” on the band’s debut album.

The same vocal sample reappears on “Something”, although this time it is attached to a stronger melody. The album was mixed by a DJ as one continuous programme, so before you have had time to decide whether this is inspired recycling or simply getting your money’s worth from a sample, it segues into “When”.

As you might expect from the album’s lead single, “When” is suitably epic once it gets going. The problem is that it takes rather too long to get there, as though it has misplaced its keys on the way out. Side one closes with “Syclick”, another rave-inspired semi-instrumental that does the band’s credibility as a dance act no harm whatsoever.

Around the time of the album’s release, I received a band newsletter filled with cheerful nonsense about madness and a report that lead singer Lucia had spotted a “critter” in the garden, which she then drew for the front cover. Mental disarray was clearly part of the album’s furniture, as side two begins with “For Maddened Prophets”. It starts with a more laid-back groove before the breakbeats kick into life, but never develops much structure and ends up feeling less like a journey than somebody pacing around while trying to remember why they entered the room.

For me, the album’s standout is “Looking At You”, which combines a memorable melody with some superb synth work. It is probably no coincidence that it is also the closest the album comes to a conventional song structure. That sense of shape makes it sound more assured than much of what surrounds it. Its laid-back approach may not satisfy anyone waiting for the next breakbeat to kick down the door, but to my ears it is an unqualified success. “No Angel” follows and takes a couple of minutes to get moving, but once it does, it becomes thoroughly entertaining.

I am less persuaded by “Secrets” and “White Skies”, the album’s other two singles. Both favour more conventional song structures, yet somehow fall between two stools, lacking either the atmosphere or the full-blooded rave sensibility that characterises Sunscreem’s best material. They are neither bad enough to resent nor good enough to seek out, which may be an even crueller fate.

“Change or Die” is therefore a frustrating album rather than a failed one. Its best moments show that Sunscreem could combine rave energy, melody and genuine songwriting flair, but too often the music drifts when it should be driving forward. Perhaps its scarcity has given it a little more mystique than the contents entirely justify. Even so, I am glad to own it. It is an intriguing snapshot of a band caught between the dance floor and the songbook, occasionally standing in the doorway and blocking access to both. 2.5/5

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

The Records That Survived Being Left Alone

During a short break last week, I acquired a pleasing little haul of preowned vinyl from charity shops and market stalls. I did not spend a great deal. The most expensive record was £15, but every purchase had one thing in common: it was filthy.

Most looked as though they had last been played forty years ago, then stored beneath a sofa in a damp house full of moulting pets. Between them they carried hairs, fingerprints, a thin film of unidentified fluid and several promising species of mould. Yet beneath all that domestic archaeology, the records had survived. It occurred to me that the dirt might not just be evidence of neglect. It might also be evidence of restraint.

Cleaning records simply was not regarded as essential in the past. Records were ephemera, not precious artefacts to be treasured, catalogued and handled like medieval manuscripts. A colleague once told me that in her youth she wiped dust from records with her clothing and routinely put a penny on the head shell to stop the needle jumping. My father owned a fairly expensive stereo system in the seventies and eighties, yet relied solely on a Zerostat antistatic gun. No cloth or cleaning fluid came anywhere near his opera records. “The needle is the best cleaning apparatus” seems to have been the prevailing wisdom.

As a modern youth, I believed I knew better. I cleaned my records with specialist fluids that promised magical restorative powers and hinted at secret formulas known only to audio alchemists. I now realise that most were merely isopropyl alcohol concoctions that were about as magical as the zip that kept my trousers shut; a headstrong teenager and his money are soon parted.

My faith in chemistry did not end well. Tired of the clicks and pops on several Jean Michel Jarre LPs, I cleaned them en masse with one of these potions and somehow covered nearly all of them in micro scratches (I'm still not really sure what I did wrong to this day). Further cleaning only made matters worse. I was also a clumsy teenager, so repeated playing added scratches and dinks until some discs became less a listening experience than an endurance test. Many of the records from my youth did not survive the eighties, not because I neglected them, but because I played them relentlessly and tried far too enthusiastically to look after them.

Which brings me back to my recent haul. These records survived for forty years partly because they weren’t played much and also because nobody attacked them with a miracle fluid and the confidence of a teenager. I will still clean them, of course, but carefully, with the humility experience provides. Then I will lower the needle, hear the first stubborn crackle and remind myself that sometimes the safest form of record care is simply leaving the poor thing alone.