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No space to go into the wisdom and merit of Radiohead's odyssey into the oblique. Good luck to 'em anyway. It's their career, their prerogative. My job, however, is to wonder out loud if their born-again fugging-about is as thrilling as the place they were headed some years back. Hail To The Thief was trailed as their big tuneful return to popular music. They were just kidding us, and themselves. It was nothing of the sort. These B-sides, meanwhile, have, like the A-sides, grace, brains and atmosphere aplenty but are also, like the A-sides, often self-conscious to the point of inertia. Four Tet's remix of "Scatterbrain" shakes some booty, however, and "Gagging Order" and "Fog" are tantalising sketches for something gorgeous. That's enough boffin-rock, mumbling and melodic cul-de-sacs, guys. Let's do awesome beauty again, eh?

No space to go into the wisdom and merit of Radiohead’s odyssey into the oblique. Good luck to ’em anyway. It’s their career, their prerogative. My job, however, is to wonder out loud if their born-again fugging-about is as thrilling as the place they were headed some years back. Hail To The Thief was trailed as their big tuneful return to popular music. They were just kidding us, and themselves. It was nothing of the sort. These B-sides, meanwhile, have, like the A-sides, grace, brains and atmosphere aplenty but are also, like the A-sides, often self-conscious to the point of inertia. Four Tet’s remix of “Scatterbrain” shakes some booty, however, and “Gagging Order” and “Fog” are tantalising sketches for something gorgeous. That’s enough boffin-rock, mumbling and melodic cul-de-sacs, guys. Let’s do awesome beauty again, eh?

Lee Hazlewood – Poet, Fool Or Bum

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The infamous NME dismissal of Poet, Fool Or Bum in 1973 (the smart-arse, one-word "Bum" review) was as pathetically obvious as it was wrong. However, the equally facile fan response?"Poet"?is also as inaccurate as the title, which should have read "Poet, Fool And Bum", for Hazlewood was abundantly all three. No wonder the rock bores all despised him. Though not scaling the eccentric heights of 1970's Cowboy in Sweden, PFB is still packed with the sumptuous rock-rule-breaking flash of strings, choirs and spaghetti twang backdropping Hazlewood's whiskey-croaked outsider lyricism. Whether 1977's Back On The Street Again makes you "as happy as Dolly Parton's guitar" depends on the size of your Hazlewood habit. It may be a bit too Clint-Eastwood-and-his-monkey-on-the-CB-radio for comfort. Then again, its German-recorded crap synthesiser stylings might just be inexplicably, perversely right.

The infamous NME dismissal of Poet, Fool Or Bum in 1973 (the smart-arse, one-word “Bum” review) was as pathetically obvious as it was wrong. However, the equally facile fan response?”Poet”?is also as inaccurate as the title, which should have read “Poet, Fool And Bum”, for Hazlewood was abundantly all three.

No wonder the rock bores all despised him. Though not scaling the eccentric heights of 1970’s Cowboy in Sweden, PFB is still packed with the sumptuous rock-rule-breaking flash of strings, choirs and spaghetti twang backdropping Hazlewood’s whiskey-croaked outsider lyricism.

Whether 1977’s Back On The Street Again makes you “as happy as Dolly Parton’s guitar” depends on the size of your Hazlewood habit. It may be a bit too Clint-Eastwood-and-his-monkey-on-the-CB-radio for comfort.

Then again, its German-recorded crap synthesiser stylings might just be inexplicably, perversely right.

Dion – 70s:From Acoustic To Wall Of Sound

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Bronx cheers may have greeted Dion's decision to stop being a teenager in love and find the Lord, but his '70s period produced some vibrant albums for Warners and Phil Spector Int'l. Streetwise tunes like "New York City Song" nailed his authentic R&B persona, while the cool "Soft Parade Of Years" found him addicted to something more positive than heroin?soul searching. Much admired by the likes of Lou Reed and Bruce Springsteen, Dion's East Coast blues are well served by "Only You Know", but he preferred his stint with Steve Barri and Michael Omartian, whose polished treatment of "Queen Of '59" updated the doo-wopper and made him hip.

Bronx cheers may have greeted Dion’s decision to stop being a teenager in love and find the Lord, but his ’70s period produced some vibrant albums for Warners and Phil Spector Int’l.

Streetwise tunes like “New York City Song” nailed his authentic R&B persona, while the cool “Soft Parade Of Years” found him addicted to something more positive than heroin?soul searching. Much admired by the likes of Lou Reed and Bruce Springsteen, Dion’s East Coast blues are well served by “Only You Know”, but he preferred his stint with Steve Barri and Michael Omartian, whose polished treatment of “Queen Of ’59” updated the doo-wopper and made him hip.

Thick Pigeon

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Carter Burwell is today best known as a film composer, who has worked for, among others, the Coen brothers and Spike Jonze, while vocalist Stanton Miranda is a New York-based stage and screen actor. In the '80s, however they were Thick Pigeon, purveyors of deceptively slight, eerie avant-funk and art-pop. Of these two reissues, 1983's Too Crazy Cowboys is particularly arresting, not least because of the time that has elapsed since its making. Working with New Order's Gillian Gilbert and Steve Morris, their use of studio-generated effects, concussed vocals and techno rhythms are like ghostly suggestions of today's electronica scene, whispered down the decades from a more spartan age. Their second album, 1991's oblique Miranda Dali, is more 'finished' and consequently less remarkable (and includes a cover of Maria McKee's "Breathe"). Still, it's sad that pop, unlike other media, is so scornful of this sort of talent.

Carter Burwell is today best known as a film composer, who has worked for, among others, the Coen brothers and Spike Jonze, while vocalist Stanton Miranda is a New York-based stage and screen actor. In the ’80s, however they were Thick Pigeon, purveyors of deceptively slight, eerie avant-funk and art-pop. Of these two reissues, 1983’s Too Crazy Cowboys is particularly arresting, not least because of the time that has elapsed since its making.

