Elvis Presley - Elvis' Christmas Album (1970)

Glitzy, ostentatious, overindulgent and thoroughly warped by the clammy hand of commercialism - Elvis and Christmas go together rather well.

Listening to Elvis inevitably comes with an unfortunate dash of irony - he's just been lampooned too many times for both his fashion excesses and singing style not to seem slightly cartoonish. But cut through all the hubris and the man still had a glorious voice. Tender, raucous, pleading, defiant, playful, devout - it's all there.

Elvis' Christmas Album originally came out in October 1957 and featured a religious and a secular side. Despite the controversy just a year earlier when the Ed Sullivan show would only broadcast pictures of Elvis from the waist up, his choice of traditional songs such as Silent Night and Oh, Little Town Of Bethlehem caused scarcely a stir.

The same could not be said for his cover of White Christmas, however, which composer Irving Berlin lambasted as a 'profane parody', despite the fact that Elvis' version drew heavily on The Drifters' take on the song, which had come out three years ealier.

Berlin (a Russian Jew) rated White Christmas as one of his finest works, reportedly telling his secretary in 1940: "I want you to take down a song I wrote over the weekend. Not only is it the best song I ever wrote, it's the best song anybody ever wrote." 

The public certainly agreed - Bing Crosby's version has now sold north of 50million copies, making it the most popular single of all time. Though a few of those may have been by people simply determined to stop Achy Breaky Heart from taking that particular accolade.

Elvis' Christmas Album was a solid seller at the time but it didn't get the cash registers jingling at full pace until 13 years after its originally release when RCA Camden put out a budget version that ditched the 4 gospel songs (Peace In The Valley, I Believe, Take My Hand Precious Lord and It's No Secret), added the 1966 single If Every Day Was Like Christmas and then padded out the running order with the 1970 B-side Mama Liked The Roses, a maudlin song about his dead mother than isn't in any way festive.

Despite the reduction from 12 to 10 songs and the rather slapdash way it was put together, the RCA Camden reissue proved massively popular, going on to sell 9million copies.

As well as finishing with the gloomy Mama Liked The Roses, the LP also starts with a cover of Ernest Tubbs' 1949 country hit, Blue Christmas. However, Elvis and the Jordanaires gave this tale of pining for a loved one at Christmas a few rock'n'roll embellishments that hint of good times just around the corner. If you want a gloriously maudlin version of Blue Christmas, head straight for Low's Christmas LP.

Silent Night is another song previously cover by Crosby, and Elvis gives it a beautifully devout reading, his voice at its most softly angelic.

Following the controversial take on White Christmas, Elvis decided the time had finally come to really rock out with Santa Claus Is Back In Town, one of two original numbers on the album. Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who had previously supplied him with Jailhouse Rock and Don't, as well as writing Hound Dog for Big Moma Thornton, apparently knocked the song together in minutes in the studio and Elvis rips through it gleefully, revelling in the sly innuendo lurking in the lyrics.

I'll Be Home For Christmas is yet another tune popularised by Crosby, particularly hitting a note with servicemen based overseas and their families. Twelve months after releasing his own version, Elvis was drafted into the army himself.

Side 2 starts with If Every Day Was Like Christmas, a towering slice of smaltz given a Phil Spector-style Wall Of Sound production job that betrays the fact that it was recorded nine years later than most of the other songs.

Here Comes Santa Claus (Right Down Santa Claus Lane) is a jaunty take on an old Gene Autry hit from 1947, Elvis again tipping his stetson to his old country heroes.

A respectful take on Oh, Little Town Of Bethlehem is followed by a perky new number, Santa, Bring My Baby Back (To Me), written by Claude Demetrius and Aaron Schroeder, the latter of which also wrote It's Now Or Never, A Big Hunk O'Love and the theme tune to Scooby-Doo.

Despite Mama Liked The Roses providing a slightly odd finale, Elvis' Christmas Album still nags you into repeated plays. It's less than 25 minutes long but still manages to cover rock'n'roll, country, blues, traditional seasonal songs and some old-school crooning. Just like that tin of Quality Street you've got in for the holidays, it's hard not to keep dipping in. After all, if you accidently pick a Toffee Penny you can soon follow it with a Strawberry Cream to get rid of the taste.

Slade - Slade In Flame (1974)

Flame is one of those great moments in cinema that really shouldn't work but does, like Ben Kingsley's gangster turn in Sexy Beast or Tom Cruise as the bitter and neurotic author of 'Seduce and Destroy' in Magnolia.

Those hirsute purveyors of blunderbuss glam rock starring in a gritty kitchen sink drama in the tradition of Billy Liar, Taste Of Honey and Kes? If you haven't seen the film then it probably sounds like a particularly fanciful Reeves & Mortimer sketch.

But then it's easy to forget what big stars Slade were by the end of 1974. After a three-year run during which they had 12 Top 5 hit singles in succession, they were just about the biggest band in the country.

Their manager Chas Chandler (the former Animals bassist and Jimi Hendrix manager) decided making a film was the next step, after all it hadn't done The Beatles or Elvis any harm. Well, The Beatles anyway.

They must have known The Who were turning their 1969 rock opera Tommy into a film with Ken Russell at the helm, and perhaps they saw this as an opportunity to earn a little gravitas and stretch themselves.

Social realism probably didn't seem that odd a choice with the TV popularity of Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads? and the success of 1973's That'll Be The Day, in which David Essex had taken the chance to prove he was more than just a pop pretty boy by starring alongside Ringo Starr in the tale of an aspiring rock star.

The 1974 follow-up, Stardust, took a slightly more jaundiced view of fame, with Essex ending up a bloated, over the hill star wasting his life hanging around in a castle with Adam Faith.

To an extent Flame seems to amalgamate many of the ideas from both That'll Be The Day and Stardust with its tale of the fall and rise of a band, their dreams and friendships steadily ground down by the venal characters of the music business.

The band all make a decent fist of acting, particularly Noddy Holder (Stoker) and drummer Don Powell (Charlie), with guitarist Dave Hill (Barry) just appearing to play himself and bassist Jim Lea (Paul) tending to stick to the background.

The whole film also captures the incidental details of the early 1970s brilliantly - all battered, smoke-filled nightclubs, bad fringes, bushy facial hair and muddy fabrics.

The scenes shot outside in Sheffield are full of post-industrial decline, with dirty canals, pigeon lofts, closed factories and neglected terrace streets that make The Full Monty look like it was shot in Manhattan.

Despite some knockabout humour along the way, the film ends on a decidedly downbeat note as the the band split up unable to deal with the hassles any more.

Flame came out in February 1975, just a month before Tommy, and many of Slade's young fans were left pretty baffled, forcing the band to repeatedly assure crowds that they didn't actually hate each other during the subsequent tour.

The album Slade In Flame had come out four months earlier, with the gatefold inner sleeve providing a teaser for the film with a series of stills.

The band signalled their intention to experiment with opener How Does It Feel?, which starts as a piano ballad before the horns and guitars roll in, with a nice bit of flute playing thrown in for good measure. It's a good song but not really what most Slade fans were after at the time. When they released it as a single to mark the film opening, it only reached No.15, their worst chart placing for four years.

Not that Slade In Flame deviates too much from the template elsewhere. Horns feature on a few songs and there's a sax solo on Standin' On The Corner but the songs still stomp along and the choruses are still rousing.

Holder's voice really is a remarkable thing, both high pitched and gruff at the same time. He belts through the likes of Them Kinda Monkeys Can't Swing and OK Yesterday Was Yesterday leaving you wondering how he didn't blow his voicebox out.

So Far So Good brings to mind Oasis's Roll With It, with an mid-paced anthemic tune about taking success in your stride, and Far Far Away celebrates life on the road, managing to smuggle the lines 'I've had a a red light off the wrist/ Without even being kissed' onto the radio.

Considering the cynical trajectory of the plot, the band never sound melancholy or bitter. Them Monkeys... is about the snake-tongued double-dealers of the music business but seems to celebrate more than despise them, and This Girl starts by bemoaning a woman's untrustworthiness before Noddy comes to the lascivious conclusion that he should give her a call.

