Not the definitive ‘greatest hits’ that will one day reveal the Willards as maybe the most underrated American rock band, but still a fine introduction to Robert Fisher and co.

Formed as a loose collective around Fisher and co-writer Paul Austin in Boston in 1996, early tracks like “Bring It Down” show an experimental urge they’d soon abandon. But Fisher’s confessional lyrics ?his early life was bruised by alcoholism, drugs and self-loathing?were in place from day one.

“Bring The Monster Inside” (in demo form here) was a violent catalyst for his pain. But, in general, they essay a relieved despair, a stately acceptance, describing characters ceasing to struggle as emotional quicksand pulls them under, trapped by loneliness, drink or death. Mostly acoustic instruments cohere into majestic folk-noir narratives, made convincing by Fisher’s poetically precise sense of place. “Rainbirds”‘ midday drinkers skulking deep in a Californian bar’s shadows, dreading the sun, is one extreme. “I Miss You Best” is another, snow drifting through a window as a sleepless, abandoned Fisher still feels “the shape of your body like a bruise against my side”.

These snapshots of Americans stripped to their souls, cut adrift from the gaudy media surface, are allied to strong, swelling tunes and Fisher’s rich croon. They are unknown anthems, an alt.country answer to Sinatra’s “Only The Lonely”. The injustice of the Willards’ burial in the underground is then proven by a sequence of powerful rock songs, like “Love Doesn’t”‘s superior AOR and the glam-cosmic tumult of “Sticky”. If there’s a criticism of the band, it’s their increasing reluctance to let this side loose, a devotion to more meditative moods which can leave them one-paced. But this record’s dark lullabies, unanswered prayers, drinking songs and small-hours laments still sound like a lasting legacy.

The recent reissue of Howard’s Kid In A Big World, a 1974 work of genius, awoke a new generation to the joys of this ornate songwriter. Pitched by modernists as a missing link between the Eltons, Bowies and Suedes of this world, Kid… wasn’t all Howard had in his locker, as this epic piano and vocal disc shows. All his songs tell a libertine’s tale?life, art college, sexuality all inform his compositions. “Take Up Your Partners” and “Oh Dad (Look What You’ve Done)” are positively hunky dory, while “Hall Of Mirrors” and “Lonely Woman” are ultra cabaret, classically designed for any era. Way beyond fashion yet uncommonly chic.

The ’60s British club scene had an abundance of full-throated singers, Chris Farlowe among the most accomplished, endorsed by Otis Redding and, supposedly, rejecting first stab at recording “Yesterday”. He wisely didn’t spurn Andrew Oldham and Mick Jagger’s advances and, handed Stones songs on a plate, his craggy voice meshed brilliantly with a contemporary pop veneer, propelling “Out Of Time” up the charts. Nothing else matched it. As Immediate crumbled, “Handbags And Gladrags” gave Farlowe a final minor hit. Rival Rod Stewart coveted the song but had the last laugh? Chris’ career stalled, Rod’s escalated.

MICK HOUGHTON

Of all second-generation US punk bands, perhaps none has been as consistently relevant as Mission Of Burma. During their brief career (1980-83) the Boston band recorded just one studio album, but their taut, skronky songwriting, sabre-toothed intensity and art-rock dynamics? which reveals them to be a combined Gang Of Four, Sex Pistols and Sonic Youth?is still pretty hard to beat. For newcomers, this 16-track compilation is a better place to start than Onoffon?their (entirely creditable) brand new album released earlier this year?since it provides both a valuable history lesson and an exhilarating blast of punk hoodoo.

SHARON O’CONNELL

One can’t underestimate the importance of journalist Les Tomkins, who lugged his reel-to-reel recorder down to Ronnie Scott’s original Soho haunt to both interview visiting US jazz legends and then tape their club performance. These March/April 1964 dates document the UK club debut of tenor sax supremo Getz who, on a bossa nova kick, had recently instigated the last worldwide musical phenomenon before Beatlemania. Here, supported by pianist Stan Tracey, “Manha De Carnaval” (Vol 1) and “Desafinado” (Vol 2) are Getz’s solitary concession to his bossa bankroll prior to forging the vibrant straight-ahead sets highlighted by “Night Rider”.