Working with New Order’s Gillian Gilbert and Steve Morris, their use of studio-generated effects, concussed vocals and techno rhythms are like ghostly suggestions of today’s electronica scene, whispered down the decades from a more spartan age.

Their second album, 1991’s oblique Miranda Dali, is more ‘finished’ and consequently less remarkable (and includes a cover of Maria McKee’s “Breathe”).

Still, it’s sad that pop, unlike other media, is so scornful of this sort of talent.

Jeff Beck – Beck-Ola

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Originally released in September 1969, left Beck's second album read like a superstar summit meeting, but for the guitarist it was just another day at the office. He'd already replaced Eric Clapton in The Yardbirds, supported The Beatles in Paris, and appeared in Antonioni's movie Blow-Up, livening up the psychedelic club scene with some extreme axe-mangling GBH. Featuring JB Group regulars Rod Stewart, Ron Wood, Nicky Hopkins and Tony Newman, Beck-Ola signified an ability to fuse guitar heroics with post-British blues boom vitality, plus a side order of West Coast whimsy?he'd just guested on Donovan's Barabajagal?and a nod at something folky. "All Shook Up" and "Jailhouse Rock" were retooled and raw, although Stewart's whelpish growl with gravel in his tubes appalled rock'n'roll purists. In fact, Beck's roots were as art school as anyone's. His sparkling lead lines on the hippified "Girl From Mill Valley", enhanced by Hopkins' delicious keyboard melodies, seem inspired by Swinging London and the R&B movement. Hanging with Rod and Ron just before they joined The Faces tested Beck's poker-faced demeanour. The jammy "Rice Pudding" and "The Hangman's Knee" almost have a smile around the edges. With takes on Elvis and assaults on BB King covers, Beck-Ola stands strong, without ever indicating it satisfied the mainman's restless spirit.

Originally released in September 1969, left Beck’s second album read like a superstar summit meeting, but for the guitarist it was just another day at the office. He’d already replaced Eric Clapton in The Yardbirds, supported The Beatles in Paris, and appeared in Antonioni’s movie Blow-Up, livening up the psychedelic club scene with some extreme axe-mangling GBH. Featuring JB Group regulars Rod Stewart, Ron Wood, Nicky Hopkins and Tony Newman, Beck-Ola signified an ability to fuse guitar heroics with post-British blues boom vitality, plus a side order of West Coast whimsy?he’d just guested on Donovan’s Barabajagal?and a nod at something folky.

“All Shook Up” and “Jailhouse Rock” were retooled and raw, although Stewart’s whelpish growl with gravel in his tubes appalled rock’n’roll purists. In fact, Beck’s roots were as art school as anyone’s. His sparkling lead lines on the hippified “Girl From Mill Valley”, enhanced by Hopkins’ delicious keyboard melodies, seem inspired by Swinging London and the R&B movement.

Hanging with Rod and Ron just before they joined The Faces tested Beck’s poker-faced demeanour. The jammy “Rice Pudding” and “The Hangman’s Knee” almost have a smile around the edges. With takes on Elvis and assaults on BB King covers, Beck-Ola stands strong, without ever indicating it satisfied the mainman’s restless spirit.

Glenn Branca – Lesson No 1

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Following Acute's reissue of The Ascension last year, it's wonderful to have Glenn Branca's early work available again?not least because they show how his reputation as a 'proper' composer does him something of a disservice. On his first solo release, 1980's Lesson No 1, Branca's music is actually closer to muscular, intensely adrenalised rock'n'roll. The title track begins with incantatory ringing guitars, a kind of rock transcription of Phillip Glass' systems music. After about three minutes, the drums arrive and propel Branca's quintet towards a series of crescendos that betray his love of Joy Division. Nearly as gripping, two further pieces?one, "Bad Smells", featuring Lee Ranaldo and Thurston Moore as part of a five-guitar frontline?prove Sonic Youth owe many of their mesmeric, discordant innovations to the groundwork done by this most rockist of modern composers.

Following Acute’s reissue of The Ascension last year, it’s wonderful to have Glenn Branca’s early work available again?not least because they show how his reputation as a ‘proper’ composer does him something of a disservice. On his first solo release, 1980’s Lesson No 1, Branca’s music is actually closer to muscular, intensely adrenalised rock’n’roll.

The title track begins with incantatory ringing guitars, a kind of rock transcription of Phillip Glass’ systems music. After about three minutes, the drums arrive and propel Branca’s quintet towards a series of crescendos that betray his love of Joy Division. Nearly as gripping, two further pieces?one, “Bad Smells”, featuring Lee Ranaldo and Thurston Moore as part of a five-guitar frontline?prove Sonic Youth owe many of their mesmeric, discordant innovations to the groundwork done by this most rockist of modern composers.

Various Artists – Hidden Charms

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David Holmes and his cabal have a habit of asserting their good taste so strenuously that it tends to overshadow their own patchy music. Such is the case with this enjoyable, nuggety compilation put together by his associate Gareth "Cherrystones" Goddard, inveterate crate digger and sometime recording artist. Hidden Charms is full of the kind of psychedelic funk-rockers and wayward beat groups from the '60s that've been worshipped, sampled and reproduced by Holmes, DJ Shadow and their ilk for years. Guitars wail, organs wheeze energetically, surprising discoveries are frequent: a mighty garage band, Mashmakhan, from Montreal; Cher and the Muscle Shoals crew stalking through Dr John's "I Walk On Gilded Splinters". It feels, occasionally, like a Masonic elite indulging the proles with a brief glimpse of their boundless and exotic record collections. Nevertheless, Holmes deserves credit for releasing this on his label, rather than cribbing the best ideas for his band The Free Association.

