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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One record at a time: 513. Dollar - Shooting Stars

There are people who insist there’s no such thing as a “guilty pleasure”. If something takes your fancy, it does so for a reason, and you should be able to enjoy it without anyone lobbing judgement your way. Fair point. And yet, surely even that theory needs a stress test. My inner critic can’t help raising an eyebrow and making studious notes when it stumbles across "Shooting Stars" by Dollar in my collection. I could argue the record only set me back a few quid in a charity shop and that it contains four Top 20 hits. But one glance at the sleeve photo and my defence starts packing its bags, quietly, and in the dark.

This album is from 1979, so it predates Dollar’s commercial synth-pop zenith, the era when Trevor Horn took the production and songwriting by the lapels and gave them a good shake. Here, Christopher Neil sits in the producer’s chair and, to be fair, he does a tidy job. Solina strings and Minimoog noodling are blended with acoustic drums and disco-tinged bass guitar. The sound isn’t the issue. The problem is the songs, which too often feel like they turned up to the session, signed in, and then asked if they could leave early.

The strangely monotone title track is a good example of what’s going wrong. I’m fairly sure there’s a chord change in there somewhere, but it’s hardly Steely Dan. Still, it must have had some appeal as it broke the Top 20 in the UK. It’s just that I can’t hear it, and I’ve tried, in the way you try to enjoy a colleague’s holiday photos. The Vocoder on “Star Control” is fun and faintly reminiscent of ELO, but at six minutes it outstays its welcome by a good three minutes and a small apology.

On the flip side, “Who Were You with in the Moonlight” has a decent chorus, which is handy because the verses do their best to take the air out of the room. There’s some really nice slap bass popping up here and there, but the production is otherwise fairly traditional, like it’s wearing sensible shoes and calling it a night at half ten.

The big single here was “Love’s Got a Hold on Me”, which sounds like it absorbed more than a bit of the Bee Gees along the way and then refused to give it back. There are some nice synth tones woven into its middle-of-the-road exterior, but it never quite escapes the beige, and this one definitely isn’t for me. Another Top 10 hit from the record is a cover of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”. I’m a fan of covers that reframe a well-known song and add a bit of the artist’s personality, rather than simply photocopying the original and hoping nobody notices. There’s no doubt this track achieves that, and it’s one of the few moments where the album feels properly alive.

The rest of the tracklist mostly just occupies space. It’s hard to mount a serious defence for things like “Love Street”, or the full-on horrors of “I Need Your Love”. If you’re Dollar-curious, the hits will give you the gist. As for the album as a whole, let’s call it a fascinating artefact, best enjoyed at arm’s length, preferably from the other side of the charity-shop counter. Not so much a guilty pleasure, more a guilty purchase, the kind you justify on the walk home and quietly consider re-donating a week later. 1.5/5

One record at a time: 512. Digitalism - Idealism

Back in 2007, a few life events had me taking refuge in music, which remains one of my healthier coping mechanisms. Conveniently, it also felt like electronic music was having a proper revival at this time with Gui Boratto, Justice and Simian Mobile Disco stepping into the light and soundtracking my minor existential wobble. One of the albums I played to death during this time was "Idealism" by German duo Digitalism. I missed the original vinyl release, so this 2024 triple-disc neon green edition was never going to be a "nice to have". It was essential.

The album lands right in the sweet spot between high-energy electro house and the indie-rock habits of the mid-2000s, back when bands like Klaxons and Kasabian decided they quite fancied dance music, nicked a few moves, and tried to pass it off as rock ’n’ roll. Digitalism flip that idea on its head. This is the dance lot borrowing a bit of guitar, feeding it into the laptop, and somehow making it sound like the correct life choice.

If you ask the internet, "Pogo" is the headline track, but it has never been my favourite because it edges a little too far into indie territory for my taste. If you want Digitalism with the synths turned up and the guitars politely shown the door, "Jupiter Room" is the one. It is easily among their best productions, a huge, bruising anthem that still hits with the same reckless confidence today as it did when it was released almost twenty years ago (gulp, is it really that long ago?).

I also like the opening track "Magnets" and the bleepy chic of "Zdarlight" is hard to resist, but it is another track that kicks the door in. "Idealistic" is all squalling synths, clipped beats and gloriously overcooked electric piano. If you have neighbours, this is the track that tests how well you actually get on with them. At the end of the flip side "Echoes" is a firm favourite of mine as it balances melody and mood in a way I would normally associate with the calm competence of Röyksopp. This is the sort of track that compels you dance with a smile on your face. 

