One record at a time: 545. Münchener Freiheit - Traumziel

There is a seller on eBay called Momox_UK, which sounds reassuringly local but they are, in fact, based in Germany. This is not a scandal, obviously, but it does feel like the sort of naming choice designed to give a false sense of security. Their business model is simple enough: buy people’s unwanted media in Germany, then sell it on the internet to people like me, who apparently still need more CDs, DVDs and vinyl records despite all available evidence. They are essentially the German version of MusicMagpie. With 2.3 million items sold and positive feedback from 98% of customers, they clearly get things right most of the time. However, they do make mistakes. 

Sometime in 2024, I ordered the CD single of “Eve of the War (Remix)” by Ben Liebrand for no grander reason than a nostalgic trip down memory lane, which is where many middle-aged purchases begin and PayPal statements go to die. Rather than send me the CD, Momox_UK sent me the 12-inch single, along with a copy of “Traumziel” by Münchener Freiheit. I have no idea whether they sent me someone else’s order or simply invented a new lucky dip model for online retail. They did not reply to my emails and appeared perfectly content to absorb the negative feedback like a large Teutonic sponge. Still, at least I did not pay any postage.

Until this record arrived, I did not really know who Freiheit were. Their full name, Münchener Freiheit, seems to have been shortened in non-German-speaking markets, presumably because record companies feared British radio presenters would see the umlaut and quietly resign. A little research revealed that I did at least know one of their later hits. Unlike this album, “Keeping the Dream Alive” was sung in English and became a UK hit in 1988, so I knew the band were competent and capable of writing the sort of tune that lodges in your head. Despite owning “Traumziel” for two years, I had never actually played it, which is poor behaviour even by the relaxed standards of accidental record ownership. So, having acquired it through what may or may not have been German mail-order roulette, it seemed only fair to finally give it a spin.

What I am expecting, based on very little beyond the sleeve, the band name and the knowledge that I did not order it, is polished German pop with strong melodies and possibly the sort of production values that make you imagine a spotless studio full of men in excellent knitwear. The danger, of course, is that it may turn out to be the musical equivalent of being trapped in a continental hotel lobby with a very enthusiastic keyboard salesman who wears shades even when he is indoors. 

As soon as the needle drops, I am caught off guard by how much I like the opening track, “Es gibt kein nächstes Mal”. As far as I can tell, this song was released as a single, and I can see why. It oozes super-slick 80s synth-pop production from every carefully conditioned pore. Fretless bass guitar, twinkling PPG synths and that unmistakable DX7 BASS.1 preset all come together to provide a brilliant backdrop for some very strong vocals. I had expected polite continental competence. Instead, I got a track striding confidently into the room wearing shoulder pads, expensive aftershave and absolutely no doubt whatsoever about its chorus.

The cheap plastic synth horns on “Geheime Wünsche” sound absolutely fantastic, which is a reminder that 80s pop often worked best when it embraced sounds that would bankrupt a modern producer’s credibility in three seconds. The melody in the verses is fascinating too, even if the chorus sounds as though it is about to wander into the band’s biggest hit, “Keeping The Dream Alive”, without asking permission. Unfortunately, “Herz Aus Glas” finds it necessary to borrow from The Beatles, and synth-pop almost never sounds comfortable when it starts copying the world’s favourite Scousers. I cannot wait for that one to finish. Happily, “Mach Die Augen Zu” moves us back into true 80s synth-pop territory, with fantastic production and, more importantly, a proper hook. Hooks are useful. History has shown that songs tend to go better when they have one.

On Side B, the vocal harmonies of “Angst Vor Der Liebe” give way to a mid-paced track that leans a little closer to conventional rock than anything I have heard so far. It is far from offensive though, and has enough neat synth touches to stop anyone feeling like they should be wearing a denim jacket with sow on patches and chains attached. “Venus Und Mars” is more uptempo and fun, but it is not disposable pop; there is too much craft in the arrangement for that. 

