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