David Holmes and his cabal have a habit of asserting their good taste so strenuously that it tends to overshadow their own patchy music. Such is the case with this enjoyable, nuggety compilation put together by his associate Gareth “Cherrystones” Goddard, inveterate crate digger and sometime recording artist. Hidden Charms is full of the kind of psychedelic funk-rockers and wayward beat groups from the ’60s that’ve been worshipped, sampled and reproduced by Holmes, DJ Shadow and their ilk for years. Guitars wail, organs wheeze energetically, surprising discoveries are frequent: a mighty garage band, Mashmakhan, from Montreal; Cher and the Muscle Shoals crew stalking through Dr John’s “I Walk On Gilded Splinters”. It feels, occasionally, like a Masonic elite indulging the proles with a brief glimpse of their boundless and exotic record collections. Nevertheless, Holmes deserves credit for releasing this on his label, rather than cribbing the best ideas for his band The Free Association.

Prophet Margins

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Now that he's made entirely of myth, it's getting harder to evaluate Nick Drake's true worth as an artist. Had, say, Steve Tilston or Keith Christmas slipped their surly bonds in 1974, rather than continuing to plough and plod away, would we now be eulogising their legacy and using their work to sell Volkswagen cars? This latest compilation of Drake's work adds further fuel to the legend in the shape of a previously unheard track, "Tow The Line", recorded during the 1974 sessions that yielded Drake's final clutch of songs. With a melody line that's mildly reminiscent of Bryter Layter's "Chime Of A City Clock", it has something of the redeeming lyrical quality of Pink Moon's closing track, "From The Morning". Indeed, the accompanying press blurb claims that "Tow The Line" is a song "full of assurance and contemplative calm", and questions the received notion that Nick was at the end of his emotional tether in 1974. That bold assertion might have more credibility if the new track wasn't immediately preceded on this compilation by "Black Eyed Dog", the most ghostly, unsettling song Nick Drake ever wrote by an unlit country mile, or indeed if the lyrics to "Tow The Line" didn't throw down the one-loaded-chamber gambit, "Tonight is the night we win or lose all." Debate still rages over Drake's worth as a lyricist. There are those who claim that his abilities never rose above sixth-form musings. Others, most notably the late lan MacDonald in his masterful essay "Exiled From Heaven", identify a highly codified symbolist poetry of the most accomplished kind. Proponents of the former school will find supportive evidence in "Tow The Line" 's simplistic rhyming schemes, advocates of the latter in its obtuse imagery. More controversial perhaps is the inclusion of newly arranged versions of "I Was Made To Love Magic" and "Time Of No Reply". Leaving aside for a moment the issue of whether we would do this to, let's say, Dylan when he's gone, the posthumous addition of Robert Kirby's originally intended string arrangements to a time-stretched backing track bring mixed rewards. "Time Of No Reply" seems entirely in keeping with the artist's original intentions, whereas "I Was Made To Love Magic" sounds somewhat cloying and superfluous, and leaves you wondering if we haven't been underrating Clifford T Ward and Colin Blunstone all along. Much more successful, not to mention myth-demolishing, is the version of "Three Hours", a carefree studio jam between Drake, "Reebop" Kwaakhu Baah on congas, and an anonymous flautist (probably Chris Wood, possibly Harold McNair). Slip the headphones on and imagine a parallel 1974 where a confident Drake is performing with a makeshift duo at the Festival Hall. Sponsored by no one.

Now that he’s made entirely of myth, it’s getting harder to evaluate Nick Drake’s true worth as an artist. Had, say, Steve Tilston or Keith Christmas slipped their surly bonds in 1974, rather than continuing to plough and plod away, would we now be eulogising their legacy and using their work to sell Volkswagen cars?

This latest compilation of Drake’s work adds further fuel to the legend in the shape of a previously unheard track, “Tow The Line”, recorded during the 1974 sessions that yielded Drake’s final clutch of songs. With a melody line that’s mildly reminiscent of Bryter Layter’s “Chime Of A City Clock”, it has something of the redeeming lyrical quality of Pink Moon’s closing track, “From The Morning”. Indeed, the accompanying press blurb claims that “Tow The Line” is a song “full of assurance and contemplative calm”, and questions the received notion that Nick was at the end of his emotional tether in 1974. That bold assertion might have more credibility if the new track wasn’t immediately preceded on this compilation by “Black Eyed Dog”, the most ghostly, unsettling song Nick Drake ever wrote by an unlit country mile, or indeed if the lyrics to “Tow The Line” didn’t throw down the one-loaded-chamber gambit, “Tonight is the night we win or lose all.”

Debate still rages over Drake’s worth as a lyricist. There are those who claim that his abilities never rose above sixth-form musings. Others, most notably the late lan MacDonald in his masterful essay “Exiled From Heaven”, identify a highly codified symbolist poetry of the most accomplished kind. Proponents of the former school will find supportive evidence in “Tow The Line” ‘s simplistic rhyming schemes, advocates of the latter in its obtuse imagery.

More controversial perhaps is the inclusion of newly arranged versions of “I Was Made To Love Magic” and “Time Of No Reply”. Leaving aside for a moment the issue of whether we would do this to, let’s say, Dylan when he’s gone, the posthumous addition of Robert Kirby’s originally intended string arrangements to a time-stretched backing track bring mixed rewards. “Time Of No Reply” seems entirely in keeping with the artist’s original intentions, whereas “I Was Made To Love Magic” sounds somewhat cloying and superfluous, and leaves you wondering if we haven’t been underrating Clifford T Ward and Colin Blunstone all along.

Much more successful, not to mention myth-demolishing, is the version of “Three Hours”, a carefree studio jam between Drake, “Reebop” Kwaakhu Baah on congas, and an anonymous flautist (probably Chris Wood, possibly Harold McNair).

Slip the headphones on and imagine a parallel 1974 where a confident Drake is performing with a makeshift duo at the Festival Hall. Sponsored by no one.