The public's perception of Slade nowadays is mainly coloured by Merry Christmas Everybody, which has been jamming seasonal jollity in our ears for the last 37 years, leaving the rest of their career deep in its shadow - including five other No.1s and a further ten Top 10 hits.

But you shouldn't underestimate the influence of Slade on Oasis, a fact partly acknowledged by their cover of Cum On Feel The Noize.

Another band inspired by the boys from the Black Country were Kiss, with Gene Simmons admitting: "The one we kept returning to was Slade. We liked the way they connected with the crowd, and the way they wrote anthems. We wanted that same energy, that same irresistible simplicity, but done US-style."

Despite their influence, it seems a strange twist of fate that most of Slade's career has now been largely forgotten due to a Christmas single. Still, the royalty cheque must ease the pain when it arrives in January.

Delaney & Bonnie & Friends - Motel Shot (1971)

It was the presence of Gram Parsons and Bruce Botnick (engineer/producer for Love, The Doors, Buffalo Springfield etc) on the credits that drew me to have a £2.99 punt on Motel Shot.

The Eric Clapton connection had previously put me off checking out Delaney & Bonnie, and I must confess that my prior knowledge of the duo largely consisted of the 1979 bust-up between Bonnie and Elvis Costello, when the nerdy English rocker made some incredibly offensive remarks about James Brown and Ray Charles, resulting in a slap across the chops from Ms Bramlett and being chucked against a wall by one of Stephen Stills's road crew.

Bonnie's career was on the slide by this point but she'd been feted by bigger stars than Costello in her day, with her former husband Delaney Bramlett a magnet for fellow musicians even if mainstream success largely eluded him.

Clapton was a particularly keen cheerleader for Delaney & Bonnie, insisting that they were better than his own band Blind Faith when the couple supported them on tour in 1969 and later joining them as a sideman on the road, as captured on the 1970 D&B live album On Tour With Eric Clapton.

Delaney co-wrote six of the songs on Clapton's self-titled debut solo album of the same year and also joined him in hanging around with George Harrison around the time All Things Must Pass was being recorded, apparently teaching the former Beatle how to play slide guitar.

Chumming up with Clapton came with a cost, though, when he pinched Delaney & Bonnie's backing band (keyboardist Bobby Whitlock, bassist Carl Radle and drummer Jim Gordon) for his own Derek & The Dominoes project. Still, they got off lightly compared to Harrison, who ended up losing his wife to Clapton.

Whitlock and Radle returned to the fold for Motel Shot, along with a host of famous friends keen to help out on an album recorded in one long night at Botnick's house in Los Angeles.

The deal was that you had to show up by 7pm when the door was locked and everyone got on with capturing whatever happened during the night.

Presumably Botnick had a pretty big living room because attendees included Buddy Miles, Joe Cocker, Jim Keltner, Dave Mason, Duane Allman, Eddie James, Leon Russell, Jay York, Sandy Konikoff, John Hartford, Kenny Gradney and Ben Benay, along with the previously mentioned Parsons, Whitlock and Radle.

Delaney's mother's Iva Bramlett was also present, which may have at least moderated everyone's behaviour and helped ensure 12 good takes were safely in the can come sunrise.

The thinking behind Motel Shot probably stemmed from the reputation Delaney & Bonnie had for being a better live act than they were in the studio. Their three previous studio albums had all sold in moderate amounts and they were considerably more respected by their peers than by the public at large.

Motel Shot is designed to reflect the kind of loose, joyful sessions musicians enjoy together after the show when the pressure is off and they just want to have fun together.

In Delaney & Bonnie's case that meant running through some old gospel numbers, mixing in some country and blues, and then sprinkling in a few originals just for good measure.

Admittedly half the fun here is trying to spot the famous guests - Cocker's croak on Talkin' About Jesus, Duane Allman's slide guitar on Sing My Way Home, Parsons drifting in the mix on Rock Of Ages - but Motel Shot definitely isn't about big stars stepping up to make guest appearances.

The decision not to record the album in a regular studio is also reflected in the choice of instruments, with Leon Russell playing a central role on piano, while acoustic guitars and tambourines are pretty much the only other instruments.

Bonnie later revealed that there weren't even any proper drums at the session, with Buddy Miles improvising with a large suitcase he found lying around while Cocker took to whacking the side of the piano. On Going Down The Road (Feeling Bad), Bonnie, Parsons and Allman provided percussion by slapping their thighs.

Side one is dominated by gospel, particularly the opening trio of Where The Soul Never Dies, Will The Circle Be Unbroken and Rock Of Ages, the first two of which sound like everyone in the room had been handed a tambourine and a Salvation Army instruction booklet. The vibe is rough, simple and soulful with everyone obviously giving it their all.

Long Road Ahead was written by Delaney with Carl Radle, but the testifying tone and mass vocals on the chorus fit in perfectly with what's come before.

Faded Love changes the mood by beautifully transforming Bob Willis's country lament into a soulful piano ballad with a stunning vocal from Delaney. But he doesn't keep everyone waiting on the sidelines for long, and the full-on gospel call and response of Talkin' About Jesus, which lasts nearly seven minutes, soon has the aisles rocking.

Side two heads off in a bluesy direction, with a great cover of Robert Johnson's Come On In My Kitchen and a so-so take on Chuck Willis's Don't Deceive Me (Please Don't Go), which sadly loses the barrelhouse piano and Bonnie sings in a husky voice that sounds a little Janis Joplin lite rather than her best Deep South soul tones.

From this point, Russell takes a deserved break after sterling work on the piano and Delaney's experiences hanging around with Harrison come to the fore. Never Ending Song Of Love is crammed with acoustic guitars and massed vocals not a million miles away from the Beatles' All You Need Is Love or Harrison's My Sweet Lord. The result was Delaney & Bonnie's biggest hit single in the US.

Sing My Way Home is equally laidback and joyful with slide guitar from Allman adding nicely to the atmosphere. Going Down The Road (Feeling Bad) brings back Russell on piano, along with the gospel feel, so it ends up sounding considerably more upbeat than the song title might suggest.

Closing song Lonesome And A Long Way From Home was written by Bonnie and Russell but had already appeared on Clapton's solo album of the previous year. They reclaim it as their own in a laidback, soulful manner with beautiful fiddle from John Hartford.

The album ends with the words 'Y'all come back soon' and the closing of a door as Botnick concludes a fine night's work.

Delaney & Bonnie were riding on a high at this point, with the Carpenters also enjoying massive global success in the same year with the Delaney-penned Superstar (which Sonic Youth later also covered on a rather splendid red vinyl single). However, it didn't last long. Motel Shot failed to sell, Russell and Jim Keltner left to join Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs & Englishmen tour and then Delaney & Bonnie's marriage foundered, leading to a split in 1972.

Both went on to experience problems with drink and unsurprisingly, considering the heartfelt gospel aspects to Motel Shot, both went on to become born-again Christians. Delaney died in 2008 but Bonnie is still going strong, which ensures Elvis Costello continues to mind his manners if nothing else.

Dukes Of Stratosphear - 25 O'Clock EP (1985)

For what was essentially XTC paying tribute to the songs of their youth wrapped up in a conceptual joke, the 25 O'Clock EP proved surprisingly popular, outselling their previous two official albums and even providing a key piece of The Stone Roses's musical DNA.

25 O'Clock was released on April 1, 1985 and briefly sparked a debate in the music weeklies before it was confirmed that the Dukes were actually XTC in psychedelic disguise.

The band are listed on the back of the cover as Sir John Johns, The Red Curtain, Lord Cornelius Plum and, best of all,  E.I.E.I. Owen, who in reality were Andy Partridge, Colin Moulding, Dave Gregory and his brother Ian.

The decision to record an EP inspired by the Sixties bands they'd loved as teenagers came after Partridge and John Leckie had been fired from the job of producing Mary Margaret O'Hara's debut album on religious grounds - Partridge because he was an athiest and Leckie because he was a follower of the Indian mystic Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (a free love advocate fond of Rolls Royces who was later accused by a former aide of being addicted to valium and nitrous oxide).