On the second disc, “The Pulse” is another cracking electronic cut, all shimmer and forward motion, and it keeps the album moving along nicely. Aside from "Pogo" the only other track I don't like much is the disposable indie-rock clutter “Anything New”, which feels like it has wandered in from a different record and is now pretending it was invited. This edition also throws in five previously unreleased bonus tracks from the original sessions, which is basically the musical equivalent of finding you’ve still got half a portion of chips hidden under your fish. Pass the ketchup.

So, does Idealism still hold up? Absolutely. It is loud, bright, slightly chaotic, and impossible to sit still through, even if your knees now make the kind of noises that were not a problem in 2007. The neon green triple-vinyl reissue feels fitting for an album this vivid, and the extra session tracks are a welcome bonus rather than padding. If you have any affection for the mid-two thousands electro revival, this is a no-brainer. Just clear a bit of space on the shelf, and maybe warn the neighbours. 4/5

One record at a time: 511. Depeche Mode - The Singles 81→85

I first heard this album on cassette via a Goodmans SW850 ghetto blaster, sometime around 1988. Even the muddy sound of cheap speakers couldn't ruin the magic of the songs coming from that borrowed tape. As a gateway to the world of Depeche Mode, this album was hard to beat in the eighties. Having only ever owned it on CD, I recently decided to buy a copy on LP, because who doesn’t like paying through the nose for a format that includes fewer songs than all the others?

To listen to "The Singles 81 to 85" is to witness a remarkable transformation. This isn’t just a collection of hits; it is a chronological map of four young men from Basildon, outgrowing the neon glow of the early 80s and stepping into a darker, more industrial shadow that they would eventually come to own. While this album stops short of the majestic "Black Celebration" and "Music for the Masses" albums, you can sense them approaching, like electricity in the air.

The journey begins with the pure, crystalline synth-pop of the Vince Clarke era. Tracks like "Dreaming of Me" and the immortal "Just Can’t Get Enough" are relics of a simpler time, unabashedly bright, melodic, and full of youthful naivety. At this stage, Depeche Mode were the choirboys of the synthesiser, crafting pop so sugary it felt as though it could float away. Yet they were good. Really good.

But the departure of Clarke, and the rise of Martin Gore as the primary songwriter, changed everything. You can almost hear the band’s loss of innocence as the tracklist progresses. By the time we reach "See You" and "Leave in Silence", the melodies remain, but the atmosphere begins to chill. There’s a newfound yearning in Dave Gahan’s vocal, and a hint of the baritone gravitas that would later fill stadiums.

The mid-point of the collection is where the "Depeche Mode sound" truly hardens into its definitive form. With "Everything Counts", the band traded bright synth-pop for industrial bite. They began sampling the world around them, clanging metal, grinding gears, and the cold reality of corporate greed. It was a bold, brilliant pivot. They became an unlikely bridge between the dancefloor and the factory floor.

Then come the heavy hitters, "People Are People" and "Master and Servant". These weren't just pop songs; they were sonic experiments that pushed the boundaries of what electronic music could say. They were provocative, metallic, and strangely soulful.

The collection culminates in the haunting "Shake the Disease", a song that serves as the perfect bridge to their "Black Celebration" era. It is moody, sophisticated, and deeply human, a long way from the bubbly teens of 1981.“The Singles 81 to 85” proves that Depeche Mode didn’t just survive the 80s; they redesigned them. It’s the sound of a band finding its soul in the machinery, and it remains an essential masterclass in how to evolve without ever losing your grip on a great hook. Unfortunately this album is also a reminder that they later relinquished that grip in their shift towards pseudo rock-god status. 4/5

One record at a time: 510. Cicero - Future Boy

David Cicero is probably best known for his time signed to the Pet Shop Boys’ short lived label, Spaghetti Records. Under the name Cicero, he released records on the label between August 1991 and November 1992, including his debut album “Future Boy”.

Whilst Dave's records never troubled the charts in a massive way, he did pull off a dream many of us had while still rearranging our cassette collections and promising ourselves we’d "make it one day". Dave started as a bedroom muso with ambitions of releasing records and, rather than waiting for a fairy god-producer to knock, he went out and made it happen. It also helps that he’s talented, which is an irritatingly useful trait in a musician.

This deluxe edition of "Future Boy" arrived in 2023 and was a far more comprehensive take than any of the previous versions that had been issued. You get a DVD featuring the promo videos for the singles plus a short live set recorded at Heaven nightclub in London, which is exactly the sort of extra that makes you feel smug about owning physical media. Because CD ruled the world in 1992, very few LPs were pressed, so original vinyl copies now cost the sort of money that makes you consider taking up a cheaper hobby, like yachting. Sensibly, this set plugs the gap with a white vinyl LP.

As for the album itself the singles, "Heaven Must Have Sent You Back To Me" and "That Loving Feeling" are easy highlights, but I’m giving the loudest applause to "Love Is Everywhere". There are also two cracking instrumentals, "Cloud 9" and "Sonic Malfunction", which do more than simply make up the numbers. Dave’s own favourite, "Then", was almost picked as a single and I’ll admit I always braced myself for its gleefully unhinged lurch from tender ballad to full on techno monster.