The Saddest Trip

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It's better to travel hopefully than to arrive, they say. What a long, strange and ultimately sad trip this one was. August 1, 1942 to August 9, 1995. Jerome John Garcia was both the heart and soul of the Grateful Dead?though he would have demurred, since he was an ambivalent anarchist. Nicknamed Captain Trips by Dead Heads, Garcia's solo work was characterised by a structured sense of song. Bluegrass, folk, jug, country, blues, rock'n'roll and pop were a stepping stone in the mother band to his five solo albums. As on those he made with Howard Wales, the New Riders Of The Purple Sage, David Grisman and Merl Saunders, he embraced more linear qualities when left to his own devices. Garcia (1972) was recorded on a high as guitarist and drummer Bill Kreutzmann combined American Beauty precision with electronic wizardry, transforming "Spidergawd" into the blood-rush of "The Wheel". An album's worth of extra tracks, a formula repeated throughout, includes bare-bones pedal-steel, reminding one of the string mastery at Garcia's disposal. Compliments Of (1974), his second album, was chalk to cheese. Collaborator John Kahn added LA session lustre with players like Larry Carlton, Presley drummer Ron Tutt, big horn noise and soul-girl backing vocals. Garcia's weirdly passionate voice was fully suited to Van Morrison's "He Ain't Give You None" and Smokey Robinson's "The Hunter Gets Captured By The Game". Dead fans will find 1976's Reflections a mine of memory. The Garcia-Robert Hunter axis was never better than on the misery-soaked "Comes A Time" while Holy Grail seekers will zoom in on the unreleased "Orpheus", noting the way this disc gives the lie to the heresy that the Dead didn't do studios, as it completes a link between From The Mars Hotel and the epic fusion of Blues For Allah. Cats Under The Stars (1978) and the heroin-damaged Run For The Roses (1982) indicate Garcia struggling with his demons, finding solace in Blood On The Tracks as he tangled himself in blues and fateful twists, ignoring warnings of that knock on heaven's door. Even so, an extra disc of jams and alternatives emphasises his sublime guitar playing?after all, Garcia is a genius to rank alongside Coltrane and Davis?and his wracked, emotive vocal rasp. On the night Jezza died, Bob Weir, playing Hampton Beach, gave the performance of his life as he sang "Papa's gone, we're left on our own". All good things must come to an end. We won't see Jerry Garcia's like again.

It’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive, they say. What a long, strange and ultimately sad trip this one was. August 1, 1942 to August 9, 1995. Jerome John Garcia was both the heart and soul of the Grateful Dead?though he would have demurred, since he was an ambivalent anarchist.

Nicknamed Captain Trips by Dead Heads, Garcia’s solo work was characterised by a structured sense of song. Bluegrass, folk, jug, country, blues, rock’n’roll and pop were a stepping stone in the mother band to his five solo albums. As on those he made with Howard Wales, the New Riders Of The Purple Sage, David Grisman and Merl Saunders, he embraced more linear qualities when left to his own devices.

Garcia (1972) was recorded on a high as guitarist and drummer Bill Kreutzmann combined American Beauty precision with electronic wizardry, transforming “Spidergawd” into the blood-rush of “The Wheel”. An album’s worth of extra tracks, a formula repeated throughout, includes bare-bones pedal-steel, reminding one of the string mastery at Garcia’s disposal. Compliments Of (1974), his second album, was chalk to cheese. Collaborator John Kahn added LA session lustre with players like Larry Carlton, Presley drummer Ron Tutt, big horn noise and soul-girl backing vocals. Garcia’s weirdly passionate voice was fully suited to Van Morrison’s “He Ain’t Give You None” and Smokey Robinson’s “The Hunter Gets Captured By The Game”.

Dead fans will find 1976’s Reflections a mine of memory. The Garcia-Robert Hunter axis was never better than on the misery-soaked “Comes A Time” while Holy Grail seekers will zoom in on the unreleased “Orpheus”, noting the way this disc gives the lie to the heresy that the Dead didn’t do studios, as it completes a link between From The Mars Hotel and the epic fusion of Blues For Allah.

Cats Under The Stars (1978) and the heroin-damaged Run For The Roses (1982) indicate Garcia struggling with his demons, finding solace in Blood On The Tracks as he tangled himself in blues and fateful twists, ignoring warnings of that knock on heaven’s door. Even so, an extra disc of jams and alternatives emphasises his sublime guitar playing?after all, Garcia is a genius to rank alongside Coltrane and Davis?and his wracked, emotive vocal rasp.

On the night Jezza died, Bob Weir, playing Hampton Beach, gave the performance of his life as he sang “Papa’s gone, we’re left on our own”. All good things must come to an end. We won’t see Jerry Garcia’s like again.

Pentangle – The Lost Broadcasts 1968-1972

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As archive finds go, the material here is a connoisseur's dream. Forty-two live tracks, all but six of which haven't been heard since they went out on John Peels Top Gear, Sounds Of The Seventies and Wally Whyton's Country Meets Folk. At their deceptively ramshackle, raga-inflected best, Messrs Jansch, Renbourn, Cox, Thompson and McShee achieved a musical empathy comparable in its field to the Marley-Tosh-Livingston-era Wailers and Dylan's '66 Band. Among the riches are Terry Cox's tribute to Moondog, the rarely performed "Springtime Promises" and two lyrically different versions of "Light Flight", the theme music to BBC2's Take Three Girls. Talking of which, somebody somewhere must still have all that show's splendid incidental music. Get searching.

