When Simon Reynolds coined the term “post-rock” in 1993, he was probably describing Laika. Duo Margaret Fiedler and Guy Fixsen dispensed with rock’s straitjacket and harnessed Coltrane jazz, Eno-esque ambience, programmed rattlesnake beats and skittering electronics. The outcome has been far-reaching and often astounding Yet this pair aren’t dust-dry boffins. Much of this compendium resonates with sensual heat.

The Blades Of Grass

ARE NOT FOR SMOKING

REV-OLA

West Coast ex-folksters The Sunshine Company just missed stardom when their version of newcomer Jimmy Webb’s “Up, Up And Away” was beaten into the charts by the Fifth Dimension’s in 1967. Blending a bittersweet variety of soft-pop and folk-rock influences they released material written by the likes of Tony Asher and Curt Boettcher, and saw US chart action with the Michaels and Gormann-penned “Happy” in 1967?as did East Coast soft-poppers The Blades Of Grass. The Blades’ post-Sgt Pepper psych-rock sound melded great songs with beautiful harmonies, but occasionally suffered from claustrophobic over-orchestration.

This is the first ever box set from Culture Club, although long-suffering collectors will be aware of three previous best-of collections under the byline of the flamboyantly-dressed New Popsters. Still, this sumptuously-tooled four-discer arrives fully equipped with remixes, demos and previously unreleased songs, plus a no-expense-spared colour booklet for your coffee table pleasure. It’s like grunge never happened.

It’s still the well known stuff where the real magic lies. You will need no reminding of the cosmic pop ineffability of “Karma Chameleon”, the Motown-esque “Church Of The Poisoned Mind”, the lilting white reggae of “Do You Really Want 2 [sic] Hurt Me”, not to mention spectacular recent-ish comeback hit “I Just Wanna Be Loved”. Good to hear again, too, the exquisite ballad “Black Money” from their 1983 masterpiece, Colour By Numbers.

You may blanch visibly, by contrast, at “The War Song” or “The Medal Song”, while the rap-electro-dub yawn-fest of “Kipsy” or the flaccid reggae recreation of “Time” (both the latter are from disc 4, the so-called “Drumhead Sessions”) can only hasten the occurrence of a beer bottle-CD player interface.

Among the more amusing rarities are versions of Bowie’s “Starman” and “Suffragette City”, neatly skewering the Club’s glam roots, while “Genocide Peroxide” sounds bizarrely like The Cult.

Time and again, though, the demos assembled here capture our heroes in a state of dreary competence as they tinkle away in that Carib-pop vein which remains their most identifiable imprimatur. An early take of “Kissing To Be Clever” is the perfect illustration, while there’s a “Do You Really Want 2 Hurt Me” with a drum machine instead of Jon Moss which sounds like the finished version after it’s been hung up by its ankles and bled to death.

So, er, what? Well, you take what you need and you leave the rest.

For large stretches of its 62-track length, it would be hard to imagine a better introduction to the subject than this three-disc anthology of soul classics centred on the Atlantic catalogue of the period. All the obvious choices are here, plus a generous selection of lesser-known gems like “Private Number” by William Bell and Judy Clay and Maxine Brown’s “Oh No Not My Baby”. Inevitably there’s room for doubt over some tracks which could be said to be soft-centred, but mainly this is a fine selection.

Considering that they were only together for two years?1967 to 1969?Philadelphia’s The Nazz were a hyperactive group, despite their underachievement in the marketplace. Formed in the City of Brotherly Love from the ashes of Woody’s Truck Stop, The Munchkins and Todd Rundgren’s high school band, Money, The Nazz were schooled in British Invasion shock tactics, sported post-Mod chic?a riot of cravats, paisley and bell-bottomed jumbo cords?and even borrowed their name from a Yardbirds B-side, “The Nazz Are Blue”, itself stolen from the alter ego of beatnik guru Lord Buckley. Well, Lee Marvin provided the accidental moniker for The Beatles, so the symbiosis boasted a healthy complexion.

Although he was rarely the lead singer, Rundgren wrote the songs, forged the direction?based on a blend of weirder Beatles, Cream and Who?and taught himself how to mix and match the band’s productions. Rundgren wasn’t influenced solely by his ‘I’m Backing Britain’ obsessions, since The Nazz emerged at a time when American Bandstand was a local TV staple and the nascent sounds of Philly soul were all over the radio. Rock’n’roll, R&B and clean-cut pop were all mated without fuss.

Rundgren’s accomplices were kindred spirits along the high-energy highway. There was singer Stewkey (born Robert Antoni, his nickname was an apparent corruption of the fact that he was always stewed on brew), who shared Rundgren’s preference for choreographed entertainment, drummer Thom Mooney, and ex-Woody’s bassist Carson Van Osten, who adopted the Runt’s lanky, ornate look. All were willing participants in early showings designed to leave their mark, like their debut in June 1967 when they supported The Doors on a hometown date and chucked in a few zany Motown dance steps for good measure while Jim Morrison chuckled in the wings. Suitably ambitious, The Nazz made their first album?plain Nazz?on the Screen Gems Columbia imprint (home to The Monkees), fusing glorious pop nuggets like “Open My Eyes” and “Hello It’s Me” (revisited by Rundgren on his 1972 solo album Something/Anything?) to a harder template. The greasier, guitar-driven “Back Of Your Mind”, “Lemming Song” and “She’s Going Down” reiterated the band’s love for Cream-style flash and were often performed in a fleshed-out manner, all 15-minute drum solos, bass-twirling pyrotechnics and smashed Strats: showbusiness, in other words.

