One record at a time: 520. Electronic - Raise The Pressure

Electronic’s second album arrived in 1996, back when only DJs and unhinged men in anoraks were still buying vinyl. For the last ten years, original pressings of this album have been changing hands for anything between £100 and £200. I wasn’t prepared to lob £200 at a record by an artist I don’t actually collect, only to discover that a Discogs seller’s "near mint" translates to my "good plus, if you squint". So I lived without it on vinyl until this 2025 reissue. On paper, this new pressing ought to have the edge: it’s spread across four sides, which should mean a lower noise floor and a bit more room for the music to breathe. The fact that it is pressed by Optimal Media only adds to its laurels. But as I don’t own the original, I can’t do the smug A/B comparison, sadly.

The album kicks off with the rip-roaring anthem "Forbidden City" which is so infectious that even my Taylor Swift and Dua Lipa obsessed children occasionally request the "wash my hands song" in the car. "For You" is one of those indie-tinged detours Bernard Sumner takes now and again, but this is one I genuinely love. Despite the relatively limited electronic palette, I can’t help being carried along by Johnny Marr’s melodic guitar work and the breezy tune. Somewhere in the loft I’ve got a promotional postcard from when it was released as a single; the blurb says something like the writer could imagine it blasting out of open windows during the summer months. Which is pretty much exactly what happened at Bleeps and Booms Towers thirty years ago.

The first sign of a truly electronic-with-a-small-e track here is "Dark Angel". It’s got some terrific passages, and it’s easy to spot Carl Bartos’s fingerprints when the synths go gloriously haywire halfway through. The Korg T3 piano sits on a Yamaha DX100/27 "Lately Bass", and Denise Johnson adds a cracking vocal. The album’s more guitar-heavy, generally darker production comes to the fore again on "One Day", which plods along like it’s lugging the weekly shop up three flights of stairs. There’s enough melody to keep it afloat though, which is more than can be said for plenty of mid-90s chart fodder.

Then "Until The End Of Time" snaps the mood back to the dancefloor, riding in on Bartos rave hooks and Korg T3 piano riffs. I’m not a fan of the backing vocals, but there’s more than enough aural candy floating around to keep your ears busy and your better judgement quiet in the corner. The TB-303 squeals away as Bernard delivers some of his typically nonsensical lyrics that, somehow, still land. Next up, "Second Nature" has a great verse, but I’m not mad about the chorus. When this was released as a single, Richie Hawtin’s remix did the heavy lifting, giving the track the stronger dance sound it was crying out for. Another Düsseldorf-inspired number follows with "If You’ve Got Love", which even borrows the sampled vocal phonemes scattered across Kraftwerk’s later material and Bartos’s own solo records.

When we drop the needle on the second disc, we return to the slightly more guitar-driven side with "Out of My League", a breezy tune with more than a whiff of The Smiths about it. "Freefall" is a four-on-the-floor number that reminds me of New Order at their peak. The chorus arrives without much ceremony, but I still can’t help tapping my foot along to this one, even if actually getting up and dancing feels a bit ambitious.

"Visit Me" is an odd one, as it feels like it falls between two camps. While it has a breakbeat and some house piano, its pace is pedestrian, though it does feature some beautiful acoustic guitar work from Johnny Marr. Bernard’s vocal sounds completely out of tune to my ears, but the guitar carries things along like a mate patiently steering you away from the karaoke. You don’t need to check the credits to know Carl Bartos was involved with the penultimate track, "How Long", because it’s startlingly obvious. The final track, "Time Can Tell", is laid-back and wistful, with some funky bass guitar from Guy Pratt, but it can’t quite distract from Bernard’s vocal, which doesn’t quite have the muscle for the chorus. 

