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

One record at a time: 549. Nitzer Ebb - Showtime

The first Nitzer Ebb album I heard was a borrowed compact disc of "Showtime" in 1990. I felt compelled to listen because the blistering neon sleeve looked as if it might burn through the plastic case, the carpet and possibly the floor beneath (for some reason no camera seems to accurately reflect the true colour of the artwork). Thirty-four years later, I found the vinyl in one of my favourite second-hand record emporiums, and buying it felt less like a decision than a simple administration task.

Whilst Flood returns in the production chair, the album moves away from the stark minimalism of its predecessor "Belief". A sampler appears to have wandered into the studio control room, presumably wearing boots and looking suspicious, bringing with it added mood, texture and a slightly broader sonic palette. This shift is nowhere more pronounced than on "Lightning Man", the first piece of music I ever heard from the band. As the chorus kicks in, Bon Harris's usual crushing synths are complemented by clarinet samples that wind themselves around the melody with the guile and menace of a Boa constrictor. 

Another single, "Getting Closer", moves from distorted synths and stuttering rhythms into a grinding dance groove built around distinctive drum samples. It is impossible to identify a particular drum machine anywhere on this record as the sounds seem as unique as the group themselves. "Fun to be Had" is another obvious single, all clenched momentum and industrial swagger, although the title remains one of the more optimistic statements in the Nitzer Ebb catalogue.

Elsewhere, the drunken stumble of "Nobody Knows" is a bit of a misfire, although the music is at least perfectly suited to the lyrics. "One Man's Burden" has flashes of the sound Flood deployed on Depeche Mode's "Violator" around the same time, while "Rope" delivers a relentless four-on-the-floor groove that is equal parts sinister and danceable. That combination is difficult to pull off without sounding like an aerobics class held in a disused warehouse, but here it works beautifully.

I like this album, but I still find myself preferring its predecessor, where the groove was starker and more sinister. That is not to say "Showtime" sounds like Lionel Richie, although the very thought may require a lie down. It is more that some of the hard, aggressive corners have been rounded off as the band lean into a more structured style of composition. The result is still forceful, still menacing and still very much Nitzer Ebb, but it feels a little less like being chased down a corridor by a murderous robot than I'd like. 3.5/5

One record at a time: 548. Nitzer Ebb - Belief

I was playing this album on my computer one day when it struck me that, although I already owned “Belief” physically on compact disc, it didn't feel enough. The CD had done sterling service, of course, sitting there in its little plastic case like a well-behaved office worker with excellent attendance. But some albums seem to demand the full ceremonial treatment: a sleeve, a spine, a place on the record shelf and respectable smattering of dust to prove you actually play your records. After a quick visit to Discogs and several days waiting for Royal Mail to complete its customary snail-like procession, I became the proud owner of an original UK pressing.

Like a lot of people, I first became aware of Nitzer Ebb through their association with Depeche Mode and Mute Records. They were clearly not as commercial as their labelmates, but there was something about their raw, disciplined and unrelenting sound that I found fascinating. Not least because their music felt properly electronic rather than merely decorated with electronics. Released in 1989, “Belief” captures the band at a point where muscle, machinery and menace all seem to be working from the same instruction manual.

The irresistible opening track, “Hearts and Minds”, has a chorus that showers sparks as if the synthesisers have been left unattended in a fireworks factory. It is urgent, severe and oddly thrilling, which is not a combination most artists manage without sounding like they have mistaken shouting for conviction. “For Fun” has a peculiar rhythm that would probably force listeners to dance as though they were suffering from a dislocated shoulder, making it truly intriguing and only mildly hazardous. Doug's vocal on the centrepiece, “Control I’m Here”, is delivered with suitable menace while Bon Harris’ synths grind away underneath like heavy machinery with a grudge.

The production skills of Flood, along with the sound of his Roland System 700, are really prominent on this album. The record does not feel built from familiar presets, or from the showroom demonstration mode of someone’s new keyboard. Nothing drifts by politely. “Belief” arrives, points at you, and expects a response.

The standout on the second side is “Shame”, a masterclass in aggressive minimalism. It proves that you do not need layers of ornamentation when you can simply deploy rhythm, repetition and attitude with the confidence of someone kicking open a fire door. Things tail off slightly on “Drive” and “Blood Money”, but every album has a lull, and at least Nitzer Ebb’s lulls still sound like they could pass a fitness test. The final track, “Without Belief”, is a driving closer that serves as a thematic bookend to an album that constantly seems to ask, “What is it to be human?” Admittedly, it asks this question while sounding like it has confiscated your chair and replaced it with a steel bench.