On this new edition there's a bonus track recorded during the original sessions but left off the album, called “Pretend”. The production doesn’t quite match the polish elsewhere, so I understand why it was given the chop, but as a peek behind the curtain it’s genuinely fascinating, like finding a deleted scene that explains why a character suddenly owns a dog.

My only gripe is the closing track, "Future Generations". Not only does it overstay its welcome but the lyrics feel a bit too contrived, and the vocal performance sounds like it could have done with a few more takes and a slightly firmer producer’s raised eyebrow. It drags the ending down, which is a shame after so much strong material.

After "Future Boy", Cicero moved into the Eurodance sound that dominated the mid-nineties, without much luck. Despite never quite escaping the shadow of his early mentors, Dave seems to treat his association with Pet Shop Boys as a blessing and is happy to acknowledge what they taught him. Still, it would be unfair to judge him only on his output from the early nineties. His recent albums, "Today" and "For Broken Hearts", somehow sound contemporary while still paying homage to his synth-pop roots. Sadly, neither is available on vinyl, which feels like a snub to those of us who like big sleeves and small amounts of dust. It's not just nostalgia that compels me to rate this album highly. 4/5

One record at a time: 509. Chromeo - Adult Contemporary

Having had my fingers burnt by Chromeo’s live album, I decided not to spring for the limited edition colour vinyl of their latest studio release "Adult Contemporary" in 2024. In a small, middle-aged act of defiance, I waited about a year and picked up the common or garden black version when it was discounted. That will show them, I thought, shaking my fist at the vagaries of retail pricing.

By the time the album finally turned up, it felt like half the tracklist had already been released as singles or teaser tracks. Instead of building anticipation, it left me with the odd sense that I had already heard the main talking points but was now attending the meeting anyway. On a first full listen, not much of it stuck. It is all a bit samey, and it tends to wash over me rather than lodge in the brain.

That is a shame, because Chromeo are usually very good at making slick, affectionate pop funk that still has a pulse. Even when they are being knowingly daft, there is normally a sharpness to the hooks and a sense of forward motion. They make songs that sound like they were designed by people who genuinely love synths, drum machines, and studio equipment. 

Here, the production is tidy and bright, but a lot of the songs share the same easy tempo, the same satin keyboard gloss, and the same slightly knowing vocal delivery. The choruses arrive on time, do their job, and then politely leave again. After a few tracks I found myself enjoying individual moments more than whole songs: a nice bass run here, a neat little synth flourish there, and then back into the comfortable groove.

In the past, that comfort has been a strength. Previous Chromeo records have often improved with repeat listens, like an in joke that gets funnier once you learn the rhythm of it. This time, though, repeated exposure did not unlock much as I couldn’t tolerate the test dose.

None of this is to say it is bad, just that it is rarely surprising. If you put it on while cooking, driving, or pretending to work from home, it will make life feel a bit shinier without demanding too much attention. I just wanted a couple more left turns, or at least a chorus that lived in my head for a day.

In the end, waiting for the discount probably suited the album. It is pleasant, professional, and easy to have on, but it has not quite earned a premium place in my rotation. If you are after peak Chromeo, I would still point you towards the earlier records first, then come back to this one when you fancy something smooth and undemanding. Preferably when it is in a sale, if only to keep the illusion of defiance alive. 2/5

One record at a time: 508. Chromeo - Date Night: Chromeo Live!

Not long ago I found a copy of the 2007 deluxe edition of Thompson Twins’ "Here’s To Future Days" in a charity shop for £1. It tends to go for around £30 second-hand, which is the sort of bargain that makes you feel briefly chosen by the music gods. 

Unfortunately that warm glow did not last because it reminded me of when I bought "Date Night: Chromeo Live!" from Bandcamp in 2021. This record cost an eye-watering $70 (about £52) at the time, but five years later you can still pick it up on Amazon for less than half that. 

Collecting records is a bit like gambling: sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. The difference is that when you lose money gambling, you do not have to catalogue the evidence alphabetically. With this hobby, the losses, and the little sense of injustice that comes with them, hang around for years, patiently filed under the artists name and waiting to judge you every time you glance at the shelf.

The set itself is generous: twenty tracks spread across three slabs of blue marbled vinyl, capturing performances from the band’s 2019 US tour. You get the big hits, delivered with the kind of polish and tightness you would expect from a group that treats funk like a craft rather than a mood. Having seen them live, I can attest that the musicianship of the band is the real deal.