In common with their late-’60s peers, The Nazz didn’t just muck about. While his pals sampled the lysergics, Rundgren stayed straight and true, masterminding a trip to London’s Trident Studios to record their second album with the whiff of their debut LP still in the air. Significantly, although one is tempted to view groups like this as one long tale of woe, there was enough money available in The Nazz’s kitty to buy time at the place where The Beatles had recorded “Hey Jude” and “Dear Prudence”.

Safely ensconced in Soho, Rundgren and company planned a double album under the working title of Fungo Bat, but fell foul of the local musician’s union. At least they had time to ransack Carnaby Street for kipper ties and visit the clubs that fired their enthusiasm in the first place.

Second album Nazz Nazz arrived in streamlined shape. By this time the other members were getting slightly sick of Rundgren, and were equally wary of his obvious solo leanings as a balladeer. Squabbling in the ranks didn’t prevent Nazz Nazz from shining. “Meridian Leeward” and the sadly groovesome “Gonna Cry Today” proved they could still cut it together, although “Letters Don’t Count”, which relied on grandiose Beach Boys harmonies, suggested Rundgren was pulling in a different direction and wasn’t going to come back.

Ironically, Nazz Nazz was scuppered by the fact that “Hello It’s Me” (from the first album) was now a minor hit. Just when they could have emerged as a headline act, Philly’s finest white-boy dudes fragmented, managerless, rudderless, and bass-less since Rundgren’s old pal Van Osten had chucked in his chips. Still, there was enough left in the can for the obligatory posthumous record company cash-in, named, with astonishing originality, Nazz III. A version of Paul Revere And The Raiders’ “Kicks”, penned by Mann and Weil, was tacked on by default, but the piano and orchestra ballad “You Are My Window” was more of a sure-fire pointer to internal tensions as Rundgren showed the others what he could do without their help.

Beyond the history lies a certain mystery. At this distance one can almost imagine The Nazz making a real splash if they’d arrived, say, five years later. Their take on Archie Bell And The Drells’ “Tighten Up” (renamed “Loosen Up”) fits into the whole ethos of early-’70s funk pop. But maybe they were destined to provide the apprenticeship for Rundgren’s much more satisfying solo life. After all, he was The Nazz, with God-given ass, and this lovingly packaged set still whets the appetite for his slew of ’70s masterpieces.

But that is all hindsight. File next to Rhino’s sleeker, more coherent best-of, invest in a cravat and flop your fringe. Maybe this Nazz weren’t part of the main text. But, then, sometimes the fascination lies in the footnotes.

The Wild Bunch are sometimes claimed to be trip hop’s source, due to influential sets at Bristol’s legendary dive/club The Dug Out, mixing reggae, hip hop, disco and funk, and members’ subsequent careers?Nellee Hooper with Soul II Soul, others with Massive Attack. But the late-night, risky mixing of races and records at The Dug Out can’t be revived by archive tape of its crowd, and this is mostly mediocre old-school hip hop, with only 1987 Wild Bunch single “The Look” (in fact by just Milo and Hooper) suggesting future greatness.

SHE EVEN WOKE ME UP TO SAY GOODBYE

BOTH RAVEN

By the late-’60s, Lewis was still reeling from the outrage following marriage to his under-age cousin. Smash Records offered salvation in a return to the country roots he couldn’t shake. Fusing sweaty R&B, gospel, hillbilly and Tin Pan Alley with teary balladry, working-man’s blues and nods to Haggard and Jimmie Rodgers, 1968’s Another Place… and She Even Woke… (1970)?bolstered by six add-ons from in between LP She Still Comes Around?find the man fired up, happily unable to resist the odd, impassioned pounding of ivories in the process.

Ranging from 1978’s “Warm Leatherette” by The Normal to the martial Eurobeat of 1988’s “Warszaw Ghetto” by Nitzer Ebb, this LP takes in DAF, The Klinik and Fad Gadget along the way. Blending goth and X-rated sequencer riffs, it was cuts like this which assisted at the birth of house and garage (Liaisons Dangereuses were especially influential). Other lost diamonds include “Cardboard Lamb” by Crash Course In Science. Brilliant?but where’s

We like our idols damaged. Peggy Lee was quite probably the finest jazz-influenced singer of popular songs ever. A bold statement, but despite her considerable commercial success, the fact that La Lee didn’t ‘suffer’ for her art in the same way as her mentor Billie Holiday may have detracted attention away from her true greatness. These newly excavated late-’40s radio-only transcriptions fully illustrate Lee’s prowess as, intimately accompanied by guitarist Dave Barbour, she effortlessly works her way through the American song-book in a manner Rod The Mod can only dream of.