As archive finds go, the material here is a connoisseur’s dream. Forty-two live tracks, all but six of which haven’t been heard since they went out on John Peels Top Gear, Sounds Of The Seventies and Wally Whyton’s Country Meets Folk. At their deceptively ramshackle, raga-inflected best, Messrs Jansch, Renbourn, Cox, Thompson and McShee achieved a musical empathy comparable in its field to the Marley-Tosh-Livingston-era Wailers and Dylan’s ’66 Band. Among the riches are Terry Cox’s tribute to Moondog, the rarely performed “Springtime Promises” and two lyrically different versions of “Light Flight”, the theme music to BBC2’s Take Three Girls. Talking of which, somebody somewhere must still have all that show’s splendid incidental music. Get searching.

Bob Dylan – The Classic Interviews Vol 2: The Weberman Tapes

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In January 1971, Bob Dylan rang AJ Weberman, an obsessive fan prone to searching through Dylan's dustbins. They spoke not once but twice, and Weberman taped the conversations, which achieved notoriety when they circulated privately among collectors. Now, for the first time, the world gets the chance to hear them on CD. Never can a major star have had quite such a bizarre and candid encounter with a deranged fan. Unaware that he's being bugged, Dylan bullies, mocks and cajoles his persecutor in an attempt to make him desist. At one point, Dylan tells Weberman he's going to write a song about him called "Pig" and threatens to have badges made up with the word superimposed on Weberman's face. "You go through garbage like a pig. You're a pig mentality," Dylan taunts. It's hilarious, but also somewhat sinister. And it could never happen today.

In January 1971, Bob Dylan rang AJ Weberman, an obsessive fan prone to searching through Dylan’s dustbins. They spoke not once but twice, and Weberman taped the conversations, which achieved notoriety when they circulated privately among collectors. Now, for the first time, the world gets the chance to hear them on CD. Never can a major star have had quite such a bizarre and candid encounter with a deranged fan. Unaware that he’s being bugged, Dylan bullies, mocks and cajoles his persecutor in an attempt to make him desist. At one point, Dylan tells Weberman he’s going to write a song about him called “Pig” and threatens to have badges made up with the word superimposed on Weberman’s face. “You go through garbage like a pig. You’re a pig mentality,” Dylan taunts. It’s hilarious, but also somewhat sinister. And it could never happen today.

Brian Auger – Get Auger-Nized! The Brian Auger Anthology

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Though lauded by the likes of Herbie Hancock and The Beastie Boys, this tight retrospective instead casts the largely unheralded Auger as the missing link between Georgie Fame and Sly Stone. Between 1964 and 1967 in particular, his floor-filling Hammond R&B?with Julie Driscoll on vocals?swung the capital's clubs like a pill-popping retort to Booker T & The MGs, not least on the latter's "Red Beans & Rice" and Staxy soul-stirrer "Save Me". Hitting big with Dylan's still-disorienting psychonaut "This Wheel's On Fire" in 1968, the '70s saw Auger's reinvention as acid-jazz pioneer with his Oblivion Express, white-funk-heavy on "Freedom Jazz Dance" and "Listen Here". A sampler's paradise.

Though lauded by the likes of Herbie Hancock and The Beastie Boys, this tight retrospective instead casts the largely unheralded Auger as the missing link between Georgie Fame and Sly Stone. Between 1964 and 1967 in particular, his floor-filling Hammond R&B?with Julie Driscoll on vocals?swung the capital’s clubs like a pill-popping retort to Booker T & The MGs, not least on the latter’s “Red Beans & Rice” and Staxy soul-stirrer “Save Me”. Hitting big with Dylan’s still-disorienting psychonaut “This Wheel’s On Fire” in 1968, the ’70s saw Auger’s reinvention as acid-jazz pioneer with his Oblivion Express, white-funk-heavy on “Freedom Jazz Dance” and “Listen Here”. A sampler’s paradise.

Meat Puppets – Classic Puppets

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Phoenix, Arizona's Meat Puppets sounded tremendously deviant back in 1983, when they confounded hardcore protocols by making a kind of country record, Meat Puppets ll. The curious thing is that even now, when hybrids of alternative rock and roots music have become commonplace, the best Meat Puppets songs still sound unassimilable. Classic Puppets catalogues the band's first decade, from scrofulous punks to more conventional rockers (their entire '90s output is omitted for contractual reasons, but it may as well have been aesthetic ones). There's a good argument, actually, for bypassing Classic Puppets and investing in Meat Puppets II and 1985's Up On The Sun, since all the best songs figure on them. Here's the flaky magic of the band: songs which add stoned punk nihilism and a meandering sense of melody to country archetypes, with Curt Kirkwood's groggy vocals drifting in and out of tune. Kurt Cobain may have booked the Meat Puppets a place in the rock pantheon by collaborating with them on their MTV Unplugged appearance. Nevertheless, their legacy remains pleasingly?and sometimes infuriatingly?awkward.

Phoenix, Arizona’s Meat Puppets sounded tremendously deviant back in 1983, when they confounded hardcore protocols by making a kind of country record, Meat Puppets ll. The curious thing is that even now, when hybrids of alternative rock and roots music have become commonplace, the best Meat Puppets songs still sound unassimilable. Classic Puppets catalogues the band’s first decade, from scrofulous punks to more conventional rockers (their entire ’90s output is omitted for contractual reasons, but it may as well have been aesthetic ones). There’s a good argument, actually, for bypassing Classic Puppets and investing in Meat Puppets II and 1985’s Up On The Sun, since all the best songs figure on them. Here’s the flaky magic of the band: songs which add stoned punk nihilism and a meandering sense of melody to country archetypes, with Curt Kirkwood’s groggy vocals drifting in and out of tune. Kurt Cobain may have booked the Meat Puppets a place in the rock pantheon by collaborating with them on their MTV Unplugged appearance. Nevertheless, their legacy remains pleasingly?and sometimes infuriatingly?awkward.