John lennon’s infamous “Lost Weekend”, spanning autumn 1973 into 1975, is one of rock’s most intriguing legends. Separated from Mrs L, John raises hell with Harry Nilsson, Keith Moon and Ringo. Their Brandy Alexander-swilling exploits may have made the headlines but, creatively, it fired Lennon up. He recorded two albums, produced another for Nilsson and collaborated with Ringo, Elton John and Mick Jagger besides. A veritable workaholic binge compared to his output during the years either side, it gives the lie to the notion that Lennon had lost anything. Walls And Bridges (released 1974) alone is one of Lennon’s most compelling records, fuelled by the bottle but with penetrating songs like “Steel And Glass” and “Bless You”. Nilsson’s Pussy Cats (also 1974) is equally fascinating.

Initially, Lennon gave full rein to Phil Spector on his “Oldies But Mouldies”project, but the winter ’73 sessions proved disastrous. Every party animal in LA turned up to bang a tambourine or shake a maraca in the wall of sound. Meticulous as ever, once Spector was eventually ready for him each day, Lennon was a drunken, wasted wreck. Having realised only nine tracks in two months, the great producer absconded with the tapes. Lennon retrieved them six months later, but they were virtually unusable? especially his spent, rasping vocals. Reassembling the Walls And Bridges band, Lennon substituted new recordings and vocals on the Spector tracks?over just four days.

In a settlement with Chuck Berry’s publishers for plagiarism over “Come Together”, Lennon had agreed to record three songs they owned, including a version of the offending “You Can’t Catch Me”. They were also allowed to put out a pre-release mail-order version of Rock’N”Roll (aka Roots), albeit hastily withdrawn. The official release, bizarrely, discarded two of the best cuts?”Angel Baby” and the dazzling cacophony of “Be My Baby”.

This latest version also omits the Ronettes cover, but does include “Angel Baby”plus “To Know Her Is To Love Her” and “Since My Baby Left Me” (already on the posthumous Menlove Avenue). A pointless reprise of “Just Because”, name-checking the ex-Beatles, hardly makes amends for the missing “Be My Baby”, but the remastering beefs up and sharpens the sound, thankfully leaving Lennon’s vocals untouched. Rock’N’Roll is a ramshackle triumph over disaster: rough and ready, loose but tight. Lennon remains rock’s greatest singer, even though the irrefutable proof of this lies in Beatles’ recordings?the raw power of “Twist & Shout” or the sheer relish he brings to Larry Williams’ “Bad Boy”. Those are the performances of a young man with something to prove, whereas Rock’N’Roll is Lennon belting out old numbers from his youth and simply having a ball. As he says on the sleeve: “You Should Have Been There.”If only.

MICK HOUGHTON

About as transgressive as a Scooby Doo villain?if not quite as scary? Manson’s attempts to present himself as a serious artist have always been laughable, and his political insights have similar cultural resonance to his fifth-form paintings. His singles, though, are frequently tremendous, revealing Manson to be an endearing glam-pop oaf. The daft versions of ’80s synth-pop?”Personal Jesus”, “Sweet Dreams”, “Tainted Love”?are all here. But it’s his own fantasias that show his truly subversive side: selling fabulous Gary Glitter stomps to a studiously alienated, pop-hating congregation.

Burning Spear’s presence in Vanity Fair two years ago may have taken many of its readers by surprise, but not those who’ve followed his four-decade career. Winston Rodney, as Bob Marley knew him, has devoted his oeuvre to Rastafarianism, the fervent nature of his songs denying him mass appeal. A shame, because his beatific timbre and leisurely roots rhythms could incite a heathen to invoke the name of Jah. “Door Peeper”, especially, wouldn’t sound out of place on his zenith, Marcus Garvey. Praise indeed.

PAUL MARDLES

Fear not if you missed the film in question: the austere soundtrack music that Langhorne produced for his friend Peter Fonda is mesmerising enough to stand alone. In fact, it’s spookily beautiful?the sound of the sometime Dylan sideman working through various haunting themes on a multitude of instruments: a 1920 Martin acoustic, a five-string banjo, a soprano recorder, an upright piano and an Appalachian dulcimer played with a steel bar. Fans of slow, Fahey-esque alt. Americana should apply within.

Having served his apprenticeship with Chico Hamilton, Ron Carter, and Charles Lloyd, Szabo gained wider prominence with 1966’s Jazz Raga. The ’60s found him producing more commercially oriented material with Jim Keltner and Hal Gordon. Szabo’s method?state opening theme, extemporise making full use of drones and false fingerings?is well suited to these cover versions (“Dear Prudence”, “Some Velvet Morning”). Although occasionally straying into blandness, this is mostly lounge-psych of the highest order.

