a strong contender for the dubious honour of "most common charity shop record... ever"!

Some years ago now I became aware of guitarist Barry Reynolds via his contributions to the ace Grace Jones Compass Point sessions. Of course, in checking out a sideman’s solo effort (as I did in much more recent times), one risks the possibility of discovering that singing ain’t exactly their forte, which is why they were never frontmen in the first place – step forward Keith Richards, Walter Becker, et al. Thankfully, unlike them Reynolds is capable of carrying a tune in a pleasant if indistinct manner, that neither enhances or detracts from the music. The main problem lies in the musical direction: Barry’s two most famous employers are the aforementioned Ms Grace and the musically contrasting Marianne Faithfull, and it comes over like he’s using this album as some kind of CV with both as references. So side 1 (featuring Compass Point regulars Sly & Robbie and Co.) is for the Jones-heads, kicking off with a okay crack at the Dan Hicks-penned title track (curiously enough also covered around the same time by Thomas Dolby, whose superior version has more harmonic twists). That’s followed by a couple of lukewarm efforts before things hot up a bit with “More Money” and “Til The Doctor Gets Back” that almost rival the best of the Jones recordings. Unfortunately Reynolds then puts his rock head on as side 2 heads deep into Faithfull territory, including songs co-written by Baz & Maz loaded with tiresome political cant – perhaps they should have paid more attention to the music rather than trying to put the world to rights, as to me it all sounds pretty ordinary and instantly forgettable. So, half a half-decent album as far as fans of the fearsome fashionista are concerned (the same may also apply to followers of Faithfull), therefore probably only worth hunting down if you’re an obsessive/completist of one or the other.

I got my first enjoyable taste of Spaghetti Westerns in the late 70’s, when BBC 2 regularly presented a late-night series of screenings, ranging from Sergio Leone’s classic “Man with No Name” trilogy to the comedic cash-ins of Terence Hill & Bud Spencer. The odd camera shots, oddball characters, sparse dialogue, and casual violence all contributed to the genre’s distinctive style, but perhaps it was defined more than anything by the groundbreaking Ennio Morricone scores that more often than not accompanied such films (and if not, they were provided by imitators, which is of course the most sincere form of flattery).

The entry that always fascinated me most was Leone’s underrated if flawed masterpiece “Giu’ La Testa” (the Italian translation runs along the lines of “Keep Your Head Down”). As a point of interest, this film must hold the record for the most alternate titles: it was somewhat cynically re-titled “A Fistful of Dynamite” for a British audience already familiar with the Dollars films, the American release was originally dubbed “Duck You Sucker” (Leone deluded himself that this was a popular expression in the States), and it is also known in some quarters as “Once Upon A Time in the Revolution”, being considered the middle segment of Leone’s other epic trilogy that began with “OUAT in the West” and concluded with “OUAT in America”.

To summarise the plot: when an irritating pig-ignorant Mexican peasant and small-time bandit (hammed up to the max by Rod Steiger) chances upon an arrogant and disillusioned pre-IRA terrorist and explosives expert in exile (James Coburn with a cod-Oirish brogue rivalling Dick Van Dyke’s cockney chimneysweep in the unconvincing accent stakes), he sees an opportunity to get rich robbing banks, but is instead unwittingly steered by the Irishman into becoming a reluctant hero of the Mexican Revolution. Just like “the man with no name”, neither of the lead characters come over as likeable on the surface as they begin their love-hate odd-couple relationship, and soundtrack composer Morricone reflects that with some signature brash, almost comical music that features offbeat instrumentation such as tin whistles and even burps and belches.

However, unlike the “Dollars” trilogy, Leone gradually goes deeper to expose the inner frailties behind the swagger and bravado: Juan’s grief when he discovers his rag-tag family executed by the military regime, and John’s regret at shooting his friend and fellow freedom-fighter whom as a love rival he had betrayed to the hated English overlords (shown as slo-mo flashbacks, some of the best moments in the film). Here Morricone really pulls out all the stops to create achingly beautiful themes that accompany and magnify such moments of pathos and poignancy, making the viewer actually extend some sympathy toward the characters. The title theme and “Mexico and Ireland” (and their variations) are magnificent in this respect, but are topped by “Dead Sons” (Figli Morte), where Morricone sets the mournful plucking of a ukulele (dispelling the stereotyped image of its use in ribald music-hall songs) beneath his trademark whistler, against a backdrop of lush orchestration and gorgeous swooping wordless vocals.

It took me 20 years to get hold of the original soundtrack album (on CD), but it was well worth the wait (prior to that I would play parts of the film that I had video’d just to listen to the score). One thing that struck me was how much music on it never even made it to the screen. For example, the eerie yet beguiling “Invention for John” (featuring the whistling motif that is an integral feature of the movie) is only used under the film’s opening credits for a minute or so, yet Morricone provided a staggeringly inventive nine minute arrangement that really should be hailed as a tone poem masterpiece. So when this (beautifully presented) expanded edition came out nearly a decade after that, I grabbed it despite its exorbitant price as I felt sure the bonus disc containing Morricone’s alternative takes would reveal more hidden gems: discards and cast-offs that were probably better than most people’s best efforts.

