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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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