XTC had quit touring in 1982 due to Partridge's own withdrawal after many years of using valium had lead to stage fright-related panic attacks, with the band becoming purely a studio entity.

Turning psychedelic after quitting touring obviously has a fairly famous precedent and who better to guide them through this colourful career detour than Leckie, who had started out as a tape operator at Abbey Road Studios and worked on John Lennon's early solo stuff.

Virgin took some convincing to back this particular ruse but eventually stumped up five grand - in the end they got a thousand back almost immediately due to the band romping through the recording of six tracks in a fortnight in a deconsecrated church in Hereford, finishing in time for Christmas in 1984.

Partridge provided the album cover art that was heavily indebted to Cream's Disraeli Gears with a dash of Richard Hamilton's pop art thrown in for good measure.

The songs inside are just as Day-Glo and tongue in cheek as the cover, paying tribute to English psychedelia topped off with a little Nuggets era garage rock and bubblegum pop. The EP is less than 27 minutes long but there's easily an album's worth of ideas crammed into the grooves.

It starts with the sound of clocks ticking and chiming, a nod to Pink Floyd's Time, before the title track rolls in on Moulding's bouncing bassline and Dave Gregory's vintage keyboards. Partridge's lyrics about seizing control of a magical hour in which he can make the girl love him sounds like it was stolen straight from one of those 1950s Mysterious Tales comicbooks.

Bike Ride To The Moon comes over like Syd Barrett-era Floyd covering Tomorrow's My White Bicycle and features the mighty couplet: 'Now I shan't be pedalling any higher/ As the sharp Sputnick has given me a cosmic flat tyre'.

My Love Explodes brings to mind The Yardbirds and Cream indulging in a double entrende fest before building to a garage-punk climax with Partridge at his shouty finest. No wonder a Woody Allen soundalike asks 'Why would you write such a degenerate type song like that?' during the fadeout.

Side two starts with Moulding's only songwriting contribution, What In The World??, with its backwards swirls of sound and helium trumpets. Suggesting a future where acid is free and women fight the wars, Moulding suddenly sounds like an elderly major harrumphing in the Daily Telegraph letters page when he sings: 'Do you remember when this life was in perspective/ And the grown-ups were respected/ They'd give up their seat on the bus/ Open your door with no fuss'.

Your Gold Dress is built on what Partridge describes as 'the stupidest riff in the history of riffs', borrowing a piano line from The Rolling Stones' She's a Rainbow along the way and somehow ends up a far greater sum than just a few borrowed parts.

Saving their Beatles tribute until the end, Mole From The Ministry (check out this great video) could sit comfortably in Magical Mystery Tour without sounding out of place for my money.

If these attempts to describe 25 O'Clock make it sound dangerously like a Rutles-style comedy pastiche, then fear not. It may be full of nods and winks to heroes past but everything song is strong enough to stand shoulder to shoulder to its influences, which is no mean feat.

25 O'Clock sold more than XTC's two previous albums, Big Express and Mummer, rejuvenating the band's fortunes and leading to their excellent Skylarking LP recorded with Todd Rungren.

It also provided a key inspiration for The Stone Roses on their debut album, which Leckie produced. Ian Brown recently acknowledged the debt, albeit a little reluctantly, in The Observer - but then the Roses have long struggled to appreciate what was brilliant about their own LP, with Brown thinking it not dance enough and John Squire believing it not rock enough - which probably underlines just what a great producer Leckie is.

But the Roses were all paisley-loving psychedelicists back then, whether they care to recall it that way or not. Perhaps the old adage about 'if you can remember it then weren't really there' should be applied here. The Dukes/Leckie influence is probably most blatant on the reversed groove of Don't Stop and the ringing phone that ushers in the extended code to I Am The Resurrection.

A full Dukes album, Psonic Psunspot, arrived in 1987, again with Leckie in the chair, and while the songwriting remained strong, it never quite hits the heights of 25 O'Clock.

Finally, Mary Margaret O'Hara's debut (and to date only) LP, Miss America, eventually emerged in 1988, after a five-year gestation, but that's a whole other story...

Lester Flatt & Earl Scruggs - Flatt and Scruggs With The Foggy Mountain Boys (1960)

Listening to Flatt and Scruggs With The Foggy Mountain Boys, it strikes me that banjo players don't get the credit they deserve as the original 'shredders'.

Metal guitarists like Yngwie Malmsteen and Dave Mustaine drove the whole concept to absurdly overblown squealing extremes back in the 1980s but the bluegrass boys still got there first. And they were snappier dressers.

The lineage was acknowledged in the 1986 film Crossroads when Ralph Macchio went head to head with Steve Vai in a guitar battle inspired by Dueling Banjos (as played by Eric Weissberg and Steve Mandell on the Deliverance soundtrack and itself an interpretation of Arthur Smith's 1955 instrumental Feudin' Banjos).

Earl Scruggs couldn't belong to a more different era than 1980s metal but he still built his reputation on being the fastest picker in the business.

He first rose to promience when he left North Carolina to play for Bill Monroe's band back in December 1945, providing a key ingredient to the nascent bluegrass sound that Monroe built around fast-paced songs and instrumental virtuosity. Scruggs's three-finger style was fast, fluid and inventive, drawing inspiration from blues, jazz and country, and raised the benchmark for every banjo player in the game.

Having performed on bluegrass classics such as My Rose of Old Kentucky, Wicked Path of Sin, Blue Grass Breakdown and Blue Moon of Kentucky (covered by Elvis on the B-side of his debut single in 1954), in 1948 Scruggs decided to head out on his own in partnership with another of Monroe's sidemen, guitarist/singer Lester Flatt.

Backed up along the way by various Foggy Mountain Boys with such fine names as Jack Shook, Curly Seckler, Jody Rainwater, Chuddy Wise and Everett Lilly, they spent the next 21 years spreading the bluegrass gospel, becoming the first country act to have their own syndicated TV show after flour company Martha White Mills started sponsoring them in 1953.

They survived some thin times in the late 1950s when rock'n'roll was on the rise but kept enough of a loyal following to keep going, with the Flatt and Scruggs with the Foggy Mountain Boys album first released on Harmony in 1960 to pull together recordings dated between 1951 and 1957 that had previously been released on singles before the LP started to take off as a popular format.

Side one alternates between three swingin' instrumentals and two slower country tunes with Flatt singing. Opener Randy Lynn Rag is particularly good, playing off Scruggs' skills, including some great string bending, against Paul Warren's fiddle while Flatt is on fine sweet-voiced form with On My Mind and Before I Met You. Scruggs introduces an impish swagger to Foggy Mountain Special, which also gives Curly Seckler are rare chance to show off his mandolin skills.

Flatt and Scruggs continue to take turns in the limelight on side two, starting with the former's lovelorn lament on Turn Those Brown Eyes On Me.

The dextrous picking of Earl's Breakdown is followed by the oldest track on the album, a beautifully gentle cover of the Carter Family song Jimmie Brown, The Newsboy with Scruggs switching to acoustic guitar.

I Won't Be Hanging Round and Don't Let Your Deal Go Down take the pace back up to finish off the album on a high and it's over in just under half an hour.

Flatt and Scruggs were preaching to the converted at this point but all that changed in 1962 when they wrote The Ballad of Jed Clampett, theme tune to The Beverly Hillbillies TV show, on which they also appeared six times.

Six years later, Warren Beatty used their song Foggy Mountain Breakdown to soundtrack the chase scene in Bonnie and Clyde, opening them up to a whole new generation via the countercultural crowd.

Before long Bob Dylan came calling and Columbia pushed for the duo to record an album of his tunes. That proved a step too far for Flatt, who was in his mid-50s at this stage and 10 years old than Scruggs. The duo finally split in late 1969.

Scruggs took the opportunity to work with several of the new groups, many of which were exploring America's musical heritage in the wake of Dylan and The Band's new direction.

Check out this great footage of Scruggs getting it together with The Byrds in the country. He may still be dressed in a shirt and tie but the loud orange hue certainly seems to be a nod to the times.