Expecting To Cry

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If you like the us masters of late-'60s baroque romance?Burt Bacharach, Brian Wilson, David Gates, Jimmy Webb, Nilsson and Richard Carpenter, even cultier orch-poppers like Michael Brown and Curt Boettcher?then you'll love this long-forgotten debut album of lushly produced angst-muzak by Bergen White. Released in 1970, For Women Only was a commercial disaster, and yet for exquisitely crafted misery it merits contention alongside such huge-selling examples of the form as Aerial Ballet, Bread and A Song For You. It would suit this music's sumptuous sadness, and elevate the artist to the tragic pantheon, if it transpired that White was a victim of his own tortured perfectionism who went mad and disappeared after his one beauteous stab at greatness. Alas, such amateur myth-mongering has no place here. White enjoyed some success in the years leading up to his sole solo foray as a touring and recording singer-musician with Tennessee's own exponents of surfin'n'hotrod pop The Daytonas, while after For Women Only he became one of the most sought-after and prolific guns-for-hire in country's capital city, providing arrangements for everyone from Presley, Duane Eddy and Glen Campbell to Garth Brooks, Faith Hill and Dolly Parton. White is so gorgeously gloomy, though, with his gentle choirboy tenor the actual sound of desolation and heartbreak, it's almost a shame he didn't lose it big-style. Not that these dramatically scored ballads, performed by White and members of renowned Nashville wrecking crew Area Code 615, need any back-story to blow you away. He may have been married and divorced five times to date; nevertheless, For Women Only is no Blood On The Tracks, even if one of the titles, "The Bird Song", concerns the murder of a girlfriend. Rather it is a sort of melancholy muscle-flexing exercise; pure art ache. Throughout, White proves his mastery of studio techniques and song construction learned from his heroes Bacharach and Wilson and encouraged by the advances made by Webb, even Neil Young. Imagine a whole album's worth of "Expecting To Fly"s or "Didn't We"s, all harpsichords, harmonies and haunting chord progressions. Not just For Women Only?in fact, for everyone.

If you like the us masters of late-’60s baroque romance?Burt Bacharach, Brian Wilson, David Gates, Jimmy Webb, Nilsson and Richard Carpenter, even cultier orch-poppers like Michael Brown and Curt Boettcher?then you’ll love this long-forgotten debut album of lushly produced angst-muzak by Bergen White. Released in 1970, For Women Only was a commercial disaster, and yet for exquisitely crafted misery it merits contention alongside such huge-selling examples of the form as Aerial Ballet, Bread and A Song For You.

It would suit this music’s sumptuous sadness, and elevate the artist to the tragic pantheon, if it transpired that White was a victim of his own tortured perfectionism who went mad and disappeared after his one beauteous stab at greatness. Alas, such amateur myth-mongering has no place here. White enjoyed some success in the years leading up to his sole solo foray as a touring and recording singer-musician with Tennessee’s own exponents of surfin’n’hotrod pop The Daytonas, while after For Women Only he became one of the most sought-after and prolific guns-for-hire in country’s capital city, providing arrangements for everyone from Presley, Duane Eddy and Glen Campbell to Garth Brooks, Faith Hill and Dolly Parton.

White is so gorgeously gloomy, though, with his gentle choirboy tenor the actual sound of desolation and heartbreak, it’s almost a shame he didn’t lose it big-style. Not that these dramatically scored ballads, performed by White and members of renowned Nashville wrecking crew Area Code 615, need any back-story to blow you away. He may have been married and divorced five times to date; nevertheless, For Women Only is no Blood On The Tracks, even if one of the titles, “The Bird Song”, concerns the murder of a girlfriend.

Rather it is a sort of melancholy muscle-flexing exercise; pure art ache. Throughout, White proves his mastery of studio techniques and song construction learned from his heroes Bacharach and Wilson and encouraged by the advances made by Webb, even Neil Young. Imagine a whole album’s worth of “Expecting To Fly”s or “Didn’t We”s, all harpsichords, harmonies and haunting chord progressions.

Not just For Women Only?in fact, for everyone.

Kaleidoscope – Pulsating Dream: The Epic Recordings

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Sometimes?all right, usually?there's no justice in this rock'n'roll world. Kaleidoscope, formed from the ashes of various jug bands by the brilliant David Lindley, were so much more daring, playful and genre-splicing than their more successful SoCal contemporaries-the Dead meet the Magic Band, in essence. Every song on 1967's Side Trips could be by a different band?which was doubtless the problem. Follow the path from Solomon Feldthouse's proto-worldbeat "Egyptian Gardens" through Chris Darrow's more accessibly psych-folk "Keep Your Mind Open" to the Cab Calloway and Dock Boggs covers and you'll be hard put to find a thread of stylistic logic. But it all sounds extraordinarily fresh and thrilling.

Sometimes?all right, usually?there’s no justice in this rock’n’roll world. Kaleidoscope, formed from the ashes of various jug bands by the brilliant David Lindley, were so much more daring, playful and genre-splicing than their more successful SoCal contemporaries-the Dead meet the Magic Band, in essence. Every song on 1967’s Side Trips could be by a different band?which was doubtless the problem. Follow the path from Solomon Feldthouse’s proto-worldbeat “Egyptian Gardens” through Chris Darrow’s more accessibly psych-folk “Keep Your Mind Open” to the Cab Calloway and Dock Boggs covers and you’ll be hard put to find a thread of stylistic logic. But it all sounds extraordinarily fresh and thrilling.

Terry Allen – Juarez

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Terry Allen excites strong emotions in his fans. Andy Kershaw reckons he's the best troubadour in the world. Ex-Blaster and Uncut hero Dave Alvin writes in his sleevenotes that Juarez equals Blood On The Tracks and Randy Newman's Good Old Boys as one of the great songwriter records of the '70s. First released in 1976, every one of its sparsely arranged songs is a universe in itself. Bad-boy ballads, bittersweet love and honky-tonk existentialism all make their contribution to a record that deserves to be recognised as a landmark of modern Americana.