The gated snares of “Viel Zu Viel” show that producer Armand Volker knew exactly what he was doing in the context of contemporary eighties pop, which is another way of saying he knew when to make a snare drum sound like someone shutting a warehouse door. The classic wedding of electric guitar to the DX7 BASS.1 arrives on “Schachmatt”, which would not have sounded out of place on the soundtrack to Top Gun, ideally during a scene involving aviator sunglasses, unresolved tension and a man looking thoughtfully into the middle distance. This grown-up, polished pop continues on closing track “Aus Und Vorbei”, where the band say over and out in a mid-tempo groove rather than anything too dramatic.

In summary, I was genuinely and rather annoyingly surprised by this album. It does get weaker as it goes on, and there are moments where the polish does more heavy lifting than the songs, but some of the melodies are truly brilliant and the quality of the vocals comfortably transcends my ability to speak German. Sometimes I do not care what they are singing. It just sounds good. For all I know they could be reading out the warranty terms for an appliance with emotional conviction, and I would still be nodding along as if deeply moved by a clause in the guarantee for a tumble dryer. 

What began as an accidental extra in a misdelivered order has turned out to be a very enjoyable slice of grown-up 80s synth-pop. I am not sure Momox_UK deserve full credit for the discovery, but they may at least receive a reluctant nod of appreciation, posted second class and addressed vaguely somewhere in Germany. 3/5

One record at a time: 544. Men Without Hats - Folk Of The 80's (Part III)

There are certain records you buy because you have been hunting them for years, stalking Discogs listings, waiting for the right pressing to appear at a price that does not require a small bank loan. Then there are records you buy because you find them in a charity shop whilst idly flicking through a smelly box of James Last and Perry Como LPs. This copy of Men Without Hats’ “Folk of the 80’s (Part III)” definitely falls into the second category.

Finding this record in the wild felt like enough of a minor miracle to hand over the money. My expectations were modest, which is often the safest position to adopt when approaching charity shop vinyl, along with checking for scratches and pretending you are not judging the previous owner’s taste. EMI really knew what they were doing when it came to pressing records in the mid-eighties and this vinyl sounds very good to my ears. The fact that it is so flimsy you could use it as a wobble-board offers quiet but persuasive evidence that the modern obsession with 180g vinyl has rather less to do with sound quality and more to do with separating you from your cash.

Released in 1984, “Folk of the 80’s (Part III)” is listed on Discogs as “Electronic Rock”, which sounds less like a genre and more like the result of two forum users having to settle on an oxymoron to resolve an argument. Still, it is oddly appropriate. With a title like “Folk of the 80’s”, the band were clearly not frightened of contradiction, confusion, or making the listener do a bit of administrative work before the needle even touched the vinyl. If you have the original album, the sleeve helps by mislabelling the track listing on the back and the promotional sticker on the front adds another small puzzle by making you wonder which way up the sleeve image is meant to be. This may be a design choice. It may be an accident. Either way, it feels like the band would approve.

The opening track, “No Dancing”, is a slow-moving and atmospheric introduction like the album is politely clearing its throat before deciding whether to make eye contact. It establishes a slightly uneasy setting, only for “Unsatisfaction” to kick the door open with enough guitar-driven swagger to justify that “Electronic Rock” label after all. “Where Do The Boys Go?” has a definite hint of Eurythmics in their “Sweet Dreams” phase, which is no bad thing. There are worse places to borrow atmosphere from than a record that sounded as though it had been lowered from synth-pop Olympus by two impeccably dressed angels programming a drum computer. 

“Mothers Opinion” (sic) is the most ambitious and polarising track on Side A, and also the one most likely to clear the room if anyone has come expecting another brisk synth-pop singalong. It largely abandons traditional pop structure in favour of long, repetitive electronic loops, shifting sound textures and spoken-word interjections, all apparently designed to prove that Men Without Hats were not merely pop, but art. Possibly art with a clipboard. 