It's interesting watching him join in on You Ain't Goin' Nowhere, slowing his playing down to half his normal speed - you can see why he had no fear about running with the new crowd.

Earl Scruggs is 86 now and still with us, even if those incredible picking fingers aren't quite as nimble as they once were. With a musical history that dates from the early days of bluegrass, through rock'n'roll, at least two folk revivals and the Sixties counterculture, here's a man with a few tales to tell.

Grinderman - Grinderman 2 (2010)

It's no coincidence that Warren Ellis's promotion through the ranks of the Bad Seeds has dovetailed with the Indian summer that Nick Cave's long career is now enjoying.

In Ellis, Cave has finally met his match when it comes to a breadth of ambition and ferocity of workrate. In the past six years alone, they have collaborated on two Bad Seeds LPs (one a double), two Grinderman LPs, five film soundtracks, two theatre scores and toured in a full Bad Seeds line-up, a piano-based Mini Seeds quartet and as Grinderman.

Just when most rockers are settling into a middle-aged semi-retirement (Cave is 53, Ellis is 45), these two are working like men possessed. Perhaps that's the nature of addictive personalities for you.

Cave also currently seems fascinated by how quickly he can complete projects. Having spent five years labouring over his first novel, 1989's The Ass Saw The Angel, he dashed off the second, last year's The Death Of Bunny Monroe, in just six weeks during downtime while on tour, having cannibalised the ideas from a screenplay he'd written for John Hillcoat.

Grinderman seems to be another symptom of this, with all their songs written through jamming, rather than the traditional Bad Seeds format of Cave working long and hard on his ideas in his office before presenting them to the band to be fleshed out.

He first explored this way of working in the run-up to the 2004’s Abattoir Blues/ Lyre of Orpheus, gathering the nucleus of the Bad Seeds in a small studio in Paris to thrash out some ideas as part of the songwriting process before finishing them off on his own.

The departure of Blixa Bargeld from the band following 2003's underwhelming Nocturama LP may have prompted this move in an attempt to shake things up - the result was an outstanding double album to mark the start of Cave and Ellis's hot streak together.

With Grinderman, Cave seems to be trying to cut out the subsequent redrafting as much as possible and present the ideas in the rawest possible state, with most of Grinderman 2 actually managing to sound even more off the cuff than its predecessor.

What you sometimes lose in terms of the rich frame of reference in his lyrics is traded off for the sheer energy of the band thrashing about on the edge of uncertainty.

The first Grinderman LP drew heavily on the blues (the title track/band name is indebted to Memphis Slim's Grinder Man Blues) while firing it with a rough-hewn punky spirit - but Grinderman 2 finds them turning towards a greasy, blackened psychedelia.

Much has been made of Cave picking up the guitar for the first time at the age of 50 but Ellis is primarily a violinist whose guitar skills are hardly going to earn him a job running finishing classes at the Jimmy Page School of Rock.

The two of them like to combine simple overdriven rhythms with smearing great slabs of groaning and wheezing noise over the songs, some of it coaxed out of an electric mandolin, which looks like a miniature guitar and flips all the usual cock-rock posturing on its head very nicely when played live, and some from Cave on primative-sounding keyboards. Drummer Jim Sclavunos and bassist Martyn Casey provide a solid basis, including backing vocals.

Considering the back to basics ideology, the nine songs on Grinderman 2 are surprisingly wide ranging, from the bluesy howlers Mickey Mouse And The Goodbye Man and Kitchenette to the whispered minimalism of What I Know to the strange Latino groove of When My Baby Comes, with Ellis's mournful violin suddenly turning malevolent four minutes in when the whole song rises up like a vast winged creature, elbowing Cave to the sidelines in the process.

Worm Tamer returns to the midlife crisis comedy of the band's debut album, building up to the classic pay-off: 'My baby calls me the Loch Ness Monster/ Two great big humps and then I'm gone'.

Working on all those film soundtracks seems to have an impact, with opener Mickey Mouse... and Evil both coming across like the plots to old noir movies as sinister forces move in on desperate people on the run.

Heathen Child features appearances by the Wolfman, Marilyn Monroe and the Adominable Snowman, and comes with the wonderfully daft video from The Proposition/ The Road director Hillcoat (Warning: contains scenes of Jim Sclavunos's naked backside). Palaces Of Montezuma, which finds Cave back on piano and includes a carefully crafted lyric that leaves you feeling like a Bad Seeds song somehow wandered on to the wrong album, also memorably mentions a 'A custard coloured superdream of Ali McGraw and Steve McQueen' just to keep the cinematic theme going.

The vinyl version of Grinderman 2 comes with a 16-page booklet featuring lyrics (never a good thing in my book but that's for another day) and amusing graphical interpretations of the songs by Ilinca Hopfner, plus a poster of the band standing in Roman uniforms looking bored and a CD version of the album that great for the car.

Grinderman 2 is a blast from start to finish, though it's good to know we can expect a Bad Seeds album next, with all the attendant craft that involves. Cave is one of the best lyric writers out there but you have to wonder if he's in danger of spreading himself a little thin.

When the band start singing 'We are the soul survivors' on Bellringer Blues it's hard to escape the feeling that you expect a bit more than the kind of cliches Primal Scream specialise in nowadays.

But then the first person to recognise the need for a change of direction is probably Cave, so who knows what will come next.

In the meantime, the band certainly seem to be enjoying playing the songs live, with Cave still throwing himself about onstage in Manchester recently, managing to take out part of Sclavunos's drum kit three songs in, playing keyboards with his feet and even launching himself into the crowd at one point - not bad for a man who had celebrated his 53rd birthday seven days earlier.

Reggae cover art

Hats off to Lars Hasvoll Bakke over at Crestock.com for his entertaining ramble through nearly 50 years of Jamaican LP cover art. Stretching across ska, rocksteady, ska and dancehall, there's much to delight, amuse and confuse in 42 Reggae Album Cover Designs: The Art & Culture of Jamaica.

Treasure Isle Dub (197?)

I spent two weeks travelling across the north coast of Jamaica in the summer of 1992, from Montego Bay to Negril and then back east to Buff Bay before heading down to Kingston on the south coast.

Dancehall was the sound of the nation back then, with Shabba Ranks the king of the hill and Buju Banton the young prince, with the reggae, rocksteady and dub that I loved seen as old hat that belonged to another generation. I did get to see Bunny Wailer and Black Uhuru play under the stars on a hill outside Montego Bay as part of Reggae Sunsplash one night, though the moths the size of bats were a little distracting.

Once I got to Kingston, I bought a stack of reggae and dub albums (I think it was from Randy's on North Parade) and lugged them all the way back to England via Freeport and Miami.

I wasn't sure which one to pick out to write about but I've gone for Treasure Isle Dub due to the cryptic sleeve that took a bit of investigation. Apart from the title of the album, the only name mentioned anywhere is in the address for 'Coxon's Music City', which is actually a mispelling of Coxsone's Music City, which would hardly have pleased Clement Seymour 'Sir Coxsone' Dodd, the legendary label owner/producer behind Studio One.

Not that Treasure Isle Dub is actually a Coxsone production - he just re-released the album and the budget clearly didn't stretch any further than a two-colour sleeve featuring the title, track listing, Coxsone's studio address and a pencil drawing of a treasure chest.

He even seems to have subsidised the whole enterprise by putting an advert for Air Jamaica in one corner on the back.

Talking of which, has Guy Hands heard about this idea? Dulux's pastel range sponsors Coldplay - he's missed a trick on that one.

Anyway, it turns out Treasure Isle Dub is a collection of rerubs of rocksteady tunes released on Duke Reid's Treasure Isle label mainly in 1966-69.

Just before his death in early 1975, Reid sold the back catalogue to Sonia Pottinger, herself a respected producer who worked with the likes of the Ethiopians, Culture, U Roy, Big Youth and Toots & The Maytals.

Pottinger handed over the tapes over to Reid's nephew Errol Brown (not the lockless Hot Chocolate frontman), who conjured up three dub albums - Treasure Dub volumes one and two, and Pleasure Dub, which has been re-released recently by Pressure Sounds.