And so to the packaging. In the sleeve notes, Bernard goes off on a bit of a rant and uses a lot of words without saying very much. I was always puzzled by his closing line about losing the right of silence, but Google suggests he is probably referring to the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, which curtailed the historic "right to silence" in criminal law. The notes have been described as "jarringly out of step" with the album’s mostly upbeat, dance-oriented guitar pop, and this is also true of the sleeve image, which feels oddly placed. All of this left me confused when I first heard the album. I never thought we would be getting a repeat of the first record, but I did expect something more cohesive than this album turned out to be. I can’t help thinking that, by cutting three tracks and revising the cover, this album would be more impressive. Still a noble effort worthy of attention today. 3.5/5

One record at a time: 519. Electribe 101 - Electribal Selections

By a quirk of fate, we find ourselves moving from one HMV 1921 100th Anniversary release to the only other one in my collection. Electribe 101’s "Electribal Selections" is a specially commissioned compilation of deep cuts (and a few lovingly resurrected oddities) from the band’s "Electribal Memories" era.

Things kick off with the Opium mix of "Talking With Myself", which dates back to 1988 and the track’s first outing as a single. Ostensibly it’s a dub mix, with TB-303 burbling, a few exotic samples, and the mandatory delays. The Pinopella mix of "Heading for the Night" wasn’t released until 2021, when lead singer Billie Ray Martin dusted down the thirty-year-old master tapes and issued six different remixes the record company had refused to put out when they were made. These old Frankie Knuckles remixes have a rough, lo-fi quality and sound as if his tape machine was having a mild wobble, complete with a slightly unsettling pitch drift.

"Diamond Dove" has always been a favourite of mine, and the shelved 7-inch version included here is tougher and more stripped back. I like its drive, but I do miss some of the poppier touches from the album version. The Larry Heard remix of "Tell Me When The Fever Ended", closing out side one, has a tremendous bassline and the electric piano sits beautifully. However, ever since I first heard this mix back in 1990, the snare has always struck me as a bit too prominent, like it’s wandered in from a different tune and decided to make itself comfortable.

Side two carries one of my favourite Electribe 101 remixes, the Corporate Def Mix of the single "You’re Walking". David Morales lets sly TR-909 hi-hats tick away under Billie’s soulful vocal, while the incessant bassline propels everything along with the single-minded determination of someone late for the last train. Next up is another shelved 7-inch version of an album track, "Lipstick on My Lover". Chopping two minutes off it doesn’t really do it any favours and, as a deep house track with minimal concessions to pop, it was never likely to get radio play anyway. Still, its inclusion is a nice nod for completists (and the rest of us who like owning alternate versions we’ll insist are essential).

Proceedings wrap up with the strangely titled Lambada version of "Talking With Myself". An edited version of this track appeared on the band’s debut album (as “Talking 2”), so I’m not entirely sure why it’s included here, beyond the gentle thrill of repetition for collectors and record labels alike.

As a GZ Media coloured vinyl pressing, this record comes with plenty of extra crackle courtesy of dust and debris, and cleaning only improves matters slightly. There’s deep bass, but the overall sound isn’t the best. As with many pressings from the Czech Republic, the inner sleeve is about four microns thick, so the vinyl cuts through it like a hot knife through butter. I like this record, but it’s probably only for the initiated (or the stubborn, which is much the same thing). 3.5/5

One record at a time: 518. 808 State - 90

808 State were different from many of the acts feeding the late-eighties rave scene because they wanted, and were able, to think beyond the 12-inch single. When "90" landed in 1989, acid house was spilling out of warehouses and illegal raves and into nightclubs and the charts. Rather than stopping at club-ready singles, 808 State pushed further and started building albums that were driven by ambition and backed up by the kind of studio craft many of their contemporaries simply did not have.

This album can still function as a tool for DJs, but it also works as a headphone record or a living-room "what is this?" conversion kit. The music is so good you don’t need to be loved up to enjoy it. The key is the production: even when they lean on the same samples and hardware as their contemporaries, 808 State retain a unique and distinctive sound.

The headline here, of course, is "Pacific 202" (a remix of the earlier "Pacific State"), the track that helped make dance music both credible and commercial. It received heavy radio play and brought the wider public round to the possibilities of dance music. 

"Magical Dream" is a soft-focus opener: chiming synths, a rolling groove, and just enough vocal presence to frame the album as pop-adjacent without turning it into songs. The Roland R8 drum programming on "Cobra Bora" could only be 808 State with double-hit hats, unhinged cowbells, and a sense of precision with a grin. The ravey brass stabs and rumbling TB-303 that drive it along are spot-on. 