If you love Chromeo, or you want a crisp souvenir of the 2019 era set, this is an easy recommendation. It captures their professionalism and a knack for making immaculate pop funk feel like a party rather than a job. For me it is a reminder that collecting records is not just about the music, it is also about occasionally paying extra for the privilege of learning patience. 3.5/5

One record at a time: 507. The Chemical Brothers - For That Beautiful Feeling

Released in 2023, "For That Beautiful Feeling" arrived with a fair bit of expectation attached, helped along by the early single "The Darkness That You Fear". On paper it is got everything I usually want from The Chemical Brothers: a clear hook, a confident pulse, that familiar sense of a bigger picture gradually coming into focus. In practice, though, it never quite lands for me. The samples feel more nagging than catchy and, because the duo are not shy about repeating a phrase until it becomes the point of the track, what should be hypnotic starts to grate.

That is the theme I keep bumping into across the record. The production is as glossy and muscular as you would expect from a band who have been doing this longer than most of us have been paying council tax. There are moments where a synth line lifts its head above the mix and you think, here we go, this is the one. Then the track leans back on a vocal chop or a loop that refuses to evolve, and the momentum slips away.

"Live Again" is a good example. It has a sturdy groove and a pleasingly ravey shimmer, but the central vocal hook sits in that awkward place between inspirational and intensely irritating. I can imagine it working a treat in a festival field, shouted back with arms in the air. At home, on a grey Tuesday, it invokes the same anger as being told to smile by a stranger on the bus.

To be clear, there is nothing careless here. The sound design is detailed, the low end is enormous, and there is a sense of craft in how the tracks are layered and paced. I just do not think the album’s best ideas are quite strong enough to justify how firmly they are repeated. 

When it clicks, it is properly transportive ("No Reason", "Feels Like I’m Dreaming"). When it does not ("Goodbye", "Live Again"), it can feel like you are stuck in a tumble drier watching the same scene move round and around ad infinitum. I was especially looking forward to another Beck collaboration, but even this ends up feeling a bit undercooked and never quite matches the promise of previous outings.

So, say it quietly, but "For That Beautiful Feeling" is not amongst the band's best. I do not dislike it enough to write it off, and I would still take it over most paint by numbers dance records without thinking. I just wanted a bit more surprise, a bit more lift, and fewer hooks that outstay their welcome. This record doesn’t gab me like "Surrender" or "Push the Button" did. If you are already on board, you will find plenty to enjoy. If you are looking for a classic, you might end up reaching for the older stuff instead. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 506. Claudia Brücken – Night Mirror

After rinsing xPropaganda’s "The Heart Is Strange", ordering principal vocalist Claudia Brücken’s latest album, "Night Mirror", felt like an easy decision in 2025. No research, no hesitation, just that smug little click of the pre order button that says, "I am a person of taste and impeccable judgement."

Sadly, "Night Mirror" is nothing like xPropaganda, and it left me colder than the British seaside in March. The glossy synths I’d been hoping for have largely been swapped out for acoustic drums, bass guitar and the sort of whiny guitar solos that turn up uninvited and then somehow end up staying for tea. Overall, the album leans heavily into an acoustic flavour, and I do not like the taste. Claudia does not even bother singing on the opening track, "My Life Started Today". Instead, she deadpans her way through three minutes of banal lyrics while an electric guitar wails in the background.

Track two, "Rosebud", briefly teases a flourish of synth, and for a moment I sat up expectantly. Then the bass guitar and Hammond organ arrive to suffocate that electronic promise with the determination of a hit-man smothering his victim with a pillow. There are faint signs of life on track three, but Claudia’s voice gets oddly unsympathetic treatment, as if the mix is actively trying to prove she is not the main event. 

The songwriting lacks bite and, at times, harks back to rock music from the sixties, and not in a charming, "what a classic" way. More in a, "you’ve heard this chord change a million times but I’m going to do it anyway" kind of way. Even when a song like "Sound and the Fury" initially sounds promising, any electronic pulse is soon snuffed out by the incessant electric guitar, which appears to be on a mission to play over absolutely everything, including, presumably, the credits.

To be fair, there are moments where the electronics are allowed out of their little cupboard. "Shadow Dancer" is one of the few tracks that lets them extend beyond the opening salvos, but the melody never quite turns up, and after a while you start checking your watch and wondering if it got lost on the way. There is also a rather dreary ballad called "To Be Loved", which I am sure will find its audience, but I am not that audience, and my heart did not so much melt as politely decline. 

"Dancing Shadow" tries to revive the promise of "Shadow Dancer", and we even get some TR-909 hi hats battling it out with the ever present electric guitar. Yet it still denies us the glorious four on the floor kick drum that would have been the icing on the cake, the final nudge from “pleasantly surprised” to “right, I’m up and dancing.” Instead, we remain firmly seated. At this point I can only assume the producer is a guitarist who genuinely loves the sound of his own instruments, because there is no other reasonable explanation for this much guitar being allowed to wander about unchecked.