And I wasn’t disappointed. There is a lot more immaculately produced music that Morricone must have worked long and hard on that was never utilised for the film, such as a second and equally lengthy and absorbing arrangement of “Invention for John”, plus two more versions of the menacing “Counter Revolution” that again was hardly heard in the movie itself. In fact virtually all the themes in the original soundtrack have unused alternative cues that may differ in arrangement but not in quality: to hear Morricone tinkering and experimenting is a rare opportunity to witness a master at work. It is well known by Spaghetti buffs that Morricone wrote the music for “The Good, The Bad And The Ugly” before the film itself was shot - perhaps the same process was used here, which may explain why there was so much of it… or maybe like the “why does a dog lick his bollocks” joke, Morricone did it just because he could? Whatever the reason, devotees of “il Maestro” (and students of soundtrack scores in general) can be thankful that his labours were not in vain, finally seeing the light of day (and in pristine condition) after the best part of 40 years locked away gathering dust in some vault.

About seven years ago or so an old friend gave me a cassette of a Jim O'Rourke album thinking it to be to my taste. Unfortunately that wasn't so, but out of curiosity I flipped the unmarked tape and started playing the other side. My ears instantly pricked up at the delicate and intricate acoustic stylings and sensitive vocals, and by the end of track two I was completely hooked.

My first thoughts were that it was perhaps some undiscovered/obscure act from the 70's (there was nothing in the production to suggest otherwise), so I was most surprised to discover that this was very much a contemporary recording, as by that time I was totally despairing that popular music had anything fresh or different to offer. Sure, it has shades of Nick Drake, Simon and Garfunkel, and Crosby Stills & Nash about it (which isn't a bad thing of course), but unlike said artists, in my view these guys' output is consistently listenable with their own unique spin (that perhaps comes through emanating from a part of the world not renowned for its musical output).

There are very few albums I've heard that I can justify listening to from beginning to end without skipping tracks, but this is one of them, or at least the nearest it gets for me (perhaps one or two songs could have been developed a bit more, but I'm a hard person to please). Highlights range from the comparatively rhythmically upbeat "Toxic Girl" to the introspective picking of "The Weight Of My Words", but the wonderful conclusion is a masterful triptych that should be heard as programmed. Smouldering, wistful, melancholic, elegiac - describe it how you like but as far as acoustic pop is concerned in my opinion it doesn't get much better than this.

Polydor really tried to capitalise on the Easy Listening trend of the late sixties and early seventies – charity shop crate diggers will be more than familiar with the “Easy Listening” double album compilation that was briefly changing hands for absurd amounts of money a few years back because a couple of contemporary bands sampled a particular track (and just as quickly went back to being practically valueless when it was realised how plentiful were the copies still out there). Presumably on the basis of the outstanding success of said album, Polydor decided to milk the market even more with this “concept” LP. It was convenient for them that they happened to have artists like Helmut Zacharias and Joe Quijano on their roster in order to make this novelty item feasible - for all I know, they may have actually signed the latter just so they could get this LP released!

Like the original “Easy Listening” LP, this features some of those who in the course of their work inadvertently provided some tasty morsels for retro-kitsch enthusiasts and breaks ‘n’ beatsters, although sadly the contributions by James Last, Peter Thomas, and (surprise inclusion) Nick Ingman are disappointing. Sorting the wheat out from the chaff, Roberto Delgado turns in a competent version of the “Hawaii Five-O” theme, and Tony Evans provides an interesting Glenn Miller-styled arrangement of Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman” (it was another fad at the time to re-hash contemporary tunes in the Miller manner). Oliver Nelson contributes some classy and moody late-night jazz, whilst Ultimate Spinach (who are surely only included here because of their name) may attract the attention of psych collectors with their mildly-interesting opus “Sacrifice Of The Moon (In Four Parts)". However, the best recommendations from me are Augusto Alguerro’s groovy-sounding “Bocaccio Soul”, and (as a Bacharach covers collector) especially the clever version of “Walk On By” by obscure outfit Xylos Inc. – with perky percussion to the fore, it sounds like something Hugo Montenegro might have produced at his swinging sixties peak, and is well worth keeping an eye out for.

Apparently this album was originally conceived as a (Fairport violinist) Dave Swarbrick solo project, and ended up as some kind of contractual obligation release. I'm not a follower of the band so I have no idea how it compares to their other recordings. The album's only interest to me is the instrumental funk jam "Cropredy Capers", that really grooves for a couple of minutes before the fiddle-scraper threatens to turn it into "Day Trip To Bangor". If you're into the "Dusty Fingers" obscure and/or unexpected sources of funky grooves, then this track is certainly worth checking out.