Side B is a more uneven affair, though not without interest. “Eurotheme” sounds rather like a track that began confidently enough before everyone realised nobody had brought any lyrics, at which point the band simply decided to press on and hope the synths could cover the awkward silence. “Messiahs Die Young”, by contrast, benefits from production that is rather stronger than the composition itself, giving the impression of an expensive frame around a slightly cheap print. “I Know Their Name” appears to contain the faint whiff of acoustic drums, but it remains perfectly inoffensive. The title track serves as the album’s ideological mission statement, imagining a future in which traditional folk music has been almost entirely absorbed by electronics. It is an interesting idea, and very much in keeping with the album’s oddball ambition, but the song itself feels slightly too pleased with the concept to remember it also needs a tune. 

Ivan Doroschuk’s voice, meanwhile, will divide opinion. At its best it brings character, drama and a faintly theatrical edge. At other moments the vocal flips and oral gymnastics threaten to become the main event, like someone auditioning for every part in a new wave musical while the rest of the band wait politely for their turn. The synths fare rather better. They are used imaginatively, adding atmosphere and colour but aren't allowed to take over the show entirely (boo). It is really the guitars that let the side down. They are not disastrous, but they do occasionally arrive with the subtlety of a pub band wandering into an art school by mistake.

Overall, “Folk of the 80’s (Part III)” is a far better record than my casual neglect of Men Without Hats deserved. It is uneven in places, and Doroschuk’s vocal style will probably remain something of a Marmite proposition, but there is imagination, energy and enough oddball charm here to make me glad I rescued it from the charity shop afterlife. I went in expecting a curiosity and came out thinking I should probably have paid more attention years ago. Not a lost masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, but certainly a rewarding listen and a reminder that sometimes the most interesting records are the ones you buy because they were not Perry Como. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 543. M - New York, London, Paris, Munich

M was not really a band in the traditional sense, but rather Robin Scott’s solo project, with session musicians and people who knew where the right studio buttons were brought in to fill the gaps. As a result, this album includes Phil Gould on drums, Wally Badarou on keyboards, Gary Barnacle on saxophone and esteemed producer David Richards as engineer, which is a quietly absurd amount of talent for a record many people now remember for only one single.

The crackly but thankfully unscratched vinyl begins with “Pop Muzik”, which arrives with the sort of confidence normally reserved for people who wear hats and sunglasses indoors. It is catchy, odd and completely aware of its own ridiculousness, which is probably why it still works.

After that, the album proves why M are considered a one-hit wonder. “Woman Make Man” is brief, odd and disturbing, but thankfully Wally Badarou’s distinctive contributions stand out more than Scott’s sleazy and frankly appalling vocals. “Moderne Man/Satisfy Your Lust” is a disco number that uses an orchestra, but rather than capturing the vibe of classics like “Night on Broadway”, it sounds more like the theme tune to a seventies comedy show that was cancelled after one series.

“Made in Munich” leans into the record’s European gloss, while “Moonlight and Muzak” is probably the strongest evidence that Scott sold his soul to the devil of disco. “Cowboys and Indians” is stranger than it needs to be and makes me feel like I have slipped into a parallel universe or am experiencing some sort of drug-induced psychosis. “Unite Your Nation” wraps things up with more nausea-inducing nonsense.

Overall, “New York, London, Paris, Munich” is very much a record of its time and, as someone who was alive in 1979, I can say with some confidence that not every moment deserves a revival. I don’t hate many records, but this one is making a surprisingly strong case for admission to that small and unfortunate club. Is it the done thing to ask for a refund of a pound from a charity shop? 1/5

One record at a time: 542. Annie Lennox - Diva

The sound of Annie Lennox’s debut solo album will always take me back to being young, optimistic and slightly over-invested in pop music. Whilst I lamented the demise of Eurythmics in 1991, I took some comfort in the prospect of Lennox stepping out on her own. If anyone was going to make the solo career feel less like a consolation prize and more like an event, it was Annie Lennox.

I bought lead single “Why” when it came out in 1992, in the limited edition plastic box that I confidently assumed would become a collectors’ item. Almost thirty five years later, it appears to be worth roughly the same £4 I paid for it, which is less an investment portfolio and more a small plastic monument to misplaced optimism. Still, I bought the single, then the album, because the music mattered. When this modern reissue of the vinyl was in a sale a couple of years ago I added it to the collection with the quiet inevitability of someone who had already lost the argument with himself.