Terry Allen excites strong emotions in his fans. Andy Kershaw reckons he’s the best troubadour in the world. Ex-Blaster and Uncut hero Dave Alvin writes in his sleevenotes that Juarez equals Blood On The Tracks and Randy Newman’s Good Old Boys as one of the great songwriter records of the ’70s.

First released in 1976, every one of its sparsely arranged songs is a universe in itself. Bad-boy ballads, bittersweet love and honky-tonk existentialism all make their contribution to a record that deserves to be recognised as a landmark of modern Americana.

The People Band – People Band (1968)

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This was financed and produced by Charlie Watts, and recorded over one frantic day in October 1968. Several of its participants ended up in Kilburn & The Highroads?indeed, lan Dury himself was present in the control room?while another member, trumpeter Mike Figgis, ended up as a Hollywood film director. This non-idiomatic, anything-goes group produced an astonishing melee of music which could be as volcanically intense as Coltrane's "Ascension (Part 2") and as open-minded as anything in the post-punk lineage from mid-period Alternative TV to Acid Mothers Temple. What every Pink Floyd album after Ummagumma should have sounded like.

This was financed and produced by Charlie Watts, and recorded over one frantic day in October 1968. Several of its participants ended up in Kilburn & The Highroads?indeed, lan Dury himself was present in the control room?while another member, trumpeter Mike Figgis, ended up as a Hollywood film director. This non-idiomatic, anything-goes group produced an astonishing melee of music which could be as volcanically intense as Coltrane’s “Ascension (Part 2”) and as open-minded as anything in the post-punk lineage from mid-period Alternative TV to Acid Mothers Temple. What every Pink Floyd album after Ummagumma should have sounded like.

David Essex

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Think you know David Essex, have him pinned down as a '70s Robbie Williams, all self-deprecating cheeky chappie grin? Well, think again. On the evidence of the six albums he made for Edsel from 1973-77, Essex's music really was fucking weird. Take, for instance, his 1973 breakthrough smash "Rock On". Rarely has such a nostalgic record sounded so futuristic and yet somehow lost ("Which is the way that's clear?"). And credit is overdue to Essex's visionary producer Jeff Wayne who, with his dub spaces and raised-eyebrow strings, is the missing link between Norman Whitfield and Lee Perry. Rock On, the album, similarly journeyed to some very strange places. Laden throughout with backwards drums, absurd vocal phasing and guitar barrages, a song like "We All Insane" could pass as an outtake from Eno's Here Come The Warm Jets. And Massive Attack fans may be startled to discover the origin of their "I was looking back to see if you were looking back at me" refrain on the extraordinary "Streetfight". The self-titled 1974 follow-up was even more bizarre. True, there was the cheerful satire of "Gonna Make You A Star", but there was also "Stardust", far more suicidal than Ziggy... with its drowning gongs, and the mind-bending proto-industrial "Windows" which almost outdoes Nine Inch Nails in its brutality, culminating in a cacophony of police sirens and a child's voice screaming "Mummy!" All The Fun Of The Fair (1975) has Essex grinning maniacally on the cover, as if he's about to slit your throat, and the moment where the all-out freeform pile-up which climaxes the title track ("Let's take a rrrrrrIDE!") segues into the jolly granny-favourite "Hold Me Close" remains one of the most startling in pop. But Out On The Street (1976) is his masterpiece; 47 minutes of nervous breakdown set to music-almost the Sister Lovers of glam-from the slow death of the 10-minute title track ("PIMPS and PONCES!") through to the excoriating seven-minute death disco of "City Lights" (with a bass line which, shall we say, anticipates "Guns Of Brixton"), Essex sounds hoarse and near-psychotic throughout. This is the album Robbie Williams is yet to make. After that, Essex tried his hand at self-production with 1977's back-to-basics Gold And Ivory. Although musically far more conservative, the element of doubt is still present in songs like "Good Morning (Darling)"?perhaps the most affecting song Essex ever wrote-and the remarkable "Britannia", in its own way as punk as anything else in 1977 ("Complacency shat in your eye"). Think you know David Essex? Listen to this astonishing body of work-he belongs in the company of Peter Hammill and Kevin Coyne.

Think you know David Essex, have him pinned down as a ’70s Robbie Williams, all self-deprecating cheeky chappie grin? Well, think again. On the evidence of the six albums he made for Edsel from 1973-77, Essex’s music really was fucking weird.

Take, for instance, his 1973 breakthrough smash “Rock On”. Rarely has such a nostalgic record sounded so futuristic and yet somehow lost (“Which is the way that’s clear?”). And credit is overdue to Essex’s visionary producer Jeff Wayne who, with his dub spaces and raised-eyebrow strings, is the missing link between Norman Whitfield and Lee Perry.

Rock On, the album, similarly journeyed to some very strange places. Laden throughout with backwards drums, absurd vocal phasing and guitar barrages, a song like “We All Insane” could pass as an outtake from Eno’s Here Come The Warm Jets. And Massive Attack fans may be startled to discover the origin of their “I was looking back to see if you were looking back at me” refrain on the extraordinary “Streetfight”.

The self-titled 1974 follow-up was even more bizarre. True, there was the cheerful satire of “Gonna Make You A Star”, but there was also “Stardust”, far more suicidal than Ziggy… with its drowning gongs, and the mind-bending proto-industrial “Windows” which almost outdoes Nine Inch Nails in its brutality, culminating in a cacophony of police sirens and a child’s voice screaming “Mummy!”

All The Fun Of The Fair (1975) has Essex grinning maniacally on the cover, as if he’s about to slit your throat, and the moment where the all-out freeform pile-up which climaxes the title track (“Let’s take a rrrrrrIDE!”) segues into the jolly granny-favourite “Hold Me Close” remains one of the most startling in pop.