Industrial music, or electronic body music, is rarely this deep. “Belief” makes you engage your brain while your feet are busy filing a formal complaint. It is stark, inventive, confrontational and far more thoughtful than its surface aggression might suggest. A record that fully earns its place on the shelf, even if it looks as though it might start an argument with the albums on either side. 4/5

One record at a time: 547. New Order - The Best Of

For reasons best left to a therapist, or at least someone with a clipboard who looks over the top of their glasses, I seem to be starting a lot of posts recently with a reminiscence. This is either charmingly reflective or an early warning sign that I now communicate mainly in flashbacks. Either way, this record takes me straight back to 1994: walking to college under the full weight of youth, which at the time involved equal parts stress, joy and questionable life choices.

I always knew New Order made music I ought to like. They were, and remain, Pet Shop Boys adjacent, which in my world is less a description and more a recommendation. But beyond the odd admiring glance, I had never actually bought one of their records until this shiny new compilation appeared. As I mentioned in my review of "Power, Corruption and Lies", New Order had always felt a little too enigmatic for me to risk actual money on when I was poor. This album, though, tempted me for two very practical reasons: firstly, in a rare and beautiful development, I actually had some money; and secondly, a best-of compilation promised the sort of direct route to the good stuff that a normal album, with all its inconvenient artistic ambitions, might not.

My compact disc of "The Best Of" gave many years of loyal service before quietly settling into semi-retirement when digital files made life that bit easier. Still, some records have a way of tugging at the memory, and when a modern repress on blue vinyl appeared in July 2026, it felt less like a purchase and more like a small reunion. A reunion with slightly better packaging and fewer bus fares.

We kick off with the undisputed king of the ring, “True Faith”, one of the band’s biggest hits and the song that first brought them to my attention back in 1988. The mix here is the “’94” version, given added polish by Stephen Hague, and it sounds great while remaining faithful to the original. “Bizarre Love Triangle” was a track I wasn’t as familiar with when I first heard this album, but it only took a few seconds of its FM synth bass and orchestra hits before I realised this was very much my kind of music. Subtlety, clearly, had been shown the door and asked not to come back until it had bought a synth.

From there, the album simply keeps throwing hit after hit at me, with the magnificent “Fine Time” riding hot on the heels of “1963” and “Regret”. While “Shellshock” will never be one of my favourites, it is placed in such exalted company, alongside “Run 2” and the truly astounding “Vanishing Point”, that I began to appreciate its charms despite myself. If that procession of brilliance hadn’t already knocked you sideways, “Round & Round” was waiting in the wings to finish the job with admirable efficiency.

Things become a little stickier with songs like “Ruined in a Day” and “World in Motion”, although the latter’s swagger is at least more forgivable than most attempts to put sport and synthesisers in the same room. But when a classic like “Blue Monday ’88” emerges towards the end, it becomes possible to forgive almost any transgression and simply marvel at the genius at play.
 
This album did not quite become a gateway drug, but it definitely lifted a veil. It made New Order feel less enigmatic and gave me enough confidence to explore their back catalogue over the years without getting too stressed. While albums like "Get Ready" and "Waiting for the Siren’s Call" mean I remain a little wary of New Order, this record proves that, in their pomp, they were untouchable. Perhaps communicating mainly in flashbacks is not such a terrible affliction after all, especially when the soundtrack is this good. 5/5

One record at a time: 546. Neon Neon - Stainless Style

I cannot recall how I discovered this album back in 2008, but I am very glad I did. On paper, Neon Neon should not really appeal to me: it is a collaboration between hip hop producer Boom Bip and Gruff Rhys, frontman of rock band Super Furry Animals, neither of whom would normally wander into my musical postcode. However, when they decided to join forces and make a concept album about the life of John DeLorean using eighties-tinged electronic music, they were suddenly parked squarely in my lane.

Although the compact disc and MP3 files had been my main way of listening to the album, this glitter-covered limited edition of 300 felt like a compulsory purchase in 2024. Acquiring it was not entirely straightforward. The postman left my first copy in the rubbish bin while I was on holiday, whereupon a well-meaning neighbour put the bin out for collection. I can therefore confirm that only 299 copies of this limited edition still exist. Happily, Rough Trade were very understanding and furnished me with a replacement. All's well that ends well, apart from the record that ended up in the incinerator.

As the basis for a concept album, DeLorean's life is an intriguing and attractive prospect. Things begin with the breezy 'Neon Theme', apparently co-written and performed with Boom Bip's friend Marty Sataman. The first disappointment arrives quickly in the form of 'Dream Cars'. Somewhere along the production line, the master tapes appear to have taken a wrong turn, because the version on this vinyl is markedly different from the mix I know. The song itself is excellent: the original oozes the effortless charm of DeLorean's suave, debonair image, Gruff Rhys delivers a terrific hook and the lyrics are very clever. Unfortunately, the lacklustre mix presented here makes this pressing feel less like a dream car and more like an Austin Allegro.