The record itself sounds lovely. There is a pleasing sense of weight and space to it, and the Optimal pressing gives the whole thing that slightly elevated air of quality that makes you feel the record deserves to be handled whilst wearing a faint expression of seriousness.

Track by track, “Diva” still holds up remarkably well. “Why” remains the obvious centrepiece, a song so stately and exposed that it seems to arrive already knowing it will be used in emotional television montages until the end of time. Yet the album is not simply a vehicle for its lead single. “Primitive” has a haunting, almost spectral quality, with Lennox’s voice moving through the arrangement like someone carrying a torch through a darkened room. “Money Can’t Buy It” is another highlight, all poise, tension and quiet menace, proving that Lennox could make restraint sound every bit as dramatic as a grand gesture.

“Little Bird” is the album’s most overtly electronic moment, and probably the track that most clearly glances back towards Eurythmics. That is no criticism. Its sharper groove gives the record a welcome surge of movement, and it remains one of the album’s highlights precisely because it lets a little synth-pop urgency into an otherwise meticulously composed room. “Precious”, meanwhile, benefits from the kind of bass hook you would expect from Stephen Lipson, whose production influence keeps the arrangements glossy without leaving them sterile.

Not everything lands with equal force. “Stay by Me” and “The Gift” are more restrained, and on a less assured album they might have drifted into tasteful background territory. Here, though, the strength of Lennox’s presence and the polish of the production keep them interesting, but I can't pretend to enjoy them as much as other tracks. 

Even as a teenager, the irony of a force of nature like Lennox recording “Keep Young and Beautiful” was not lost on me. It remains a wry, slightly theatrical ending that sends the album out with a raised eyebrow rather than a misty farewell. 4/5

One record at a time: 541. Leftfield - This Is What We Do

I bought this album after spotting it in a "Three for £50" offer on Amazon, which is the sort of dangerous retail ambush that makes a me suddenly realise I could fit more vinyl on my shelves after all. This double vinyl edition is pressed by Pallas, whose work is a little variable, but this copy sounds pretty good to my ears. The low end has suitable weight, the detail comes through nicely.

This is Leftfield’s fourth studio album, released in 2022, and it arrived seven years after "Alternative Light Source". It was created by founding member Neil Barnes alongside Adam Wren, who has been the band’s engineer since the early days. That continuity matters, because although this album is clearly not trying to be "Leftism Part Two", it does still feel connected to the same restless, bass-heavy, machine-loving lineage. 

As proceedings open, the title track proves to be a fantastic hook into the album. This song draws the listener in with earth-shaking bass, catchy vocal samples and enough cowbell to keep even Christopher Walken happy. It has that classic Leftfield ability to sound both enormous and strangely precise. “Full Way Round” follows as a gritty, electro-infused beast featuring Fontaines D.C. frontman Grian Chatten. His vocal is a half-spoken piece of performance poetry, which is great if you like that sort of thing.

There are more spoken vocals on “Making A Difference”, this time from Lemn Sissay, underpinned by a rubbery house groove. These vocal contributions help the tracks stand apart from the more routine four-on-the-floor material that can proliferate in electronic music, and they give the album a sense of intent and identity. That said, they do not always land completely for me. At times they can sound a touch preachy, as if the track has briefly paused the dancing to hand out a leaflet. Still, the production is strong enough, and the groove persuasive enough, to stop things becoming worthy rather than enjoyable.

One thing you certainly cannot accuse Leftfield of is abandoning electronic music. Tracks such as “City of Synths”, “Machines Like Me” and “Pulse” are fierce, unashamed attempts to harness the sound of machines to convey emotion. That may sound like the sort of thing a robot would write in its personal statement, but it works. There is texture, drive and menace here, with synths that throb, buzz and occasionally sound as if they are trying to escape through the nearest wall. It is electronic music with physical presence, which has always been one of Leftfield’s great strengths.