Morrissey, the man who rescued Sandie’s career when he coerced her into recording “Hand In Glove”, once described her as “the most prolific figure in the entire history of British popular music”. Absurd, sure, but from ’64-’69 Sandie had as many UK No 1s as Dusty and Cilla combined (three). This enthralling box set chronicles every A and B from her barefoot heyday to her ’80s revival via hits, memorable misses (eg 1966’s galloping Joe Meek pastiche “Run”), ’70s disco dabblings and Heaven 17’s whimsical B.E.F. offshoot. Prefix “the” with “one of” and Morrissey may still have a case.

SIMON GODDARD

Spanning 35 years of a career that really merits the adjective ‘extraordinary’, this is more than just another hits box. Among the 57 tracks are 13 previously unreleased, other rarities, and a DVD of a 1992 Bucharest concert. Those are the facts. The rest: well, you couldn’t make it up, could you? A Star Is Born meets Hollywood Babylon; Shirley Temple meets Fatty Arbuckle; with world domination, a credibility collapse to match Blair’s, and, somewhere in there, The Wiz. Jackson’s stock has plummeted of late. Aware that the King Of Pop pitch is tired and inaccurate, Sony present this archive with a grasping for artistic kudos, a valid cry that he makes (made?) some incredibly vital music. Nelson George’s essay urges upon us Michael’s authenticity as soul man and pioneer. “Just as he learnt from Stevie Wonder, Jackie Wilson and James Brown, so he’s educated R Kelly, Usher, Justin Timberlake and countless others, with Thriller as the textbook.”

George’s sincerity is evident, but overlooks that since his solo heyday?Bad was as great as Thriller, and Off The Wall was no slouch?Jackson’s quality control has been wayward. He turned down the songs that made Timberlake a star, and his ballads (from the boy who made “Got To Be There”) have been execrably overblown. His funk retains flair: “Blood On The Dancefloor”was underrated, and the ’90s outtakes are juicy. But he can’t reach past the parodied persona now, and neither can we.

Still, there’s a dazzling array of near-genius here. When he’s on it, the breaths, hiccups and falsetto “wee-hee”s not only start something (a terpsichorean bonfire) but see it through. While there’s much left off (“Ain’t No Sunshine”, “Earth Song”), and one wonders why the stodgy collaborations with McCartney and Jagger merited inclusion, Jackson’s heights are euphoric, Esperanto poetry. “Billie Jean”, “Don’t Stop”, “The Way You Make Me Feel”, “The Man In The Mirror”and maybe 10 more could not sound any better, from whipcrack to whoop, from walking bass to Quincy Jones’filigreed kitchen-sink production.

Among the collector’s items here are loose, lean demos (a rootsy “Shake Your Body”, a sketchy “P.Y.T.”) and ’80s offcuts “Scared Of The Moon”(Broadway bombast) and “We Are Here To Change The World”(burbling, of-their-era, sci-fi movie synths). The stuff from the ’90s is remarkable, begging the question of why he stashed it away. “In The Back.” is a dark, slow-burn groove; “Beautiful Girl”a dipping, swaying love song; “The Way You Love Me” is the heir to “Just My Imagination”, no less. Mind you, “Monkey Business”, from ’89, features Bubbles the chimp on backing noises. No, really. Even Michael realised that’d have folks saying he was bananas. Thing is, it’s more “Sexual Healing”than “Funky Gibbon”, and therefore unusually involving.

A gifted vessel rather than a visionary, he’ll never recapture his golden run now, but for a spell there he was in the zone like few before or since, and full of fire.

All the hits (enough said, surely). Plus: mono mixes, alternative vocal takes and an unreleased “Close To You”. The slim gap? you could just slide a sheet of paper through there?between Dusty’s aspirations to sound like her black heroines and the inescapable whiteness of her voice is what makes it so unique and affecting. A frustrated but not tragic character, she riddles every song?the Bacharachs, the Goffin/Kings?with solid sourness and cracked emotion. “Goin’ Back” is just perfect.