One of my personal favourites comes next in the form of 'I Told Her on Alderaan'. This track juggles a wonderful melody, Fairlight ARR1 flourishes and silky lyrics, before topping it off with a Star Wars reference. It is geek heaven, with considerably fewer trade disputes than the average trip to a galaxy far, far away.

'Raquel' is a dance number propelled by crisp percussion and a driving bassline. Written from DeLorean's perspective, it concerns his rumoured romance with Raquel Welch, something I knew nothing about until hearing the album. This proves that a concept album can be educational, provided your preferred curriculum includes eighties sports cars and vintage celebrity gossip.

Then we reach the first of the album's three problematic tracks. 'Trick for Treat' is entertaining, but I cannot pretend it is what I boarded this particular DeLorean for. Whilst highly polished new wave and electronic music feels perfectly suited to an examination of DeLorean and his eighties heyday, hip hop is a less comfortable fit. The same applies to 'Sweat Shop' and 'Luxury Pool', which leave dirty great tyre marks across an otherwise immaculate showroom floor. 

On a brighter note, 'I Lust U' is a terrific track, marrying electro beats with ethereal vocals as it reflects on DeLorean's playboy lifestyle. Unfortunately, this pressing appears to contain a previously unreleased mix, which I am attributing to an inept tape operator retrieving the wrong reel from the storeroom. I have precisely zero evidence for this theory, which has never stopped a good vinyl conspiracy before. 'Belfast', meanwhile, refers to DeLorean's failed attempt to establish his car company at the expense of the UK taxpayer: 'Belfast, uh oh. You know my mind by eye. It's just, I thought. I could take you for a ride...' 

Perched at the top of the tree, looking down on everything else, is 'Michael Douglas'. If this track is not genius, I would like to know what is. The synths bump and grind while Gruff sings about consumerism and DeLorean's desire to glimpse his own reflection in Michael Douglas's mirrored sunglasses. It is an absurd premise executed with a conviction that matched the reality.  Proceedings close with 'Stainless Style', a sombre lament that provides the perfect bookend. 

Thanks to the misplaced rap tracks, the album is far from perfect. Yet 'I Told Her on Alderaan' and 'Michael Douglas' generate so much atmosphere that any self-respecting electronic music fan should investigate it as a matter of priority. I would, however, avoid this particular pressing and seek out a version containing the original mixes, which give these songs the treatment they deserve. Consider this edition the gull-winged display model: very sparkly, highly collectible but with a broken flux capacitor. 4/5

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

One record at a time: 538. Justice - Hyperdrama

I have bought all of Justice’s albums since their 2007 debut, “†”, but always on compact disc. It was only with the advent of 2024’s “Hyperdrama” that I abandoned CD in favour of vinyl. The band's back catalogue have all been reissued on vinyl, but I do not feel any burning desire to spend the £86.16 it would require to add them to my shelves. I like Justice, but of the wave of electronic artists who emerged around 2007, they have always fallen a little behind their contemporaries. Digitalism had more imagination, Simian Mobile Disco had sharper production, and Soulwax sounded as if they had found a secret cupboard marked “ideas” and decided not to report it to anyone. Justice make dance music, certainly, but it often veers towards disco and can get a bit silly at times. As I have said on this blog before, I do not like silliness in my music, so I have often found myself tapping my feet in a slightly disapproving manner, which is the most middle-aged form of rebellion available to me.

To be fair, Justice have shifted their sound over time, and this album finds them leaning more into club culture than seventies disco cheese. “Neverender”, which opens the album, is a collaboration with Tame Impala and sounds a bit like Daft Punk with a bit of Chemical Brothers for structural support. It is great stuff. Next up is “Generator”, which throws in various Alpha Juno-style hoover noises and rave sounds you thought had been safely lost to the nineties until they form a particularly excellent audio trifle, complete with string section. “Afterimage” is another massive track, with RIMON’s vocal hovering above the driving rhythms and squealing synths like balm on a sore wound, assuming the balm has been administered at 130 beats per minute.

Also worthy of mention is another Tame Impala collaboration, “One Night/All Night”, whose dark techno pulse suits Justice like a well-tailored jacket. The bass playing of Xavier de Rosnay sounds especially good on tracks like “Dear Alan”, giving the album a muscular low end without making it feel as though it has simply wandered into a gym and started shouting at a mirror.

“Moonlight Rendez-vous” is clearly an attempt to change down a gear, but it falls a bit flat for me and, as we know, saxophone is rarely the answer, children. “Saturnine” reaches for an R&B feel but leaves me colder than an afternoon spent in a chiller, even if there is a cheeky Art of Noise sample lurking in there like it has broken in through a side door. 