Exactly when these albums first came out is hard to discover - my guess is 1975/76, though it could have been as late as 1979, when Brown left Treasure Isle to work for Bob Marley's Tuff Gong.

Assuming it was 1975, dub was still in its infancy back then and Brown's style is pretty straightforward, stripping the songs back and letting a few heavily reverbed vocal snippets float to the surface, while occasionally filtering guitars or drums through the echo chamber.

You race through 12 tracks in half an hour, only two of them breaking the 3-minute mark, and the mood is joyful throughout - Brown keeps you skanking all the way, rather than getting lost in a fug of studio trickery.

Considering it's a compilation (see track listing with original tunes below), it sits together very well, racing past in a blur (not something you can usually say about dub), making it tough to pick stand-out tracks. However, De Pauper A Dub is a particularly fine opener, taking Dobby Dobson's Loving Pauper to higher ground by accentuating the loping groove underpining the original while the vocal bubbles in and out of the mix.

Arabian Dub (here with a picture of the original 1970s LP cover), a rerub of John Holt's Ali Baba, is full of wet, splashing drums, cryptic vocal shards bouncing around the speakers and a great organ/guitar groove.

Dub I Love sees Alton Ellis's original vocal on Baby I Love You granted a little more respect, before being suddenly sent ricocheting around the mix, resulting in a tune that makes you want to dance around with your hands in the air.

I must confess that part of the charm of Treasure Isle Dub is the snap, crackle and pop that accompanies every track. Look close at the vinyl and it's peppered with tiny dimples and there's a curious crease in the run-out groove on side B.

It never jumps but there's quite a bit of surface noise coming off it. Had I bought it in the UK I'd probably have taken it back and asked for a new one, but having carried it halfway around the world it just adds to the charm - a fine reminder of a memorable trip.

Looking at the subsequent reissues of Treasure Isle Dub, it's interesting to see there's still confusion about who the album should be credited to, as well as the year it came out, with some (such as mine), carrying no artist name at all, some giving the honours to Errol Brown and others to The Supersonics.

Pauper A Dub (Dobby Dobson - Loving Pauper, 1967)
Construction Dub Style (John Holt & Slim Smith - Let’s Build Our Dreams, 1971)
Dub So True (Ken Parker - True True True, 1967)
Arabian Dub (John Holt - Ali Baba, 1969)
Dub I Love (Alton Ellis - Baby I Love You, 1967)
Willow Tree Dub (Alton Ellis - Willow Tree, 1968)
Touch-A-Dub (Phyllis Dillon - Don’t Touch Me Tomato, 1968)
This Yah Dub (The Sensations - Those Guys, 1968)
Everybody Dubbing (The Melodians - Everybody Brawlin, 1969)
Moody Dub (The Techniques - I’m In The Mood For Love, 1968)
Dub On Little Girl (The Melodians - Come On Little Girl, 1966)
You I’ll Dub (The Techniques - It’s You I Love, 1968)

Fever Ray - Fever Ray (2009)

News that Let Me In, a US remake of the 2008 film Let The Right One In, is actually pretty good and not as dismal as expected led me to dig out Fever Ray, Karin Dreijer Andersson's 2009 solo album.

I saw the original film not long after getting the album and they've become intertwined in my mind - they're both Swedish, spooky and located inside wintry domestic settings. 

There's also a mutual interest in swimming pools, featuring in the videos for Andersson's When I Grow Up and If I Had A Heart and providing the setting for Eli's limb-tossing rescue of Oskar from his tormentors in the film. 

Andersson even vaguely looks like an amalgamation of the two, with Oskar's straggly blond hair and Eli's mysterious, dark, rather gothic air. Seeing Fever Ray play live last year, she sang the first two songs with what seemed to be a giant insect mask on her head and subsequently spent the rest of the gig standing in the gloom near the back of the stage while lampshades flickered around her.

Andersson also likes to use pitch-shifting effects on her voice, a trick she carries over from The Knife, the band she fronts with her brother, Olof Dreijer. 

She uses it to particularly good effect on album opener If I Had A Heart, with her voice sounding husky and alien as she sings the opening lines 'This will never end because I want more/Give me more, give me more, give me more' over a slowly throbbing electro backing in a manner that brings to mind Eli's ageless thirst.

The film is set on a run-down concrete Swedish housing estate covered in frozen snow and it's a scene easily conjured up by Concrete Walls, with its slow, slurred chorus of 'I live between concrete walls/ In my arms she was so warm'.

The final two songs, Keep The Streets Empty For Me and Coconut, both sound big, echoey and deserted, ideal for soundtracking a walk through slow, windless snowfall under street lights. The effect is a little reminiscent of Gier Jenssen's 1994 Biosphere LP, Patashnik, which he recorded in northern Norway on the edge of the Arctic Circle.

Not that Fever Ray is all so spooky or distant, with Andersson's ability to alchemise her surroundings into something magical sounding also stretching to the most mundane of everyday occurances.

On When I Grow Up she somehow goes from singing about the escapism of 'I want to be a forester/ Run through the moss on high heels' to the remarkable verse of 'I'm very good with plants/ When my friends are away/ They let me keep the soil moist', and somehow takes you with her - you smile rather than smirk.

Seven finds her singing about riding around on her bike and talking to an old friend about love and dishwasher tablets. But my particular favourite is 'A new colour on the globe/ It goes from white to red/ A little voice in my head goes oh oh oh', which will ring a bell with any new parent whose brief moments of respite on the sofa have been shattered by a wail from the baby monitor.

Fever Ray was largely recorded at home very early in the morning while Andersson was bringing up her two children, and lack of sleep is a theme that crops up several times.

On Triangle Walks, she mischievously sings 'Eats us out of house and home/ Keeping us awake, keeping us awake', but it's not the kids she's complaining about, it's the birds who feed on the berries outside her window.

Despite the demands of being a mother and the drain of not sleeping, Andersson seems determined to keep her creativity alive, which is why Fever Ray ultimately feels like an uplifting listen. I'm Not Done is a will to power, a refusal to give up what she loves. 

Perhaps she felt a little like Eli at the end of Right One..., hidden away inside a trunk but tapping out 'kiss' in morse code confident that Oskar is still listening. We're fortunate that she stuck with it because Fever Ray is a fine album that feels all the more appropriate now winter's drawing closer.

The Chambers Brothers - The Time Has Come (1967)

I first bought this on tape in 1992 for a solitary dollar in a record shop sale in Freeport in the Bahamas and listening to it now still brings back memories of driving an American car with the steering wheel on the left but the traffic on the right side of the road.

It's since become one of a select band of albums I own on tape, vinyl and CD (Blondie's Parallel Lines , J Geils Band's Bloodshot, REM's Fables Of The Reconstruction and Miles Davis's Sketches Of Spain are the others that come to mind).

Having only ever heard a five-minute edit of Time Has Come Today previously, I was expecting psychedelic soul but Time... proved more of a curate's egg, filled with traces of the band's long journey from the Mississippi gospel circuit to fashionable Haight-Ashbury.

The Chambers Brothers had already been going 13 years by 1967, having started out as a gospel group when George Chambers quit the army to join forces with his brothers, Willie, Lester and Joe.

By the early 1960s they'd adapted their style to suit folk-blues crowds, with Lester being taught to play harmonica by Sonny Terry along the way. In 1965, they played at the Newport Folk Festival, scene of Bob Dylan's ill-received electric conversion that had Pete Seeger searching for his axe.

Never the types to turn down a paying gig, the Chambers Brothers were also happy playing to R&B crowds pumping out the likes of Long Tall Sally and Bony Moronie.

This approach won them a deal with LA label Vault in 1965 and, a year later, drummer Brian Keenan joined on his return from three years of schooling in London where the psychedelic scene was getting underway. As a result, the band soon threw themselves into the burgeoning US scene, sharing stages with the likes of Iron Butterfly and Quicksilver Messenger Service.