CHRIS ROBERTS

While the UK was under heavy manners in the early ’80s, DBC’s weekend broadcasts made life in the capital almost bearable. While this comp only tacitly acknowledges the soca and calypso they used to play, it does full justice to the station’s reggae output, drawing on everything from Tighten Up rudeness to cally weed anthems, from Rock Steady to Jump Up, and all points in between. As with all the best pirates, the jingles were often as good as the tunes they punctuated. Ranking Miss P’s “Striving To Be Free” will bring it all back for anyone who was there. And if you weren’t, start here.

Rising without a trace, Travis have pulled off the impressive feat of selling millions of albums without ever revealing much charisma or personality. There’s no denying the chiming beauty of “Writing To Reach You” or “Driftwood”, as Fran Healy shifts through the gears from honeyed whine to choirboy falsetto. But equally. Travis have settled for a placidity which renders even the sole new track, “Walking In The Sun”, pleasant but forgettable. Meanwhile the pleasingly weird swellings and gradients of their 1997 debut hit “All I Wanna Do Is Rock” feels like a stand-out anomaly in these overly manicured surroundings.

STEPHEN DALTON

Some might consider a fourth incarnation since 1982 a little excessive but, really, The Lexicon Of Love is a record that should be reissued every year?subtly remade and remodelled to chime ever more sweetly with the temper and timbre of the times. “The initial idea had been to make music like a factory would build a car,” ran the original sleevenotes, and by rights The Lexicon Of Love should now be a fully evolved design classic, like a fine-tuned Volkswagen or BMW.

Ironically, if pop revivals ran to timetable, the jerky punk-funk of recent years would be succeeded by a Nouvelle Vague of New Pop right about now. But while the ludic productions of Xenomania and Richard X hint at that direction, the opulent, Horn-rimmed ambition of Lexicon…?all slap bass, sax and semiotics?still feels a little beyond the pale, easier to admire than adore.

In part, it’s been a victim of its own success as a commercial blueprint. The pop transvaluation that Lexicon… inspired?a sleek neo-classicism of Brill Building, Bacharach, James Brown and Chic?was so inescapable by the mid-’80s that it can often feel like the official soundtrack to Thatcherism.

But listening to Lexicon…afresh, you hear a poise that was lost in the gold rush. For all its romantic ironies and cynicism (“I stuck a marriage proposal/In the waste disposal” sings the wry Fry on “4 Ever 2 Gether”), Lexicon…is really a grand love story, or at the very least an elaborate seduction. It’s the sound of a band?a generation? falling in love with the new stylistic and technological promise of ’80s pop: of marrying the crude and the cooked, Brecht and Broadway, the Fryed and the Horny.

This expanded edition allows you to track the full journey from the stentorian agit-funk of early demos and outtakes (and two previously unreleased tracks: “Surrender”, a horn-driven demo casting Fry as “gunboat diplomat, ready to attack”, and “Into The Valley Of The Heathen Go”, meta-metal buffoonery oddly anticipating The Darkness) through to B-side pseudo-classical overtures, lite-jazz meanderings and cabaret reworkings of “Poison Arrow”. The deliciously sighed “…maybe” right at the spoken heart of “The Look Of Love”may have lead straight to Spandau’s obnoxiously reverential “True”, but for a second, on the very precipice of the postmodern, ABC conjured a perfect balance.

One glance at the grammatically challenged and logic-dodging sleevenotes will convince you that Mister Ram (Martin to his Earth Mum) was a couple of coins short of a hexagram. Sounding like a Norwegian Eurovision entry on “Oh Mister”, a druggy New Seekers on “And The Whole World”, and Reg Presley singing over a Unicorn-era Bolan backing on “Quaser One”, this is a genuine prog-oddity. It would be nice to report that he’s thrusting religious pamphlets at passers-by as we speak, but apparently he committed suicide in the 1990s. The future 10cc provide punchy production and some meaty beaty backing.

The seven-disc Revenant box set released in 2002 was the ultimate Charley Patton archive for collectors. But for one-tenth of the price of that

Following their immense investment, and the failure of Escapology to make headway in the US, you have to wonder what EMI made of comeback single “Radio”. Bleeping perversely like a Thomas Dolby idea of electroclash, bemoaning the guy who’s “stolen my Oscars”, it seemed to mock the very idea of Williams’ international prospects. New songwriting partner Stephen Duffy may yet prove to be the foil Williams’ anxious intelligence needs (Christmas ballad “Misunderstood” has a lovely horn arrangement, but little in the way of hooks), but this compilation too often shows Williams perched uncomfortably between fag-end Britpop panto and the new Parkypop easy listening.