"Donkey Doctor" may be a terrible title, but the track isn’t: busier and weirder in the best way, it’s where you hear the group’s love of studio play and abrupt left turns. "808080808" is a harder, leaner stomp that hints at the tougher techno future without losing the record’s slightly psychedelic glow. The comedown chapter comes with "Sunrise": long-form, patient, and genuinely pretty. In the same vein as songs like "Sun Rising" by The Beloved, this is less "rave banger" and more early-morning perspective.

"90" is a cornerstone record, not because it’s the loudest or fastest, but because it’s confident enough to leave space. If you like electronic music that’s physical and detailed, this is essential. My copy is the vivid pink LP, released in 2022 as part of the HMV 1921 Centenary Edition series. It sounds surprisingly good for a GZ pressing as their records are usually dirtier than a urinal cake. Still: highly recommended. 4/5.

One record at a time: 517. Thomas Dolby - Astronauts & Heretics

This is the last Thomas Dolby album I needed on vinyl to complete the Music On Vinyl 2024 reissue set. This is numbered, gold-coloured 180g limited edition, also known as "the one I paid more than I care to admit for" after missing it the first time, only to watch it get reissued again in a different colour. Collector logic is a beautiful thing.

Released in 1992 this was Dolby’s last studio album until 2011, which gives an idea of the impact it had on his career. Having not learnt his lesson with his preceding album, Dolby chooses to change direction again by swapping electronic funk for louche, Louisiana-leaning stomps and soft rock. If you came here expecting wall-to-wall synth-pop bangers, you may feel like you’ve ordered a burger and been handed a salad.

The opener, "I Love You Goodbye", immediately announces that this is the album where Thomas Dolby calmly indicates, checks his mirrors, and then drives straight off the road. It’s jaunty, odd, and just familiar enough to make you think you recognise the tune, right up until you realise you’re driving across a field. 

I once had a music teacher who said that if you're writing a good song it will usually remind you of something else. "Silk Pyjamas" proves the inverse: you can also write a bad song that reminds you of something else. Only in this case you can’t quite remember what it reminds you of, and you’re not sure you want to. Not to my taste at all.

The single "Close But No Cigar" shows flashes of Dolby’s cleverness, but it is dressed in entirely the wrong clothes. The guest appearance by Eddie Van Halen on guitar only underlines how far the apple has fallen from the tree. For my money the best track is "That’s Why People Fall in Love", which comes closest to the traditional, scientifically minded synth-pop boffin persona Dolby was known for, though it’s very much an anomaly on the record. The closer "Beauty of a Dream" feels cinematic and reflective, but turns out to be one of those dreams that never really resolves in a satisfying manner.

To some extent "Astronauts & Heretics" is Dolby doing what he does: refusing to sit still. Yet the instrumentation on this album is impressively safe. So safe it practically comes with handrails. Many of us were drawn to Dolby for his wonderfully strange, inventive use of synthesisers and electronics, not because we were craving the sonic thrill of "competent drums" and guitarists with poodle perms. This record is the sound of someone casually flushing away their own USP and then shrugging as their career disappears. As an adventure it may be fulfilling to the artist, but not to the record buying public. This record is not for me, but I can respect the swing. 1.5/5

One record at a time: 516. Thomas Dolby - Aliens ate my Buick!

I'm not sure I have ever understood this album. Not in the dramatic, "I don’t understand modern art" way, but in the practical, "this music makes me feel like I’m missing the instruction manual" way. The songs are often brilliant, and it was co-produced by Bill Bottrell, so it should have been a straightforward win for my ears. Instead, my ears initially asked for a second opinion and suggested we return to the safer shores of synth-pop.

Part of the issue is that "Aliens Ate My Buick!" does not feel like it is built around a big concept, or even a loose thread you can tug from track to track. "The Golden Age of Wireless" feels focused and "The Flat Earth" has a consistent mood. This one is more like a set of very competent ideas sharing the same postcode. They do not always speak to each other, but they are polite about it.

I think the problem was also the sharp change in musical direction. Dolby, previously known as the friendly neighbourhood tech geek, turns up here leaning hard into funk, reggae, and jazz. It is not a bad idea, but is a very noticeable one. It's a bit like changing your entire wardrobe and then acting surprised when someone sniggers at your kipper tie.