This compilation was put together by (local legend) Ronnie Mayor showcasing the musical talent of aspiring pop stars from the (Bournemouth &) Poole area (on England’s south coast) in the early 1980’s. Ronnie couldn’t get an indigenous label to pick it up (possibly because the locale was not exactly considered a hip musical place in those days), but was able to use American contacts to get a Stateside release, the irony being that local fans (there was a vibrant “originals” live scene at the time, in which I myself had begun to participate) couldn’t get hold of the record unless they paid sky-high prices for imports.

Mayor’s efforts weren’t without an element of self-interest as his own bands Tours and Da Biz each have two tracks featured. The former come across to me as a politer English version of the Undertones; Ronnie has a pleasant enough if unremarkable voice and the melodies are catchy, but the meat-and-potatoes musical backing (including a drummer who seems compelled to do utterly predictable tom-tom rolls at the end of every other bar) leaves me completely unmoved. Much the same can be said of Da Biz, albeit that their brace of tunes have some added production sheen. Contacts also have a similar power-pop sound, but worship at the altar of the Buzzcocks, complete with laissez-faire Pete Shelley impression. Surfin’ Dave was the cult hero/joke figure (every local music scene probably had one) who would apparently turn up at gigs and ask to bash out a couple of numbers on his acoustic guitar, but here his puny pipes and sardonic sentiments are backed by a beefy combo influenced by (or perhaps anticipating) the rockabilly revival. “Livin’ White Hell” was most likely intended as an Eddie Cochran pastiche but it’s a good job Eddie’s lawyers (presumably) never got to hear it! All the tracks on side 1 (described as the “light side” in the sleeve notes) touch lyrically on particularly parochial subject matter such as foreign language students and the beach (the latter used by more than one band in a rhyming couplet, followed by perhaps-inevitable anguish that “the girls are out of reach”). As an ex-resident of the area, such references make these songs a bit more interesting than they might have been otherwise.

Side 2 (the “dark side”) dispenses with local observations, but is more interesting and adventurous music-wise, if flawed. “Steering Solo” with its droning synths and dour vocals, more than suggests that Paul Chambers has been listening to Gary Numan. However, “Take a Ticket” takes the more tasteful template of Kraftwerk’s “Trans-Europe Express” (even the lyrics are train-related), although there's still not much in the way of a tune. CaVa CaVa (who later scored a substantial record deal after impressing Radio 1 DJ Peter Powell) come over as indie-prog (if that makes sense), contributing a pair of long and meandering tracks that don’t really go anywhere (and the rather fey and mannered vocals don’t help either). That leaves Hollows, who in my view are by some distance the best thing here, their two atmospheric contributions glisten with Edge-style guitar harmonics and spacey delay effects, anchored by a rock-solid rhythm section.

Although the area hardly began to rival the likes of Liverpool or Manchester in terms of pop success, it’s my opinion that it was by no means a musical wasteland, and there were other more accomplished local outfits around active at the time of this release (none of which involved me, I hasten to add), that perhaps staked a stronger claim for inclusion on this compilation than one or two featured here. But whatever myself or anyone else thinks of the quality of the music on this disc, in retrospect it serves as a great snapshot of the English provincial music scene from that era, the like of which will probably never be seen (or heard) again.

This album features four of the heavy blues jams that notoriously-parsimonious label owner DL Miller (aka Leo Muller) used to pad out his compilations with. One can only wonder at how the original punters would have reacted at the time to hearing these utterly incongruous Jimi Hendrix/Cream ripoffs next to the likes of "Baby Love" and "Tears Of A Clown", but nowadays albums such as this have become sought-after precisely because of such material, both by the breaks and beats brigade and lovers of postmodern retro kitsch.

This album was inspired by the words of ancient middle-eastern philosopher Omar Khayyam, but the beginning of the opening track apart, there isn't that much in the grooves that is influenced by that culture. Instead the rhythms span from swing to African styles with straight beats inbetween, sometimes sprinkled with Dorothy's intoned profundities. A real potpourri, not all of it works, such as the over-ambitious "Shadow Shapes" that sounds like a reject from a Cole Porter musical (one can even imagine Gene Kelly hoofing away in the instrumental breaks), and on "Joyful Grass and Grape", Dot whacks away on a koto for far too long solo before a sluggish so-so beat finally arrives. She actually sings on several tracks which may surprise some, but I think it's a shame it didn't happen more often, as she has a clear and radiant alto delivery. As such the best tracks for me are the sad but beautiful ballads "Drink", "Dust" and "Heaven & Hell", wherein Dorothy opines the fleetingness of life, made more poignant by the fact that she had already passed away some 20 years before I got to hear them.