A new deal with Columbia followed and they immediately got busy in the studio in late '66, including an early single version of Time Has Come Today with what sounds like a sitar in the intro.

1967 saw the band's full emergence as black hippies, with the added multi-racial dimension of having a white drummer, which went down a storm on California's countercultural scene.

By the end of the year, Columbia were finally ready to release The Time Has Come. It climaxes with the 11-minute psychedelic blow-out of Time Has Come Today - but before that come a nine-track dash through much of the band's past.

The harmonising between the four brothers remained the bedrock of the band and is brilliantly showcased in covers of two very different songs - Curtis Mayfield's Impressions hit People Get Ready and Bacharach & David's What The World Needs Now Is Love.

They blow up a storm on Lester's I Can't Stand It, a cover of Wilson Pickett's In The Midnight Hour and the particularly fine Uptown, written by Betty Mabry, who later became Betty Davis when she briefly married Miles in 1968 and subsequently released a trio of stunning albums that I want to write about on here in the near future.

George's Please Don't Leave Me is pure barbershop quartet soul and they drop the pace right down for So Tired and Lester's Romeo And Juliet. The recurrent use of a cowbell throughout the album even seems to obliquely tip a hat to their country origins in the Deep South.

Finally the album winds itself up to the full version of Joe and Willie's Time To Come Today, with its spectacular echo-drenched 'time tunnel' section that showcases what a great drummer Keenan was. Joe certainly appears to have noticed when he detours his guitar solo into a sly take on Little Drummer Boy.

When it comes to naming the epic acid rock songs of the 60s, Iron Butterfly's In Gadda Da Vida seems to have stolen Time Has Come Today's thunder, which is harsh. It may be six minutes longer but it came out six months later (18 months if you count the original single version).

Mind you, both bands ultimately suffered the same fate of opening a lot of doors but not being able to capitalise for long while others took their ideas to the bank. The Chambers Brothers suffered from the lack of main songwriter, despite all four brothers earning writing credits on the album and Keenan supplying the excellent B-side Love Me Like The Rain.

Sly & The Family Stone and The Temptations under Norman Whitfield's guidance quickly seized the moment, while the hits dried up for the Chambers Brothers and the band split in 1972.

Various reunions followed but Keenan ended up working as a carpenter before dying of a heart attack in 1985. There's no better way to mark 25 years since his death than by giving The Time Has Come a spin.

Flying Saucer Attack - Further (1995)

Buying an album purely on the strength of its cover seems like a notion from another age now everything is so easily accessible.

Back in the pre-internet twilight, taking a punt on something you'd vaguely heard of - did a friend recommend this? Did I read this name in the NME? Perhaps John Peel mentioned them in passing the other week? - wasn't such a strange idea, particularly if the artwork stood out.

Flying Saucer Attack's Further caught my eye in Piccadilly Records when it came out in 1995. Had someone tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that FSA were a pair of Bristolian shoegazers then I probably would have slipped it back in the racks and gone on my way.

Thankfully, there was no helpful voice to hand and I stood intrigued by the picture of what looks to be a long exposure of a milky moon shot through winter trees. The sun features on the back, sinking into the sea on a rocky beach as clouds roll overhead.

Flip open the gatefold sleeve and there's a becalmed light blue sea almost indistinguishable from the cloud covered sky above. It's reminiscent of the handful of strange, blank seascapes that LS Lowry painted, seemingly intent on proving himself the anti-JWM Turner.

The only writing on the whole thing, bar the spine, is the name of the band and album on the back cover in a deliberately unexciting helvetica font.

In the highly unlikely event that The Wire magazine ever asked me to contribute to their regular feature when people talk about their favourite album cover art then this is what I'd go for.

Not only because the artwork is intriguing, atmospheric and mysterious but also because it brilliantly captures the mood of what lies in the grooves within.

Whispered vocals and sheets of feedback courtesy of David Pearce and Rachel Brook saw them lumped in with the tailend of the shoegaze scene but in truth this was only part of the story. There's a blissful ambient swell to most of the songs that seems touched by Eno's best work and traces of a bucolic folkiness.

Pearce credited Popul Vuh as a major influence, particularly 1971's epic In den Garten Pharaos.

Krautrock and folk may be all the rage nowadays but back in 1995 the former was the preserve of prog fans and latter that of elderly real ale drinkers and earnest lefties.

Just to underline how out of step with the times they were, CD versions of FSA's stuff would carry the legend 'CDs destroy music'.

Which leaves you wondering why FSA haven't been rediscovered. Even shoegaze, so enthusiastically buried by the music press in the mid-1990s as grunge slouched into view, has enjoyed a revival as nu-gaze in the States and heavily influenced the likes of Ulrich Schnauss and Fennesz.

Mind you, FSA were really a post-rock outfit rather than shoegazers. The likes of Chapterhouse, Ride, Lush and Moose were all in love with classic 60/70s songwriting but just smothered it with a vast overdriven guitar sound inspired by the Cocteau Twins, My Bloody Valentine and Dinosaur Jr.

Pearce's influences were rather more exotic, as their 1996 cover of Pentangle's Sally Free And Easy underlined.

A more conventionally fuzzed up cover of Suede's The Drowners on their 1993 self-titled debut album seemed to earn FSA the shoegaze tag that Further should have shaken off but somehow didn't.

There's little in the way of classic songwriting left here, just a huge oceanic swell of sound that builds to an almighty racket at times, particularly on the abrasive Here I Am or the steady build of For Silence.

Other songs are beautifully soothing, gentle lo-fi acoustic guitar lapping against slow guitar drones and echo-drenched dreamy vocals. In The Time Of Light, Come And Close My Eyes and She Is The Daylight all manage to combine pastoral and blissful sounds with the ambience of having been recorded in the cellar of a haunted house in the early hours. With the lights off.

Side one ends with Still Point, Brook's only vocal turn sounding even more distant and diffident than Pearce.

Side two is dominated by the 12-minute To The Shore, a curious krautrock-indebted confection that starts with the ominous bongs of a gong and features several songs sliced together, including excerts of the band playing live. The cover images and song titles may be firmly earth-bound but the sound here is purely cosmic/kosmiche.

After a burst of four albums in two years, FSA steadily ran out of steam, attempting to trade their psychedelic folkie wall of noise for a more rhythm based approach with only partial success.

Brook left to focus on her other band Movietone at the end of 1995 and Pearce steadily slipped out of view - but Further remains a fine legacy worth seeking out.

Shortly after Further came out, Pearce told an interviewer: "Records are your friends. You can look at the song you're hearing, it's physically there in the spirally groove." I salute you, sir, wherever you may be.

Spacemen 3/Wooden Shjips - split 7-inch single (2010)

Having written about the first single I ever bought last time out, this is the most recent - and it's definitely the stuff of vinyl geek dreams.

A limited edition red vinyl single featuring previously unreleased Spacemen 3 material with artwork drawn by an original member of the band plus a cover of one of their finest tunes by San Francisco freaks Wooden Shjips thrown in for good measure. Not exactly a steal at nine quid but who needs new socks when there's this to buy?

Split singles are about as indie as it gets - a show of comradeship and a treat for the fans - not to mention a good way to get a bit more cash over the merch desk on a tour. Oasis would never have bothered with a split single. Too small time.

Mind you, Metallica and Black Sabbath put one out together in April to celebrate Record Store Day, so it would seem all things are possible.

This is actually the second Spacemen 3 split single I've got, the previous one coming free with a fanzine in 1990, with the Spacemen and Mudhoney covering each other's songs to great effect.

The 'new' Spacemen track here is labelled Big City (demo) and though it certainly went on to become the track of that name, this version must have been called something different when it was recorded as the chorus is nowhere to be heard.

The burbling synths are in place but sound more inspired by The Silver Apples, Suicide or Kraftwerk than anything being played in dance clubs of the time, while the heavily phased guitar lines are present and correct as Pete Kember once again manages to make an asset of his limited skills.

But the melody and lyrics are totally different and the song starts with a spoken intro similar to Let Me Down Gently from 1989's Playing With Fire album. Like several of Kember's songs from this period, it's not clear if it's about a girl or about his fellow Spaceman Jason Pierce.