Earl Sixteen returns to deliver a vocal contribution on “Rapture”, and whilst it is a good track, it does not quite recreate the magic of “Release the Pressure” from the band’s first album. That is hardly a crime, as very few things do. “Release the Pressure” remains one of those tracks that seems to exist on its own private mountain, looking down benignly at the rest of us while the bassline does press-ups. Elsewhere, the triple-time joy of “Heart and Soul” is a personal favourite, bringing a welcome lift and momentum, while the drums on “Accumulator” are worth the entry fee alone. 

Overall, this is an enjoyable and often impressive album. It may not reach the towering heights of Leftfield’s debut, but expecting every release to do that feels a little unfair, like asking every meal to be Christmas dinner. What matters is that one of dance and electronic music’s great pioneering names still sounds engaged, curious and capable of making music with real force. 3/5

One record at a time: 540. Thomas Leer - The Scale of Ten

Back in 2009, I eulogised on this blog about Thomas Leer’s album “Scale of Ten”. I also seem to have claimed that you could buy the CD for less than five pounds, which may have been true seventeen years ago but most certainly is not the case today. If you can find a copy of the 2004 CD release at all, it will now set you back anywhere between £25 and £40.  

A much more reasonable way to hear this album is via the rather more plentiful vinyl version. My copy came from eBay and only set me back a few pounds. As a common-or-garden mid-eighties record it sounds pretty good, although there are a few tell-tale signs of age. A nice heavyweight remaster would be welcome, but I suspect nobody has the slightest clue where the rights reside today, possibly including the rights themselves.

This whole album seems to owe its existence to an episode of GAS. 'Gear acquisition syndrome' is an affliction that electronic music enthusiasts contract from time to time, compelling them to spend usually ridiculous amounts of money on new musical instruments while insisting, with great dignity, that it is really an investment. My own GAS has always been relatively well controlled and low in ambition, largely restricted to staring at things online and then deciding the mortgage probably has a point. Thomas Leer, however, appears to have suffered a particularly severe case during 1985.

It is understandable that Leer would want a Fairlight CMI, but this goal seemed incompatible with the rather modest commercial performance of his music. Undaunted, and full of the sort of ambition that makes accountants develop a facial twitch, he went hunting for a major record label that would buy him the Australian dream machine. Once he had convinced Arista to lease him the instrument as part of his advance, he set about creating new music in his living room. 

Obviously, this kind of expense meant Leer had to come up with the goods in sales terms, so the resulting album needed to be something suitably commercial. Experienced producer Paul Hardiman was brought in to steer the ship in the right direction, while the record company presumably imagined that the recording budget would be reduced because Leer would have completed the pre-programming at home before arriving somewhere rather more costly, like Farmyard Studios. The sleeve proudly proclaims that all instruments and sounds were programmed and performed on the Fairlight, but that is not strictly true. There is bass guitar, drums and even a live orchestra, complete with a distinctive Anne Dudley arrangement, on “Number One”. As it is the eighties there has to be a bit of saxophone too, but that is best left ignored. I get the feeling the cost reduction the record company envisaged wasn't realised as fully as they expected.

Opening track “Searcher” has a great melody and is chock-full of imaginative sounds, finding that happy ground between commercial sensibility and electronic innovation. One of my favourites is “Lust for Loneliness”, while the samples that drive “Warm” are used with real imagination rather than simply waved about to prove the machine was expensive. The singles “Heartbeat” and “International” are something of synth-pop classics and still stand up to the demands of modern ears. “Mistrust” has orchestra hits and drum breaks that sound remarkably like early Art of Noise, which is either influence, coincidence or the Fairlight quietly joining a union. The pace slows only at the end with the highly atmospheric “Passing Through”, which is as perfect an ending as it is possible to imagine.