But Out On The Street (1976) is his masterpiece; 47 minutes of nervous breakdown set to music-almost the Sister Lovers of glam-from the slow death of the 10-minute title track (“PIMPS and PONCES!”) through to the excoriating seven-minute death disco of “City Lights” (with a bass line which, shall we say, anticipates “Guns Of Brixton”), Essex sounds hoarse and near-psychotic throughout. This is the album Robbie Williams is yet to make.

After that, Essex tried his hand at self-production with 1977’s back-to-basics Gold And Ivory. Although musically far more conservative, the element of doubt is still present in songs like “Good Morning (Darling)”?perhaps the most affecting song Essex ever wrote-and the remarkable “Britannia”, in its own way as punk as anything else in 1977 (“Complacency shat in your eye”).

Think you know David Essex? Listen to this astonishing body of work-he belongs in the company of Peter Hammill and Kevin Coyne.

Ex Marks The Spot

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There's undoubtedly an of-a-time and you-had-to-be-there quality to these records, but if they do speak to you, there's little else that ticks the same emotional boxes. What you're hearing is the appealing non-combining of two considerable talents. Richard's guitar-playing is achingly expressive, a whole galaxy more eloquent than his lugubrious voice, and always reined in just so. Linda's voice is attractive but in a specific way, like a column of jade, beautiful?no question?but hard to find the perfect spot for. Using these ingredients, they made records full of tension and promise, which never sold. At the start, the optimism of a new relationship and a fresh musical entity is tangible on I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight (1974) a rich, easy-flowing record. Richard's in charge, with a chance to move into territory he couldn't, for whatever reasons, properly explore in Fairport Convention with Sandy Denny. The prowling, suspenseful "The Calvary Cross" drips with possibility (there's a terrific extended live version added to this new edition). Richard modestly delivers a major song, "The End Of The Rainbow", and Linda shines on the plaintive "Has He Got A Friend For Me?" and the eerie "The Great Valerio". The overtly folky songs seem gimmicky by comparison?the corny "We Sing Hallelujah" is one to skip. Hokey Pokey (1975) attempts the same mixture but the highs are spread more thinly. "I'll Regret It All In The Morning", though, is a classic perils-of-drink song. Throughout these albums, the playing?by members of the Fairport clan, Gryphon and The Boys Of The Lough?is precariously casual, or a testament to restraint, if you prefer, especially on Pour Down Like Silver, when the couple's sudden absorption in the Sufi religion stalks the background?nothing explicit, just a sense of souls being searched. Sometimes dismissed as a dour record, Silver is actually deliciously sad. I'd love to hear a mix without John Kirkpatrick's accordion, which can be depressingly cheerful. But the long, brooding centrepieces, "Night Comes In" and "Dimming Of The Day", rank among Thompson's finest examples of passion-with-a-lid-on, and Linda's singing on the latter?a truly beautiful song?should part your nape hair.

There’s undoubtedly an of-a-time and you-had-to-be-there quality to these records, but if they do speak to you, there’s little else that ticks the same emotional boxes. What you’re hearing is the appealing non-combining of two considerable talents. Richard’s guitar-playing is achingly expressive, a whole galaxy more eloquent than his lugubrious voice, and always reined in just so. Linda’s voice is attractive but in a specific way, like a column of jade, beautiful?no question?but hard to find the perfect spot for. Using these ingredients, they made records full of tension and promise, which never sold.

At the start, the optimism of a new relationship and a fresh musical entity is tangible on I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight (1974) a rich, easy-flowing record. Richard’s in charge, with a chance to move into territory he couldn’t, for whatever reasons, properly explore in Fairport Convention with Sandy Denny. The prowling, suspenseful “The Calvary Cross” drips with possibility (there’s a terrific extended live version added to this new edition). Richard modestly delivers a major song, “The End Of The Rainbow”, and Linda shines on the plaintive “Has He Got A Friend For Me?” and the eerie “The Great Valerio”. The overtly folky songs seem gimmicky by comparison?the corny “We Sing Hallelujah” is one to skip. Hokey Pokey (1975) attempts the same mixture but the highs are spread more thinly. “I’ll Regret It All In The Morning”, though, is a classic perils-of-drink song.

Throughout these albums, the playing?by members of the Fairport clan, Gryphon and The Boys Of The Lough?is precariously casual, or a testament to restraint, if you prefer, especially on Pour Down Like Silver, when the couple’s sudden absorption in the Sufi religion stalks the background?nothing explicit, just a sense of souls being searched. Sometimes dismissed as a dour record, Silver is actually deliciously sad. I’d love to hear a mix without John Kirkpatrick’s accordion, which can be depressingly cheerful. But the long, brooding centrepieces, “Night Comes In” and “Dimming Of The Day”, rank among Thompson’s finest examples of passion-with-a-lid-on, and Linda’s singing on the latter?a truly beautiful song?should part your nape hair.

Bobby Charles – Last Train To Memphis

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The first white man signed to Chess, Charles' voice remains a singular treasure: the stone-baked smoulder of fresh bread with the sleepy essence of summer blossom. Fifteen previously unissued cuts from 1975 to 2001 (including "Everyday", earmarked for 1977's 'lost' album), this is seriously easy fare, given colour and tone by the stellar guest list of Neil Young, Fats Domino, Willie Nelson, Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham, and spotlit by Maria Muldaur's bleary gospel duet "Homesick Blues". Includes 19-track bonus disc of Charles' own favourites.

The first white man signed to Chess, Charles’ voice remains a singular treasure: the stone-baked smoulder of fresh bread with the sleepy essence of summer blossom. Fifteen previously unissued cuts from 1975 to 2001 (including “Everyday”, earmarked for 1977’s ‘lost’ album), this is seriously easy fare, given colour and tone by the stellar guest list of Neil Young, Fats Domino, Willie Nelson, Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham, and spotlit by Maria Muldaur’s bleary gospel duet “Homesick Blues”. Includes 19-track bonus disc of Charles’ own favourites.

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