It is the definition of “cultdom”to have your fanbase petition your record company to release the incomplete sessions from your final album a year after the band split (Kleptomania is the result of around 2000 signatures). But then Chester space-rockers Mansun were always the epitome of outsider kitsch.

Essentially just backing tracks and guide vocals, Kleptomania is remarkably coherent: a return to the ornate rockadelia of their debut Attack Of The Grey Lantern with a smattering of the eclectic ‘song segments’which made their Radiohead-inspiring 1999 masterpiece Six so baffling to critics and public alike.

Blurred at the edges and packaged with two CDs of demos and B-sides, it’s one for the stalker set, but still a proud epitaph to a band too inventive to live.

It was hardly a long haul, coming together in 1965 and burning out by 1968, but in the words of Papa John: “We had so much fun for two years, there was no more fun to be had.”Yet in that time, The Mamas & The Papas became the USA’s pop royal family, the American Beatles. Like The Beatles, they were four instantly recognisable, distinct personalities, with the same ready wit, entertainment value and high visibility factor. John Phillips and wife Michelle, Cass Elliot and Denny Doherty looked and sounded like no other band in the land. Attractively oddball in appearance, they were professional and perfectionist in front of the mic, but wild and liberated off stage.

Complete Anthology is just that?everything they ever recorded. All four albums from between 1966 and 1968: If You Can Believe Your Eyes And Ears, The Mamas & The Papas Deliver and The Papas & The Mamas, plus 1971’s ill-conceived People Like Us, recorded to fulfil contractual obligations. Included is their under-rehearsed but spirited closing set from the Monterey Pop Festival on June 18, an era-defining event of which John Phillips and producer/label boss Lou Adler were prime movers and co-organisers. A final CD of rarities and solo work closes with their first ever recordings, singing backing vocals for Barry McGuire’s second Dunhill album, This Precious Time, from December 1965.

It was through McGuire that John, Michelle, Denny and Cass, still unnamed and with Cass not 100 per cent committed, auditioned for Dunhill’s Lou Adler. Adler’s comment that he “couldn’t believe his eyes and ears”is now part of rock legend. His added description?”They had just come down off about 80 acid trips, were funky and dirty and yet they sang like absolute angels”?says rather more.

McGuire’s version of “California Dreamin'” closes Complete Anthology and is identical to theirs, bar two pivotal changes: Denny Doherty’s familiar tenor vocal replaced McGuire’s harsh snarl and a summery sounding flute was recorded over an erased harmonica solo. It was the difference between mediocrity and the magic of rock’n’roll and it launched the rollercoaster career of The Mamas & The Papas.

All the crucial elements were immediately in place and remained so for the next three years: producer Lou Adler, engineer Bones Howe and the cream of LA’s session men?drummer Hal Blaine, bassist Joe Osborne and keyboard player Larry Knechtel, aka The Wrecking Crew, as crucial to The Mamas & The Papas’recordings as the team behind Phil Spector’s classic work. They provided the perfect foil to John Phillips’songs and the group’s awe-inspiring harmonies.

The albums followed a pattern, John Phillips writing the lion’s share plus a sprinkling of covers, these usually showcases for Cass?although “Dedicated To The One I Love”was a rare, heartfelt lead for Michelle. John was the driving force and creative taskmaster, his intricate and carefully formulated choral arrangements matchlessly enhancing his singular songs. From a background steeped in folk, his discovery of pop in 1965 (and The Beatles in particular) led to a stream of bright, melodious hits? “Monday Monday”, “Go Where You Wanna Go”, the autobiographical “Creeque Alley”?and smartly crafted album tracks, often darker in outlook? “Straight Shooter”, “No Salt On Her Tail”, “Strange Young Girls”. Vocally, the counterpoint of Denny’s tenor, John’s folk-edged vocals, Michelle’s more delicate tones and Cass’s full-pelt vocals produced the finest of ensemble singing in an era congested with harmony pop. It was the group’s freakish look that stood them truly apart: John Phillips, tall, thin, slightly aloof, manipulating the group like chess pieces; Denny, more traditionally good-looking; Michelle, gorgeous, Hollywood cool; and Cass, the on-stage leader, overweight, charming, sassy and sexy.