The band was crumbling at this stage, with 1991's final album, Recurring, basically two solo albums glued together, with Kember and Pierce only playing together on one song (Mudhoney's When Tomorrow Hits, from the previous mentioned fanzine vinyl, which had already come out a year earlier and predated the album sessions).

'I felt so tied up/And I wanted to be free/And I wanted to be you/And I wanted you to be me/Yes, I was blind and I thought I could see/And I'm sorry I'm not what you needed me to be'. Make of that what you will.

It's not hard to see why Kember decided to have a rethink, taking the song in an entirely new direction apparently inspired by attending a particularly druggy Happy Mondays gig and his own experiments with ecstacy.

Giving the synth line a techno sheen and ditching the original bummer lyrics for lines such as 'All of my friends can be found here', 'Let the good times roll' and the final bliss-struck pay off of 'Waves of joy/ Yeah, I love you too' took Big City out of the bedroom and down to the disco. Of course, this being Spacemen 3, it still sounded to slow and stoned to actually work on the dance floor but it was fascinating to hear Kember absorbing the sounds of the era into his usual esoteric stew of influences.

The final version may be superior but this is still a charming work in progress, with its clear links to the Playing With Fire era.

On the flip side is Wooden Shjips version of I Believe It, originally a gospel-inspired devotional drone from Playing With Fire that's dominated by keyboards and features Kember at his most wide eyed and awe struck.

The Shjips take it to the garage and swathe it in fuzz guitar while Ripley Johnson rolls out a bluesy psych solo that owes more to Pierce than Kember.

I must confess to being in two minds about the Shjips. At times, particular the Volume One compilation of early singles, they seem utterly inspired with their endlessly refracting motorik boogie. But at other times, they strike me as absurdly stunted, locked in by a limited palate and chugging endless round in addled circles.

But I Believe It finds them at their best, with Johnson's echo-drenched whisper suiting the lyric just as well as Kember's rather more committed original version did and the Shjips managing to draw on the Spacemen's Perfect Prescription era sound to breathe fresh life into the song.

With Kember and Pierce seemingly no nearer to settling their differences than when the Spacemen finally split in 1991, this two-song morsel is a fine reminder of what a great band they were.

Fans of Big City may also find this Erol Alkan remix of interest.

My first single: Booker T & The MGs - Green Onions (1980)

I bought my first single from Woolies in Stockport in January 1980, when I was ten years old. I think I paid 59p for Green Onions out of my Christmas money, though it may well have been cheaper.

I can't recall what spurred me to actually buy it, though I dimly remember it standing out on the radio at the time - a taut, short burst of instrumental R&B played at walking pace, kind of slow and tense and groovy at the same time.

I'd been taping the Top 40 on Sunday evenings for a while and already bought my first album (Blondie's Parallel Lines, sadly on tape) so experiencing the rite of passage of buying your first single was surely overdue. Other kids at school must have been talking about what they'd bought, so I headed off to nail my colours to the mast.

I may have cheated myself of the full experience by heading to Woolies, where I was probably served by a kindly middle-aged lady, rather than some intimidating High Fidelity-style bloke disgusted by the idea of children buying music. I suspect I was also accompanied by my mother, come to think of it.

Still, despite the unpromising circumstances, Green Onions turned out to be a fine choice for first single. Quite why it wasn't something terrible like The Monks' Nice Legs Shame About Her Face or The Buggles' Video Killed The Radio Star I'm not quite sure. M's Pop Muzik and The Knack's My Sharona must have been in serious consideration about that time, because I loved both, but thankfully Green Onions was the winner when it came to parting with my money.

It came in a brown sleeve marked with the Atlantic logo - no picture sleeve sadly - and had been re-released 17 years after it was originally a US hit because it featured in Quadrophenia, to the sight of a preening Sting dancing at a Mod disco. Not that I was aware of any of this at the time.

Booker T & the MGs had disbanded back then, so there was no Top Of The Pops appearance.

I recall the huge sense of investment I felt while listening to the weekend chart after I'd bought it. Surely it would go straight to No.1 now I'd slung my resources behind it. In truth, it crept to No.7 and started to slide the week after. I felt slightly cheated.

Not that it put me off listening to the record. I've played it on and off for the last 30 years and never grown tired of it. Some of the music of your youth you lose interest it or turn against only to return to because it has such a nostalgic pull. But Green Onions has always sounded great.

It's been claimed that Green Onions in some kind of drug reference but Booker T Jones, who was just 17 when he wrote the song's great Hammond organ riff, insists it refers to a cat whose walk inspired the loping pace of the song.

That rather more innocent explanation suits the memories it evokes. Playing it now still brings back my parents' old stereo, with its wooden trim around the edges, large radio dial and top-loader tape deck.

Most of the music of my youth reminds me of friends and places but Green Onions is all about still being at home, heading into the final straight of primary school, fooling myself that I a big kid now because I was about to head off to secondary school.

Ah, Pannini stickers, the smell of cut grass on the school field, jumpers for goalposts...

Factory work: how records get made

Tucked away in the Guardian's Money section the other week was a curious little article about what was supposed to be Britain's only surviving large-scale vinyl record factory, based in Middlesex.


Back in the 1970s it was owned by EMI and used to press 1million records a week, nowadays it's down to 100,000 a month and the equipment is all 40 years old. Check out this slideshow about the place.

It looks like something you'd find at Manchester Science and Industry Museum, just up from the old machines from the cotton mills.

Making records is a messy, sticky job requiring elderly gentlemen in overalls to tinker with large, complicated machines. Lovely. Some things is life are worth sweating over.

It's the equivalent of watching your photographs swim into view in a little basin of chemicals in a dark room you've set up in your cellar, rather than churning digital pictures out of your printer. We all need a little soul in our lives, after all.

However, a few days later, it transpired that the wonderful if rather unimaginatively titled Vinyl Factory had not been the country's only old-school LP producer after all.

Police raided an industrial unit in West London to find two 'German men' presiding over a large pirate vinyl operation involving 200 record 'stampers'. It sounds faintly like something out of 'Allo 'Allo. Presumably an Italian escaped through the toilet window.

Apparently these dastardly German chaps were printing up various hard to find records, including Rolling Stones live bootlegs, and they even the equipment to make coloured vinyl. Perhaps I should put in a cheeky bid to the police for the machinery - after all, it's probably leaking oil over a corner of the station at this very moment.

Most of their output must have made it's way on to Ebay and various record shops, with a fair few collectors nervously checking recent costly purchases for a scent of bratwurst.

Which goes to show that this recent trend for rubbish-sounding but incredibly limited edition records to sell for massive money simply due to their obscurity and lack of availability might not be the best way to invest your money after all.

I'm firmly of the belief that you should buy vinyl to play it, otherwise you're missing out on the best part of the fun.

I might even get hold of a few cheap Stones bootlegs on lovely coloured vinyl now...

Neko Case - Blacklisted (2002)

Consider yourself lucky if you're reading this in Europe because you can still legitimately consider Neko Case to be your own wonderful little secret, that amazing artist that should be massive but only you seem to appreciate.

Case finally cracked it in the States last year with Middle Cyclone, crashing straight in at No.3 on the album chart and securing performing slots on David Letterman, Jay Leno, Jimmy Fallon etc.

But in the UK, she's still lumped in with the alt.country scene that went out of fashion in the mid-Noughties. When she played Manchester on the Fox Confessor Brings The Flood tour in 2006, there were barely 150 people in attendance - but we all went home with big stupid grins plastered across our faces.

Blacklisted was the first Case album I ever heard, taking a punt due to being intrigued by The New Pornographers power-pop tune Mass Romantic she sang on and the fact that the Calexico/Giant Sand folk were all involved.

The front cover just added to the intrigue - she lies shoeless beneath a van stuffed with someone's possessions while a plane flies overhead.

She'd already played dead on the front of 2000's Furnace Room Lullaby but here she looks straight into the camera with a faint smile on her face, despite her position.