I pre ordered the limited two disc edition (1000 copies) on "Twilight Purple" blended vinyl. It includes an alternate cover and an exclusive bonus black vinyl 12 inch EP of "Nighttime Mixes". The package also came with a 12"x12" signed print, and I even plumped for the surround sound Blu-ray, because apparently my hobbies now include collecting expensive ways to be mildly disappointed. For an album I do not really like, I have assembled an impressive number of formats. Sometimes I amaze even myself. Next time, I might try the radical approach of streaming it first. 2/5

One record at a time: 505. Tim Bowness - Powder Dry

When I first heard a snippet of opening track "Rock Hudson" on social media, I was immediately struck by the bombastic drums and discordant synth textures supporting Tim’s vocal. It was one of those moments where your brain goes yes, I want more of that, and before I knew it I had pre-ordered the limited edition pink vinyl. When the record was released in 2024 it came with a signed postcard, another smaller copy of the same postcard and an art print of the sleeve. Luckily I like the image, otherwise this might have felt like overkill. Oh wait...

Produced by Tim alone, "Powder Dry" immediately feels like he has found a much broader sonic palette than on its predecessor. Everything sounds sharper and more confident. There are no supporting musicians credited and to be honest Tim sounds so much better without a traditional band in a room plodding away behind him. Most tracks are short and nothing outstays its welcome. It is a snappy, tight record that knows exactly what it wants to do.

Steven Wilson, fellow No-Man member and professional sound whisperer, chips in with mixing and editing to make sure everything holds together and carries a sense of credibility. It does make me reflect that we may not actually need more No-Man albums. Tim seems to make them perfectly well on his own, with occasional help from his best mate. 

Second track "Lost / Not Lost" is minimalist in approach and is driven by a melody that worms its way into your head with suspicious efficiency. "Idiots at Large" shows how much imagination Tim brings when left to his own devices. "A Stand Up for the Dying" could easily have turned into yet another earnest band recording, but instead Tim’s solo guitar is cushioned by atmospheric synths, and all the double bass and complicated drumming of previous albums has been quietly shown the exit.

On the flip side, "Summer Turned" sounds exactly as the title suggests. Light, bright and summery. "Films of Our Youth" works as an instrumental companion to "The Film of Your Youth" which feels neatly intentional. "I Was There" has superb drum samples and imaginative programming and is one of the album’s highlights for me. Only the title track disappoints slightly, but something has to come last.

In the end, this album feels like Tim finally shrugged off anything that might have held him back and simply made the record he wanted to make. It is focused, imaginative and far more interesting than yet another polite band effort. If anything, it shows that Tim on his own, armed with some synths, a bit of guitar and a friend in the mixing booth, is more than enough. 3.5/5

Literally complete

Between July 1989 and December 2014, the Pet Shop Boys ran a club. Not a conventional fan club with a flimsy newsletter limping through your letterbox twice a year, but a fully fledged, band sanctioned operation. Members received gifts, photographs, Christmas cards, posters and regular opportunities to buy exclusive merchandise. There was even a free CD at one point, which felt like winning the lottery, if the lottery paid out in shiny plastic.

For most of us, though, the real reason to join was the club magazine, Literally. Packed with news, interviews, letters and features, and written by professional journalist and long term collaborator Chris Heath, it felt substantial and thoughtfully put together. Better still, you could tell the band were properly involved, which gave it that rare fan club quality: it didn’t feel like it had been assembled at 2am next to a photocopier with a staple gun and a prayer.

I didn’t join when the club first launched, because at the time the cost felt a bit, shall we say, aspirational. By summer 1991, though, I’d somehow scraped the funds together and my membership began with issue six of Literally. Early editions were usually about twenty pages, although depending on how often they came out, some ballooned to fifty or even sixty pages, which is the fan club equivalent of being served a Sunday roast when you only ordered chips.

At the outset, membership promised three issues of the magazine over a twelve month period. In practice, Literally always ran to its own mysterious timetable, and memberships often lasted far longer than a single year. Join in October 2003, for example, and it would be more than two years before your three magazines arrived. By issue 36 in December 2010, the stated aim quietly shifted to two issues a year, which was an equally optimistic target that was not really met either. In theory, there should have been around seventy one magazines released over the lifetime of the club. The fact it only reached issue forty one tells its own story, mostly involving calendars being treated as decorative rather than practical.

Another long running quirk was timing. Issues were rarely delivered in the month printed on the cover, a tradition that carried on right to the end. The final club exclusive edition, dated October 2014, did not arrive until two months later, judging by the postmark on my copy. After the club closed, Literally became an annual publication available through the band’s website, but this only extended to one edition before it was replaced by the hardback book Annually.