The public found their bohemian, flamboyant Bel Air hippie garb and outr

Condensing a musical life as wildly eclectic as Wobble’s is nigh on impossible. Inevitably, something’s got to give. In this case, 1994’s breathtaking Take Me To God gets short shrift (“Becoming More Like God” only), along with the mesmerising The Celtic Poets (’98). Best treated as an extended introduction, then?lighting the bass-bomb under Lydon’s PiL (“Poptones”), getting funked up with Can’s Holger Czukay (“How Much Are They?”), pioneering Arabesque dub-house (“Lam Tang Way Dub”) via Eno and Invaders Of The Heart, before settling into ambient deep space?this fine compilation should re-ignite interest in the Wobble back catalogue. It’s worth it.

Impossible to overrate, the legacy that sprouted from the tufts of Leeds’ punk scene in 1977 remains in rude, glorious health. The polemical Fear And Whiskey? recorded in the wake of the miners’ strike?is a fearsome blast of ass-whuppin’ country and rollicksome folk, nailing the quintessential Mekons sound and agit-rock ideal. Fitting 27 years onto two discs is tricky, but Heaven And Hell proves that no other British band has cast its net so successfully wide? from punk (“Where Were You?”) to world (“Brutal”) to reggae (“One Horse Dub”) and beyond via scathing political satire (“Empire Of The Senseless”). Includes Sally Timms’ ravishing turn on 1988’s “Ghosts Of American Astronauts”.

808 State’s 1988 debut Newbuild was the first great British acid house album. It was also the last significant work by the original short-lived Jine-up of Graham Massey, Martin Price and (A Guy Called) Gerald Simpson, whose enterprising exploitation of Roland’s 303 and 808 machines is the stuff of legend. Now Prebuild, a decent collection of recently unearthed studio, live, radio and demo recordings, sheds more light on that fertile period: there’s melody and magic aplenty in Simpson’s fluid bedroom sketches, and it seems criminal to have been denied the grimy liquid bliss of “Ride” for 16 years. Rave on (and on).

The Eurythmics without emotion, The Pretenders without insight and soul, Blondie without songs… Texas are no things to no people. And yet, they sell, and Spiteri? a bandwagon-jumper with karaoke talents ?is perceived as a ‘strong woman’, despite the embarrassing tomb-raiding of black music and constant TV-shaped grinning. Ach, the injustice. This isn’t even a genuine best-of: inexplicably, it gives the baa-ing mob (and Chris Evans) a couple of hits (the Al Green rip-off “Say What You Want”, the title track) and a bunch of neutered, nondescript fillers. Sexless.

It was while promoting 2002’s re-recorded orchestral anthology Travelogue that Joni Mitchell made her stroppy exit from the “corrupt cesspool” of the music biz. One of the greatest songwriters of the 20th century?as visionary as Dylan, as poetic as Cohen, as concise as Lennon ?she quit, protesting her inability to continue in what she perceived as the dumbed-down epoch of Britney and Aguilera. “What would I do?” she sighed. “Show my tits? Grab my crotch? Get hair extensions and a choreographer?”

Which begs the question why, two years later, has she decided to compile her own best-of? Dreamland is the first such retrospective collection since 1994’s Hits and Misses pairing, and in the wake of those comments it carries ominous implications. Is this a confirmation of her resignation by way of an authorised musical obituary? Or a dispatch from a one-woman picket line to remind the big fish in the cesspool just what they’re missing?

If Mitchell’s scorn is in any way motivated by guilt for the flood of ‘Junior Joni’ cash cows foisted on us by major labels, then Dreamland emphasises her singular genius. Significantly, the title track is fulled from 1977’s underrated masterpiece Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter, an album still to receive a UK CD release. When holidaying in Jamaica in ’78, Joni played it to ex-Pistol John Lydon and his rasta entourage, one of whom complimented her that the tribal rhythms of “Dreamland” made him “want to eat white people”. It’s hard to imagine Norah Jones inducing similar cannibalistic urges which, in essence, is this collection’s triumph. It highlights the real Joni, not the misappropriated Joni who serves as lazy industry shorthand when discussing the Jacob’s Creek-sponsored Jewels and Meluas trying, in vain, to emulate the bruised relationship confessionals of 1971’s Blue.