On the back cover, she's again on the floor but this time her red hair is framed by golden hay and shadowy deer look on - the idea seems to be that Case is an untameable force of nature, which is never less than unpredictable and usually outright dangerous in her songs.

The gatefold sleeve inside includes a dedication 'for the ladies' and features a list of the impressive support cast she's rustled up, including Dallas Good, John Convertino, Joey Burns, Howe Gelb, Kelly Hogan, Jon Rauhouse and Mary Margaret O'Hara.

Put the record on and it doesn't take long for Case's dark and mysterious country noir to hook you in, particularly when it frames her honeyed swoop of a voice, frail and tender one moment, fierce and strange the next.

If Case was more interested in playing the record company game, she could have sold millions without breaking sweat. Just listen to her version of Runnin' Out Of Fools that appears on side two. Not many can take on Aretha and hold their own but Case does just that, wringing every ounce of regret, need and defiance out of the song.

But Blacklisted is far too twisted and unfathomable to have taken on the mainstream, as Case acknowledged at the time: 'I'm not out to become Faith Hill, I never want to play an arena, and I never want to be on the MTV Video Music Awards, much less make a video with me in it.'

She's stayed pretty true to those words ever since. Middle Cyclone is her most pop-friendly record to date but check out the video for single People Gotta Lotta Nerve (in which she only appears in cartoon form), featuring the chorus 'I'm a man-man-man-eater' and a verse about a killer whale 'eating your leg and both your lungs'.

Just in case you're still not sure if she's as tough as she makes out, enjoy this on-stage banter (Case is well known for her amusing mid-set rambles, as showcased on 2004's The Tigers Have Spoken live album).

Murder hangs heavy in the air from the off on Blacklisted, with the lyrics for Things That Scare Me sounding like they've come from the pen of Jim Thompson or James Ellroy: 'The hammer clicks in place/ The world's gonna pay/ Right down in the face of God and his saints/ Claim your soul's not for sale/I'm a dying breed who still believes/ Haunted by American dreams'

Deep Red Bells sides with the potential victim and was influenced by Case's memories of living in Seattle when the Green River Killer was at large in the 1990s.

The mood can only get lighter, so how about a two-minute love song?

Outro With Bees is slow and gentle, with Burns on cello and Gelb on pump organ, as Case lilting tells her lover, while he has a glass of wine in his hand, not to get too comfortable: 'So it's better, my sweet/ That we hover like bees/ 'Cause there's no sure footing/ No love I believe'.

Humour starts to creep in with Lady Pilot ('She's not afraid to die') and a cover of Look For Me (I'll Be Around) that strips out all the neediness and comes on smoky femme fatale in a manner part Eartha Kitt and part Linda Fiorentino in The Last Seduction.

But, as great as the covers are, it's the originals you want to listen to because Case's lyrics are so gripping.
Pretty Girls is a song to female solidarity in a doctor's waiting room, finishing with the line 'I won't tell you I told you so', while I Wish I Was The Moon Tonight bends heavy with sweet melancholy soul.

The title track explores youthful fever one day finding peace but it's the album's willfulness that makes it such a pleasure.

The fact that Case has become a major selling act in the States on her own terms in the States is to be celebrated. Just as long as everyone continues to ignore her over here and I can carry on feeling smug about it...

AC/DC - Powerage (1978)

Our starcross'd lovers met in 1971 when he stepped down from a stage in Adelaide and her observation of 'That's a well packed lunch' was greeted with the response: 'Yes, two hard-boiled eggs and a sausage.' Such backstage banter usually leads to a quick tourbus bunk-up, followed by a slightly awkward goodbye, but Bon Scott and Irene Thornton were married less than a year later.

A disastrous stint in England, while Bon failed to get his hippy prog band Fraternity off the ground, took the gloss of their nuptuals, though, and the couple split in 1974. The offer of replacing AC/DC's original singer Dave Evans soon followed in September, as the band realised their early glam rock incarnation wasn't really working out.

With Bon onboard, AC/DC begin their slow climb towards becoming the fifth-biggest-selling band in US history - and the singer quickly gained a reputation as a wild man, always to be found with a drink in one hand and a dame in the other.

Despite his hellraising public image, Bon continued to write lovelorn letters to Irene in Australia. In one he pretends to write as a friend of his, saying: "There is no one in the whole wide world he loves more. Bon is very lonely and he misses his beautiful young spouse with all his heart."

This strange state of affairs continues until 1978, when Irene declares that she wants a divorce. Bon agrees - and the experience inspires the lyrics to his band's finest 40 minutes.

Stirred into the usual Bon mots about booze, sex and rock'n'roll, this makes for a revealing look of a life spent forever on the road - moments of abandon and ecstasy mixed with loneliness, boredom and frustration.

Musically, Powerage is glorious runaway train of supercharged rock'n'roll boogie, the Young brothers churning out a seemingly tireless sturm und drang stream of classic riffage. Angus provides all manner of squealing solos to drive the songs to ever greater peaks of delirium, while Bon's leather-lunged caterwaul charges in over the top. The effect is as electrifying as Angus on the front cover - you can't help feeling a wave of energy off the vinyl.

But listen to the lyrics and it starts to sound like the walls are closing in - Rock'n'Roll Damnation is half a celebration of Bon's life of excess and half a rueful acknowledgement of what it's going to cost him (he started receiving treatment for liver damage a year later at the age of 32, so his body was probably already starting to rebel against the punishment).

Riff Raff sides with the unloved Common Joe while Sin City is a shopping listing of Bon's favourite indulgences ('Lamborginis, caviar, dry Martinis, Shangri-La!') that starts with the insistence 'I'm gonna win' before reality dawns in the mid-song breakdown that no one has 'a hope in hell' when the pack is cut and the dice loaded.

Perhaps it's easy to read things into the songs because we know that two years later he'd be found dead in a friend's car aving succumbed to acute alcoholic poisoning, but it's hard to escape the feeling that Bon already knows he's on a highway to hell, that escaping back to his wife and living quietly is a dream he'll never realise.

As he sings on Up To My Neck In You: 'I've been up to my neck in pleasure/I've been up to my neck in pain/I've been up to my neck on the railway track/Waiting for the train'.

He's fantasising about tying Irene to a railroad track on What's Next To The Moon, hoping to convince her to take him back. In the chorus, he confesses 'It's her love that I want/It's her love that I need'.

On Gimme A Bullet, he's bemoaning 'Long distant lips/On the telephone/Come tomorrow, come to grips/With me all alone' before the feelings of powerlessness turn to anger on Kicked In The Teeth Again, which starts with a desperate wail of 'Two faced woman with your two-faced lies'.

Throw in a song about a girl overdosing on Gone Shootin' (which may have been where the Bon on smack rumours started, though spending your last night alive hanging out backstage with The Only Ones probably doesn't help) and this hardly fits in with the image of the twinkle-eyed wild man, which perhaps explains why Powerage remains neglected.

But I've saved the best to last because not all of Bon's woes were woman-related as he reveals in Down Payment Blues, one of the finest lyrics he ever wrote. Angus and Malcolm slow the pace down a little and sashay out an ebbing and flowing groove as Bon uses dry wit to reveal the reality of having spent a decade playing in rock bands but still having to avoid the rent man and struggle to feed his cat.

As he puts in the final verse: 'Feeling like a paper cup/Blowing down a storm drain/Got myself a sailing boat/But I can't afford a drop of rain'.

AC/DC went on to hit paydirt with the 49million-selling Back In Black, featuring Brian Johnson on vocals, which was released in July 1980, five months after Bon's death. His last letter to Irene - Bon never stopped writing even after she divorced him - finally arrived in Australia around the same time.

Considering the millions ending their marriage must have ultimately cost her, Irene probably finds Down Payment Blues a tough listen nowadays.

In 2003, she was invited along as AC/DC were inducted into the Rock'n'Roll Hall Of Fame, despite the fact that she'd split up with Bon by the time he joined the band. During the evening, Angus told Irene that she was 'the only one Bon ever trusted', which is probably about as gushing as a Glaswegian-turned-Aussie-ocker ever gets.