Ill-starred, Badfinger’s final album before guitarist/vocalist Pete Ham’s suicide was designed to annoy. Made in 1975, it finally saw the light of day in 2000. Given the nature of “Hey, Mr Manager”, “Rock’n’Roll Contract” and “Savile Row”, the Welsh power poppers practically signed their own death warrant. Creatively, Head First reeks of insecurity and shifting tastes within, but its archly melodic, cynical elements could strike a chord with Super Furry Animals types. A period piece with added demos, this is the tarnished gilt on the ’70s mirror.

Disregard the somewhat naff concept that holds this album together?this is actually a fantastically eclectic cross-genre trawl featuring material by The Kinks (Pretty Polly, Yellow Pages, Weetabix), Toots And The Maytals (Adidas), Jonathan Richman (Tennents), Marmalade (Gap), Carl Douglas (McDonald’s) and Joey Ramone (Citro

Parisian author-DJ-composer-producer Kid Loco’s own releases mix a myriad of acoustic stylings, so it’s no wonder that his addition to this series is eclectic enough to take in the likes of The Herbaliser, PiL, The Departure Lounge (who helped out on Loco’s last album Kill Your Darlings), and DJ Crystal. As always, the compiler must contribute an exclusive cover version?in this case, an intriguing reworking of Gang Of Four’s “Paralysed”.

MENAGERIE

SONY LEGACY

Though he’s something of a recluse these days, Bill Withers remains one of the finest R&B songwriters ever. 1972’s Still Bill is perhaps his finest album, from the terse, sexy funk of “Use Me” to the gospel-infused consolation of “Lean On Me.” Five years on, Menagerie found him upping the production and concentrating on romantic ballads, but the undeniable “Lovely Day” is as sunny as good pop gets, and Withers’ mellow-but-manly croon melts hearts at a thousand paces.

TROJAN BRITISH REGGAE BOX SET

BOTH TROJAN/SANCTUARY

As described in Tony Rounce’s entertaining notes, U-Roy’s 1970 Version Galore was, in reggae circles, “the Pet Sounds of its day”. Exemplifying the DJ subculture of toasting hysterically over contemporary hits, it’s still a fine work, rich in melody and now richer still in umpteen extras and a bonus disc of the un-toasted backings (including The Paragons’ 1967 “The Tide Is High”). Meantime, Trojan’s three-disc box set salutes the island’s ex-pats working in England from ’69 to ’72: merrily mischievous covers of everything from “Tears On My Pillow” to a skanked-up “Tchaikovsky Piano Concert No 1”.

THREE MANTRAS

THE VOICE OF AMERICA

RED MECCA

2

Does anyone listen to throbbing gristle any more? They are cited as an influence on everything from industrial to techno, though after listening to these 24 hour-long CDs, which document most of their live performances between 1976 and ’80 and which first came out in cassette form 21 years ago, there is a very strong case for arguing that music has hardly progressed beyond what Genesis P-Orridge and Co achieved in their brief lifetime.

Of course, they were influential at the time, in non-musical ways. The concept of a self-sufficient group, with its own ideologies and strategies, inverting and subverting the structure of capitalism, would soon be adopted and commercialised by PiL and New Pop entryists the British Electric Foundation.

Formed in ’75 out of the Hull-based COUM Transmissions performance art troupe, TG were post-punk even before punk got started. Just listen to the first track on CD1, an electronic squall of a ballad called “Very Friendly” about Hindley and Brady, to hear how current and confrontational this music?somewhere between Cale’s Velvets and AMM?is a quarter of a century on.

Neil Megson aka Genesis P-Orridge’s flat vocal delivery was ideal for TG: cajoling, snarling and seducing, almost childlike in its taunting and its insecurity, fighting against being drowned out by the deceptively freeform barrage of sound produced by keyboardist Chris Carter, guitarist Christine Newby (aka Cosey Fanni Tutti) and tape manipulator Peter “Sleazy” Christopherson, be it abstract post-Stockhausen ambience, primitive electrobeats or cut-up TV/radio samples. It’s fascinating to view TG’s progress from being booed by Pistols fans (CD3, CD4) to the point where audiences cheered for encores (CD20). From 1978, more recognisable song structures make themselves known, while something approaching a prototype techno sound becomes evident from 1979 (CD17).

Throughout it all, P-Orridge plays agent provocateur, rubbing our noses in unpalatable truths about death, sex and money, while TG never take the easy way out. The extraordinary performance on CD22 is this box set’s highlight. Starting with a sampled phone sex come-on, it evolves into what may be the most violent, uncompromising music ever committed to tape.

Although his early days were spent as a Terry McCann to “Coxsone” Dodd’s Arthur Daley during Kingston’s musical turf wars, Jamaica’s first true pop star was soon leading ska’s ’60s assault on UK dancefloors with a clutch of singles that were the equal of anything on offer from Detroit or Liverpool. Such is its enduring popularity, since this album’s original release it’s had more re-pressings than an old man’s suit?and it’s easy to see why. This is a piece of history that needs telling time and time again.