Over my twenty three years as a member of the Pet Shop Boys Club, I somehow ended up with a few irritating gaps in my Literally collection. Early on, back issues were occasionally offered for sale, but availability was patchy and I could never get issues 2, 3 or 5. Fast forward thirty years and those gaps had started to nag at me. Because I owned most of the magazines, I had never really clocked which ones were rare. That changed when I realised my missing three were, of course, the notoriously hard to find ones. This is how collecting works. The universe sees your shelf and immediately chooses pain.

For several years I tracked their sale prices on eBay, only to watch them creep steadily upwards. Issue 3 typically went for anywhere between £80 and £125, while issue 5 would frequently fetch an eye watering £200. Issue 2 seemed the most attainable at around £50 to £60, but even that felt like a lot of money for a thirty year old magazine that barely runs to twenty pages. At that price you want at least a pull out poster, a signed apology, or Neil Tennant popping round to read it to you.

In December 2025 I finally took the plunge and bought a copy of issue 2. Almost immediately I felt I’d overpaid, and my optimism about ever completing the collection began to wilt. I even stopped checking auctions for a while, because I was not prepared to spend more than £300 on two magazines just to fill a gap on the shelf. Then a little miracle happened.

One Sunday evening my phone pinged with alerts for new listings of issues 3 and 5. At first, I barely paid them any attention. Auctions usually run for seven days, so there is rarely any urgency unless you enjoy panic as a hobby. But for reasons I still can’t quite explain, call it luck, intuition, or pure boredom, I checked again a minute or two later. That’s when I noticed something different. Both listings had a “Buy It Now” price that was very reasonable. After a few minutes of deliberation, I bought both magazines and I now have a complete collection. So never give up on your collecting ambitions. You never know when they might be fulfilled. Literally.

One ecord at a time: 504. Tim Bowness - Butterfly Mind

It dawned on me, somewhat alarmingly, that this record came out four years ago, which means I have been blogging about my collection for at least that long. Time clearly flies when you are busy collecting limited edition vinyl with the enthusiasm of a slightly unhinged magpie. 

This particular specimen arrives on 180 gram transparent green wax, tucked inside a die cut sleeve, and is hand numbered to just six hundred copies. Pressed by Optimal in Germany, it sounds lovely, and the package even includes a CD, a signed postcard and a fridge magnet. Obviously. Because what self respecting limited edition would dare show its face without a fridge magnet these days.

Before you drop the needle, a word of advice. If your ears have recently been exposed to anything resembling pop or rock, take a moment to reset. Maybe breathe deeply. Maybe stare thoughtfully into the middle distance because, aside from a couple of tracks, the album is a drifting, laid back, prog tinged wander through soft laments and gentle instrumentation. Nick Beggs pops in to provide some bass, Ian Anderson contributes woodwind, and Steven Wilson, who presumably pops round for tea often enough to count as family, handles the mix. At times it is so reminiscent of No-Man that I half expected the packaging to apologise for the confusion.

The opening track, "Say Your Goodbyes Part 1", sets the tone nicely with a delicate start that eventually firms up into something a little crunchier. "It’s Easier to Love" is pleasant but overstays its welcome by several minutes. "Lost Player" floats along in a wistful, elegiac haze and boasts a melody I genuinely adore. This dreamy spell is abruptly shattered by the synth bass stomp and monosynths of "Only a Fool", propelled by drumming that appears to be fuelled by three coffees and several cans of energy drink. 

"Glitter Fades" perks things up with some catchy drum programming that helps break the overall spell of drifting sameness, but many of the other tracks struggle to make such a distinct impression. There is no faulting the performances and plenty of the songs are undeniably pretty, yet the whole experience drifts into a slightly bland, monochrome haze. Dare I say it, by the end I found myself growing a little weary of those endlessly soft and gentle vocal tones.

A beautiful record, thoughtfully assembled, and unquestionably atmospheric. Just be prepared to float for quite a while. And do not forget your fridge magnet. 2.5/5

One record at a time: 503. Beloved - Conscience

Back in 1993, when CDs ruled the world and vinyl was taking an extended tea break, "Conscience" slipped out with only a handful of LP pressings. Naturally, this meant that the original vinyl soon became the sort of item collectors stalked.

Fast forward to recent years, and with demand still bubbling away and the rights having returned to Jon Marsh, electronic specialists NewState clearly spotted a chance to make a lot of fans very happy. On paper, the reissue sounded downright irresistible: remastered audio spread across two slabs of heavyweight white vinyl, limited edition, full colour sleeve and wraparound artwork. All very fancy. All very take‑my‑money. Then you actually play it.