Naturally, Blue and her earlier coffee-shop folk roots are here ?no “Woodstock”, though it’s surprising she’s actually chosen the albatross of 1970’s “Big Yellow Taxi”. However, it’s her increasingly sophisticated mid-’70s prime that rightly dominates, from ’74’s Court And Spark through The Hissing Of Summer Lawns’ jazz suffusions and the desolate beauty of 1976’s Hejira. Post ’77, there’s little beyond the cranky inclusion of ’88’s marginally ghastly Billy Idol duet “Dancin’ Clown”, a brace from 1991’s unexpected muse recovery Night Ride Home and three of those latter-day classical interpretations ?not ideal, but the brooding lyricism of “Amelia” and “Both Sides Now” remain devastating regardless of any philharmonic makeover. If this collection tells us anything about what’s going on in the retired Ms Mitchell’s head, it’s that behind her non-negotiable cynicism towards the industry there’s still a healthy recognition of her own contribution to its last 35 years. Until she can be convinced otherwise, the by no means definitive?but thoroughly representative?Dreamland underlines just what a loss she really is.

Spiritual heir to Gram Parsons, Yoakam was a similarly-transplanted southerner who fetched up in Los Angeles, riding the tip of the early-’80s new country swell. As honky tonk rocker, his sound was tougher than Parsons (“Guitars, Cadillacs”, “Please, Please Baby”) but equally as devastating when taking it slow (“I Sang Dixie”).

Compressing the Reprise years onto just one disc is fraught?nothing from 1995’s excellent Gone album, and why bother with the naff hicksterism of Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love”? ? but the inclusion of the 1988 Buck Owens duet “Streets Of Bakersfield” partly redeems this misnomered collection.

The 1983 debut album from south London’s answer to The Runaways is guaranteed to raise a smile, although that was presumably not the band’s intention. Unfortunately, the joke of three teenage girls trying to out-gross Lemmy wears thin rather quickly. It’s not that they can’t rock?merely that they need better material than this. Tellingly, the best moment is a cover of Gary Glitter’s “I Didn’t Know I Loved You (Till Saw You Rock’n’Roll)”.

By the time Newley made these two albums in ’71 and ’72 respectively, his pop heyday was a decade behind him. At a time when his most famous mimic, David Bowie, was rivalling Bolan as the biggest rock star in Britain (significantly, only after dropping the Newley-inspired quavering twang of his “Laughing Gnome” years), Tony lagged behind with this odd brace of LPs featuring songs originally penned for Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory and rummy ballads asking “Will I ever learn to eat organic food?” Hunky Dory these ain’t.

THEY’RE ONE OF ROCK’S classic marginal bands, the resonance of whose name far outweighs recognition of their work. Everyone’s heard of them, but few have heard their work. Give this a spin, though, and you won’t be so sure. This excellent little compilation, timed to coincide with a new Bill Nelson post-Deluxe band autumn tour and biog, is pregnant with snippets that filled rock radio in the ’70s? “Ships In The Night”, “Sister Seagull”?and were endlessly touted by the likes of Johnny Walker and Alan Freeman as the next big thing.

You can hear why?taut, self-referential art pop with enough nods to metal and prog stylings? notably in leader Nelson’s blistering guitar work?to appeal across the board. Add a memorably literate imagistic discourse of an imagined future of Art Deco and Nelson’s sublime gift for evocation and it should have been all so simple. People might even have overlooked Nelson’s grotesque glam barnet and the awful Sunburst Finish LP cover from ’76.

But punk wasn’t a forgiving phenomenon, and Deluxe were swept away by a movement whose more imaginative survivors might have felt considerable affinity with them (Bauhaus and Scritti Politti spring to mind). And there remains the suspicion that the smart-alecky eclecticism of Nelson’s vision might have been a little too smart to win the band a niche market.

For too long, this band have been termed a bunch of Roxy wannabes. This album, obviously the work of someone musically and lexically literate, gives the lie to that. Any song whose guitar lines are as ecstatic as those on “Maid In Heaven” was created by an unlucky band whose leader was unfortunate enough to choose Isherwood as his muse when Tolkien was the bard of choice. Go out and rediscover them. Now.