My first encounter with the album was the track "Airhead". It is a funny critique, packed with melody and hooks, and it also managed to confuse me, which is a useful reminder that craft and clarity are not the same thing. I enjoyed it, I replayed it, and then I wondered if I had missed a meeting where everyone agreed what kind of record this was meant to be.

Then there is "Hot Sauce", a funk song written by George Clinton, which sets expectations in a very specific direction. Lyrics like "Smother me in your hot sauce woman," sound strange coming from a politely enunciated Englishman. I cannot decide if this is quietly subversive or simply a mismatch between lyric and delivery. Either way, it is memorable. A bit like being offered a cup of tea by a bouncer.

"Budapest by Blimp" is a wistful epic, and it is about as close to the ‘old Dolby’ as this record gets. Picked guitars and slap bass cosy up to soft vocals before the whole thing suddenly erupts into a full-on funk fest, complete with epic guitar solos and chugging basslines. For some people it is the clear highlight, the one they would point to with the confidence of a man who wears a flat cap whilst mansplaining craft beer. Whilst I like it, it's is not quite my favourite.

Robin Leach’s voice has always grated on me, and I never watched any of the glossy television programmes he was associated with, so "The Key to Her Ferrari" initially left me rather cold. But if you judge Dolby at face value, you miss what he is doing. He likes the satire, the wink, and the little gap where you can supply your own meaning. If your meaning is "this is not for me", that is also valid.

My copy is a clear limited edition Music on Vinyl pressing from 2025, and it sounds excellent. Clean, punchy, and detailed enough to reward close listening without demanding it. It is worth spending time with this record. Eventually, it starts to make sense, or at least you stop needing it to. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 515. Thomas Dolby - The Flat Earth

In 1984, synthesizers weren’t just decorating pop songs, they were driving them: bright hooks, rubbery basslines, clockwork drum machines, and a gleaming promise that music can sound like the future. In that buzzing, neon-lit melee, Thomas Dolby dropped his second album, "The Flat Earth". If you think this record is all about the punchy, bounding brilliance of "Hyperactive!", you’re in for a surprise. Dolby, the thinking person’s electronic architect, delivers an album that brims with sly intelligence, heart, and more layers than a particularly ambitious trifle.

Let’s start with "Hyperactive!". If you’ve never heard this tune, I can only assume you’ve lived in a cave without electricity or you are under thirty years of age. It’s a riot: think caffeine-fuelled keyboards, a bassline with a life of its own, and Dolby’s gleeful vocals ricocheting about your brain for days. But here’s the twist: "The Flat Earth" is no one-hit-wonder. The album peels back its synth-pop skin to reveal a wealth of sophisticated songwriting and emotional depth. "Hyperactive!" may have been the hit, but it’s the rest of the album that shows what Dolby was really about.

Take "Screen Kiss", for example. Inspired by Dolby’s own experiences, this track sidesteps the neon whimsy for something far more poignant. It’s tender, emotive, and resonates with a vulnerability that’s rare in the electronic landscape. Dolby himself holds this track in high esteem, and it’s easy to see why: the song is a slow-burning heartache, painted in shimmering synths and wistful vocals. If you’ve ever felt a pang of nostalgia, this one will have you raiding the biscuit tin for comfort.

Now, if you’re a gear geek like me, the title track is a textbook in electronic innovation. Dolby conjures lush, cinematic soundscapes using a trusty TR-808 drum machine alongside the then-revolutionary Fairlight CMI. It’s a sonic palette that’s simultaneously retro and fresh, a bit like finding an old sci-fi paperback at the back of the shelf and realising it still predicts the future, only with better bass, naturally.

Don’t skip "I Scare Myself", either. This atmospheric favourite feels like a smoky lounge at 3am, all swirling shadows and hushed secrets. It’s a haunting, mesmerising cover that nestles perfectly amongst the album’s more energetic moments, further proof that Dolby’s range is as wide as his imagination. Listening to this one alone is highly recommended, preferably with moody lighting and a glass of something strong.