“Hyperdrama” is like a crazy puppy that launches itself at you when you first walk in, all paws, teeth and enthusiasm, before gradually remembering it has been to obedience class. It is still a very good puppy, but I cannot help preferring it before it learnt to sit and roll over. 3.5/5

One record at a time: 537. Howard Jones - One To One

This record came into my possession a couple of years ago, though I had completely forgotten where I bought it from until I pulled it from the shelves and spotted the charity shop sticker still proudly clinging to the sleeve proclaiming the sale price of £1.15. As I have lamented before on this blog, charity shops are not exactly awash with treasures these days, so finding something like this feels less like crate-digging and more like encountering a unicorn. There is not a mark on the record and it plays perfectly, so whoever owned it before me clearly treated it with more respect than I treat most houseplants. The median price on Discogs for this album is £2.66, which means I am already more than £1.50 in the black and can enjoy a brief, financially unjustified moment of smugness.

By 1986, Howard Jones had already scored hits around the world and secured his place as an international act. Produced by the legendary Arif Mardin, this album sees Jones using the Fairlight for the first time and aiming for a bigger, glossier sound. Or, depending on your point of view, making a slightly ill-judged bid for the attention of American radio.

The album kicks off with the lead single "You Know I Love You... Don't You?", which was something of a commercial disappointment on release. Personally, I like the song, although I can see why its less-than-fluid lyrics might have slipped past radio programmers with barely a ripple. Second track "The Balance Of Love (Give And Take)" brings in some deep, funky bass, and once the distinctive sound of the DX7 appears, it starts to feel almost perfect from an eighties production perspective.

As the first side progresses, we get a run of well-produced and perfectly competent tracks, but several are missing the little hook that would have pushed them from album-track territory into hit material. The backing vocals on "Where Are We Going?" could not be cheesier if they had been dipped in fondue, while the proto-electro of "Don't Want To Fight Anymore" is so out of place it is almost irresistible. One thing that stands out in Mardin's production is the deeper bass, which gives the record a different feel from Jones's earlier work. The trouble is that bass, however splendidly upholstered, cannot always carry a song on its own.

Side two opens with "Step Into These Shoes", which has a spring in its step but "Pearl in a Shell" it is not. "Will You Still Be There?" is gentler and more reflective, but boy does it go on, and on, and on. "Good Luck, Bad Luck" is one of the more immediate tracks here, with a brisker pulse and the sort of neatly clipped chorus that reminds you HoJo had not entirely mislaid his pop instincts. "Little Bit Of Snow" closes things on a more delicate note, complete with string arrangement and a sense that everyone in the studio had briefly looked up for Page R on the Fairlight and wandered outside to touch grass.

Overall, "One To One" is not Howard Jones at his most dazzling or immediate, but it is far from the misfire some might suggest. It is slick, occasionally over-polished and sometimes a little too keen to sound grown-up, but as a charity shop find for £1.15, it delivers considerably more than the purchase price demanded, which is all one can reasonably ask in this day and age. 3/5

One record at a time: 536. Jean Michel Jarre - Live In Bratislava (Bridge From the Future)

Back in the lead-up to Jarre’s 1990 performance at La Défense in Paris, the ambient piece “Waiting for Cousteau” was played over the PA to build atmosphere and fill the air with music, like a perfume of anticipation. For his more recent grand open-air concert in Bratislava, Slovakia, in 2024, Jarre returned to the same idea, this time using a new composition written specifically for the event.

Ambient music is usually designed to drift gently past you, not arrive in a £90 box set glowing like Doctor Manhattan. Still, with Jean-Michel Jarre, even the background music tends to come with a sense of occasion. 

The piece was titled “Bridge From the Future” and was only made available as part of the “Ultimate Collector’s” box set of the live album documenting the concert. Rather bafflingly, none of the concert itself is presented on vinyl in this set and the only way to hear the ambient piece from physical media is on the 10-inch blue vinyl included in the box. 

Everything about this release feels like it was cobbled together with little attention to detail. Jarre has admitted that the audio was taken from the television broadcast, which used a compressed 128 kbit/s sound file. Most of us probably would not notice the drop in quality, but it hardly screams “Ultimate”, unless “ultimate” now means “recorded off the telly”.

As for the piece "Bridge From the Future", it is fine enough as ambient music. There are rain noises, snippets of reversed speech and the usual drone-like synth textures. It is not meant to seize your attention, more to hover politely in the background, and in that sense it does its job. What grates is having to spend a sizeable amount of money on a poorly judged box set to own it. Sometimes I can see why people use nothing but YouTube for their music. Those of us who prefer physical media are being taken for a ride, and this one does not even come with decent sound. A bridge from the future, perhaps, but unfortunately one that charges a toll. 1/5