The Sound Spectrum

The first album in a planned series of explorations into mood music, The Sound Gallery is entirely responsible for the current re-evaluation of Easy Listening. Since its release in March 1995, a wave of similar compilations has ensued: The Chase, Volumes 1 & 2; Teen Tonic, a brassy, E-type Jag of a bootleg with no credits other than the listed tracks; and, more recently, The Easy Listening Project, which looks set to cash in with its sumptuous gatefold sleeve and acres of text. But by far the most sensational re-release of the new year is Vampyros Lesbos, Sexadelic Dance Party; the original soundtrack for a kinky German horror film directed by Jesse Franco in 1970. For the timely reissue of such a recording we are indebted to The Sound Gallery and the subsequent release last November of The Sound Spectrum, a mixed bag of theme music, M.O.R. and orchestral funk. The self-appointed 'curators' of The Sound Spectrum are fashion designer Patrick Whitaker and Martin Green, DJ and promoter of Smashing nightclub.

'After the success of The Sound Gallery, which brought together some of our favourite tracks from the E.M.I. vaults, we were thrilled to be presented with the keys of Pye Recordings; one of the greatest British Record companies of the 60s and 70s. After three days of intensive musical excavation we emerged, blinking into the light, with armfuls of dusty master tapes'. The theme for Get Carter by Roy Budd opens the 'her' side with a mystical harpsichord followed by a silky smooth double bass and tabla. Thereafter, a groovy Hammond organ and the sound of a speeding train weave in and out of the main score. The track ends with an ambient recording of Newcastle station. In the microscopic sleeve notes, director Mike Hodges' approval abounds for the resurrection of Roy Budd, an undiscovered John Barry for the 90s: 'I wrote and directed Get Carter over 20 years ago. Listening to Budd's score after all that time, I realise it has lost none of its brilliance'. And, from the film's star, Michael Caine: 'Roy was a friend of mine and a great composer. I loved his score and I'm very pleased that it's available once more'.

The overall mood range of The Sound Spectrum oscillates from the finger-waving soul of Roy Budd's Love Is A Four Letter Word to the laid-back strings of Grow Your Own by The John Schroeder Orchestra. Many of these tracks are reminiscent of a great day out at Spar. Also Sprach Zarathustra (2001) by The Cecil Holmes Soulful Sound reminds us, not of space, but a carpet sale. Budd's classy Hurry To Me conjures up a drive through the French countryside followed by Riviera cocktails, while rippling wah-wah and melancholic trumpet evoke the rainy day drudgery of a Northern town in The Milton Hunter Orchestra's rendition of The Loner. In contrast, Pegasus by Mike Vickers is a bombastic composition which exudes a feeling of power at the gear stick; very shammy leather. There are several fly-guy tracks including Super Goose and the Duckling's Super Shine #9, and Heavy Water by Ray Davies His Funky Trumpet & Button Down Brass. Each recording throws up a multitude of mental pictures: fireside tumblers, The Lancaster Gate Hotel, big hair and special offer baked beans. So much so, that The Sound Gallery is the audio equivalent of an art fair.

In hindsight, we can afford to be cynical about the more up-beat tracks which are so happy they provide the perfect soundtrack for our mediocre decade. Certainly this is true of Split Level by The City of Westminster String Band, which summons up an image of someone spinning for joy in Trafalgar Square. Not surprisingly, 'tired, myopic, tastemakers of yesteryear' dismissed these recordings as the most conformist of their generation. Piped into shopping centres, family restaurants and elevators, music for pleasure is commonly acknowledged as an orchestral opiate. However, a quarter of a century later, we find such transparent narrative and cartoon optimism strangely hopeful. While it is sad that in order to revel in our time we should refer to someone else's, the emotional thinness of these recordings is a pertinent reminder that the millennium's end is equally dreary. Surrounded by the soporific reality of domestic technology and home computing - insufferable advertisements for Windows 95 and chat-back phone-lines - the nihilistic undertow of The Sound Gallery is readily thrown at the 90s as a way of telling it to get real.