For anyone looking to add a splash of colour to their collection, this 2024 limited edition (750 copies) blue vinyl is a tempting little prize. I certainly thought so, which is why I paid rather more than I care to admit for a copy. Of course, this is Music On Vinyl: just as you track one down, they announce another run in a different colour, and you can almost hear the inevitable "blue reissue" quietly warming up in the wings.

So in conclusion, ‘The Flat Earth’ is a multilayered delight, serving up both pop fizz and emotional substance. Whether you’re here for the bangers or the ballads, Dolby delivers with his trademark wit and warmth. So slap on the album and let Dolby take you somewhere delightfully flat but never dull. 4/5

One record at a time: 514. Thomas Dolby - The Golden Age of Wireless

As I worked my way through my record collection for this blog, I realised there were a few holes I really should fill. One such gap was the work of Mr Thomas Dolby. My tastes were far too immature to appreciate the subtlety and guile of Dolby when albums like this first appeared. My young head was turned by whatever loud, shiny pop leapt out of the radio back in those days. Today I’ve grown fond of music that takes a second to unfold. I can now appreciate the intricacy and craft of Dolby’s work, along with the mischievous glint in his eye.

I rushed to buy this numbered silver vinyl when it was reissued in 2024, because it was limited to a thousand copies and I have the self-control of a magpie near a shiny bin lid. In hindsight, the panic was unnecessary as it has since reappeared as a similarly limited turquoise version, and the original silver is apparently limbering up for yet another return. This album clearly sells well enough to keep the pressing plant in fresh colours and furnish the marketing department at Music On Vinyl with smug grins.

"The Golden Age of Wireless" sounds like a clever bloke with a stack of ideas, a sharp ear, and just enough mischief to stop things getting precious. It sits in that sweet spot where the tunes are catchy enough to whistle at the kettle, but the details keep tapping you on the shoulder like, "Oi, did you hear what I just did there?"

Despite Dolby's reputation as a computer boffin, this album actually sounds like it was played rather than programmed. There are songs here that strut, songs that glide, and songs that behave like they have been left alone in a room with too many ideas and a fresh pot of tea. When the album goes for big pop moments, it lands them with a grin rather than a grimace. When it gets a bit odd, it does so with purpose.

My favourites are a neat little tour of Dolby’s range. They also make a strong case that he didn’t need the Fairlight to be inventive, because most of this record was already up and running before that chapter began. "Windpower" has a propulsive swagger, all clipped rhythms and crystalline PPG Waveterm sounds. Underneath, the Simmons drums keep shouldering the track forward until it lands, part punchline and part propulsion.

"Flying North" has that lovely sense of motion and air, the kind of track that makes you stare out of the window with a thoughtful expression, even if you are actually just stuck at the traffic lights outside Aldi. And "Europa and the Pirate Twins" is pure storybook pop: odd, cinematic, and confidently bonkers in the way only a properly talented writer can get away with. It is the musical equivalent of finding a treasure map in your coat pocket, then realising the treasure is a chorus you find yourself humming absent mindedly.

Lyrically, Dolby comes across as the kind of narrator you would trust to fix your toaster, then accidentally end up discussing philosophy with you while he is at it. The words are playful, sometimes sly, and often sharper than the music’s glossy surface suggests. It is pop with a brain, but thankfully not pop that makes you feel like you have accidentally enrolled in an evening class.

What surprised me most, listening now, is how well it holds up. Plenty of records from this era sound like they are stuck in a time capsule with a complimentary can of hairspray and an unsolicited shoulder pad. This one still feels alive. The arrangements have space, the hooks do their job, and the humour keeps it from turning into a po-faced exercise in cleverness.

Worth noting, especially if your brain automatically shouts the title in Magnus Pyke's voice, is that "She Blinded Me with Science" is not on this album (as per the original UK tracklisting). You might expect that to leave a crater, but it really doesn’t. "The Golden Age of Wireless" stands on its own perfectly well, like a dinner party that somehow goes better once the loudest guest has taken their leave.

If you have only ever known Thomas Dolby as "that fellow with the catchy single", this album is the friendly proof that he was doing far more than making a pop culture splash. Start with "Windpower", "Flying North", or "Europa and the Pirate Twins" and you may find yourself eyeing up your own household appliances as potential bandmates. 4/5