This is where the warm glow of nostalgia smacks straight into the cold wall of reality. Some tracks are different mixes that do not match the originals. There is added noise on almost everything. The sibilance is, quite honestly, among the worst I have ever heard. I would love to tell you that the sheer brilliance of the music rises triumphantly above the overbearing compression and the extra noise. I really would. But I can't.

And that is such a shame, because the album itself remains wonderful. "Conscience" felt like a natural step on from their debut "Happiness", with the new husband‑and‑wife duo of Jon and Helena working beautifully together. There is just enough pop threaded through the dance elements to keep things interesting, long before their next album "X" would wander a little too far into clubland and lose some charm in the process.

One of my favourite memories is hearing someone play an advance copy of this album in an HMV before the album was released. The moment Jon sang the opening lines of "Spirit": "So welcome back again, On the right track again" I saw a couple of people drift towards the B section of the CD racks, only to be met with crushing disappointment when they found nothing there.

The singles "Sweet Harmony", "Outerspace Girl" and "You Have Got Me Thinking" deserved far better chart positions than the public gave them. They are still great songs. Even better is the killer trio of "Celebrate Your Life", "Rock to the Rhythm of Love" and "Let the Music Take You", a run of tracks I always looked forward to. The only stumble for me has always been the closer, "Dream On", which drifts a bit.

So yes, a great album, but this vinyl pressing does it no favours whatsoever. Whether the problems are down to this disastrous white vinyl edition or whether the universe is simply refusing to let "Conscience" sound good on wax, I cannot say. What I can say is that the regular black vinyl version, which is supposedly on the way, has had its release delayed at least three times. It does make you wonder if the poor thing is proving too difficult to get onto vinyl in a form that does not make you wince. Until then, my advice is simple: adore the album, avoid the pressing. 3/5

One record at a time: 502. B.E.F. - Music For Stowaways

Some albums are made for the charts, some are made for record executives, and one was made for a very specific little plastic box clipped to someone’s belt in 1981. The Stowaway (soon to be known to the world as the Walkman) was the new futuristic toy of the time, and British Electric Foundation clearly thought: “Why not make something specifically for people wandering around with headphones on, pretending they’re in Blade Runner?”

The result is a fascinating electronic experiment from Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware, freshly departed from the original Human League and brimming with ideas. I’ll admit I bought my copy before ever hearing it, which is always a high‑risk hobby. But in this case, the gamble paid off. The album has a raw, exploratory charm: you can practically hear two musicians revelling in their newfound creative freedom. It’s part time capsule, part art project, part "let’s see what this button does".

The opener, "The Opium Chant", is a strangely hypnotic swirl of repetitive refrains and dub influenced delays. It is the sort of track that makes you stare into the middle distance and forget what you were meant to be doing. Perfect if what you were meant to be doing was not very important in the first place.

"Uptown Apocalypse" drags in members of Clock DVA and the results are exactly what you might expect and yet somehow more listenable than they have any right to be. There are more melodic moments too on the record. "Wipe The Board Clean" is surprisingly tuneful, while the instrumental version of "We Don't Need This Fascist Groove Thing" is perfectly fine, but we've heard it before.

The standout is "The Old At Rest". This track is ambient perfection, created on a handful of synthesisers that leave enough space between the layers for the music to breathe. Put it on with a good pair of headphones and feel your everyday stress melt away in a gentle wash of electronic calm. 

The rest of the record offers up serious, early electronic explorations packed with interesting ideas. In fact, I would go as far as to say I prefer this to the early Human League material. Controversial perhaps, but I have said it now and there is no turning back. 

Cold Spring Records resurrected the album in 2023 and released two coloured vinyl versions and a standard black one. My copy is one of the 500 yellow editions but the wax itself isn't as vibrant as the cover. Whilst the sleeve proudly sits on my shelf glowing like a radioactive banana, the record inside is more of a sickly mustard colour. 

"Music for Stowaways" remains a quirky, innovative snapshot of early‑80s synth culture, and the yellow vinyl reissue turns it into a collector’s gem. It may no longer fit into a Stowaway, but it plays beautifully on a turntable — and that’s probably for the best as all of the rubber belts in my Walkman have long since perished. 4/5

One record at a time: 501. Rick Astley - Whenever You Need Somebody

Every now and then, I spot a record in a charity shop that looks far too pristine to ignore. That’s exactly how I ended up walking out with Rick Astley’s "Whenever You Need Somebody" tucked under my arm. In a moment of impulsive optimism, I forgot one tiny detail: I didn’t like Stock Aitken Waterman in the 80s, and nothing in my life since has suggested my opinion should change.

But here’s the thing. Despite the manufactured pop beginnings, I’ve got a real soft spot for Rick himself. He’s a genuinely talented multi‑instrumentalist and songwriter (you might guffaw but have you listened to songs like "Angels By My Side"? - I'll take your apology when you come back). The poor bloke just fell in with the wrong crowd that's all.