I like this album because of three distinct elements. Obviously the Fairlight is central, and the catchy compositions deserved a better reception and rather healthier commercial sales than they received. A less recognised element is Leer’s voice, which I find engaging and surprisingly accomplished. He may have thought he was selling his soul for a Fairlight, but “Scale of Ten” proves that the transaction was not entirely one-sided. The machine gave him a new palette, Arista got at least a fighting chance of a hit, and we got an album that still sounds inventive, melodic and oddly undervalued. If that is what a severe bout of GAS can produce, perhaps I should give in to my own symptoms rather than simply browsing eBay and sighing theatrically. 4/5

One record at a time: 539. Kissing The Pink - Certain Things Are Likely

I found this copy of "Certain Things Are Likely" in my favourite second-hand record emporium a couple of years ago. I am fairly sure I overpaid for it, but I prefer to think of this as supporting the cultural ecosystem. If we do not keep retailers like that in business, we will be left with nothing but eBay, and eBay sellers do not put rare Pet Shop Boys records to one side for my next visit like benevolent vinyl-dispensing fairies.

This is Kissing The Pink's third studio album and dates to 1986. After achieving moderate success with their first two albums, this record feels like one final push to broaden the band’s appeal, or at least move them into the part of the shop where everything isn’t reduced in price. Phil Harding was brought in to add his distinctive studio sheen to Peter Walsh's production, giving parts of the record a crisp, radio-friendly finish without completely sanding away the band’s odd edges. One of my favourite bass players, Derek Forbes, appears on two tracks, which is already enough to make me sit up straighter, and even Matt Aitken of the Stock Aitken Waterman production house pops up on guitar. It is a strange but intriguing combination, like finding a serious art installation in the middle of Primark.

What I admire about Kissing the Pink is that they never really abandoned their synth-pop instincts, even when the album is clearly dressed in brighter, more accessible colours. A lot of classically trained musicians can make pop music sound like homework, or worse, like they are doing the audience an intellectual favour. Kissing the Pink avoid that completely. They manage to create memorable pop tunes without giving the impression that they are slumming it, and their humour keeps bubbling away beneath the surface. Even when the songs lean towards the mainstream, there is always the sense that, as soon as someone responsible has left the room, they are quietly adjusting the synth settings to something less sensible.

The opening track "One Step" sounds like the album’s most direct bid for the dance floor. It has the smooth, bright feel that would not have sounded too out of place alongside Madonna, a-ha and assorted other people with excellent hair. The problem is that Nicholas Whitecross’ faux American accent and the dense arrangement of female backing vocals rather swamp the song. Instead of sounding effortless, it feels slightly overstuffed, as if its better instincts are being jostled by too many competing ideas.

"Never Too Late To Love You" suffers from some of the same issues. Nick’s tongue-in-cheek accent and the backing vocals become distracting, even though there is a decent song trying to get out from underneath the arrangement. Of the singles released from the album, the title track is probably my favourite because it feels closest to the band’s natural sound, or at least the version of it allowed out in public after someone had checked its shoes were clean.

Elsewhere, "Identity Card" is relentless pop fun and well worth a listen, while "Jones" borrows neatly from Bowie and Simple Minds to create a pleasing little number. "Can You Hear Me" tries to retain a bit of the band’s eccentric identity by unexpectedly tossing in some bagpipes, although even they cannot quite cut through everything going on around them. The album's nadir is "One Day", which manages the impressive trick of sounding expensive and oddly underpowered at the same time. I am still not sure why anyone would go to the expense of putting a string section on a track and then recording it in a key so low that the singer sounds as if he is trying to retrieve the melody from under the floorboards. 

That is the album in miniature: the compositions are often good, but the presentation sometimes pulls them away from the band’s natural art-pop eccentricity. It leaves "Certain Things Are Likely" as something of a mixed bag, but an interesting one. It may not have turned Kissing The Pink into the chart-conquering concern their record company clearly wanted, and yes, they were dropped afterwards, because pop history is rarely kind. Still, the band live on in the racks, in the memories of people who like their synth-pop with a faint whiff of mischief, and in second-hand record shops where copies like mine sit waiting to be rescued by someone willing to overpay in the name of cultural preservation. Benevolent vinyl-dispensing fairies, consider your work appreciated. 3/5