Naturally, "Never Gonna Give You Up" kicks off the album. If you don’t know this track, you’re probably legally classified as deceased, so I won’t insult either of us by describing it. It's pop perfection whether we like to admit it or not, and SAW knew it.

The title track was also a hit, though it has that unmistakable SAW "we made this in an afternoon" energy. It’s catchy enough, but let’s not pretend it has the sheer gravitational pull of Rick’s signature hit. It’s fine — which is exactly the problem. Fine is rarely memorable, and SAW had a habit of aiming squarely for "good enough to sell, not good enough to last".

A few cuts were produced by Phil Harding, which lifts things slightly, and there’s one track handled by Daize Washbourn, but it is all fairly standard eighties pop fare. The back cover proudly reels out the classic SAW gag “Drums by A Linn” and Fairlight programming is credited to Ian Curnow.

There’s a rumour that EMI deliberately sabotaged Rick Astley’s chances of hitting number one with his version of "When I Fall in Love" by sneakily reissuing the original Nat King Cole recording to dilute his sales. According to the theory, this cleared the path for EMI act Pet Shop Boys to glide straight into the top spot instead.

Of course, this overlooks a couple of awkward details — namely that "When I Fall in Love" had already stalled at number two for weeks, and the Pet Shop Boys were actually battling "Fairytale of New York". Still, why let facts spoil a perfectly good conspiracy theory? Besides, Rick’s version of "When I Fall in Love" is pretty dire, so perhaps everyone involved was simply doing a public service.

This record is an oddly charming time capsule. Yes, the production occasionally sounds like it was knocked together with one eye on the clock, but there’s something undeniably likeable here — not just because the songs are catchy, but because Rick Astley is clearly capable of far more than the tightly controlled pop machine allowed him to show. It’s the sound of an artist who hadn’t yet escaped the conveyor belt.

As far as charity‑shop gambles go, this one’s a mild win. Maybe not a jackpot, but definitely better than multiple copies of "The Best of James Last" that were lurking beside it. 2/5

One record at a time: 500. Art of Noise - Impressions Of For+ever And The Making Of Moments In Love

Nobody makes their back catalogue work harder than ZTT and the Art of Noise. If there is a tape, a demo, a studio sneeze, or someone once accidentally brushed a synth with their elbow in 1984, you can bet it will eventually be pressed, given a catalogue number, and fired into the shops as a “limited edition archival release”.

I honestly thought the well was dry after the 2006 four‑CD monolith "And What Have You Done With My Body, God?" — a title which now feels more like a plea from the archive itself. But no. This latest instalment appeared last year, suggesting there are still mysterious boxes in Trevor Horn's loft labelled "Do Not Use – Really, We Mean It This Time".

And yet, a quick peek at Discogs reveals that ten of the thirteen tracks on this record have already been put out before. So it’s not so much "previously unreleased gems" as "you’ve probably heard these already, but here they are again… surprise!?" Then comes the double whammy: this record combines two of my absolute least favourite vinyl tropes — Record Store Day and a poor GZ Media pressing. 

So, archival release or shameless cash‑grab? Honestly, it’s a bit of both. You can call it "preserving musical history" if you squint, but there’s also a definite sense of someone shaking the vaults to see if any loose coins fall out. And let’s be realistic: there’s a reason most of this material stayed unreleased for so long. Listening to some of these mixes feels a bit like watching deleted scenes from a film you love — there’s a reason they didn’t make the final cut, and no amount of historical curiosity can disguise the fact that they were deleted for a reason.

Now, let me be clear: I adore the track "Moments in Love". It’s a masterpiece. It’s serene, iconic and hypnotic — but do I need thirteen versions of it in a row? Absolutely not. Nobody needs that. Even the most devoted Art of Noise completist would probably step outside for fresh air around track six just to remember what silence feels like. It’s the vinyl equivalent of ordering a three‑course meal and getting three plates of slightly different mashed potato. Impressive commitment, questionable decision‑making.

And yet, buried within the repetition are still those unmistakable flickers of beauty. The original DNA of the song remains magical, even when wrapped in variations that range from "pleasant enough" to "did someone lean on the Fairlight?" But the truth is simple: the unreleased tracks aren’t particularly vital, and the previously released ones aren’t different enough to justify their presence here — unless you're the sort of person who owns more than one copy of "Tubular Bells".

I still love "Moments in Love". I probably always will. But even I have limits, and thirteen iterations of the same track is a stretch worthy of Olympic classification. This one’s for hardcore fans, completists, and people who feel physically uncomfortable leaving a hole in their Art of Noise collection. Everyone else can stream a couple of tracks and call it a day. 2/5