Consisting of Roy Wood, Jeff Lynne and Bev Bevan, this album, recorded for the band’s new label and EMI’s progressive wing, Harvest, saw Lynne move to the fore, sharing 50% of the songwriting, vocal and production duties with the The Move’s regular creative workhorse, Roy Wood.

As a band that’d travelled a musical path from Mod chic and pop, to psychedelic floweriness, through to some particularly weighty progressive rock, Message From the Country sees a return to the realms of the pop song, albeit in a somewhat progressive vein.

Not quite the best album The Move ever recorded (Looking On still pips it at the post), it does contain one of the best songs, if not the best song, to bolt from the stable of Birmingham’s finest. ‘The Words of Aaron’ is a post-psychedelic masterpiece from the pen of Jeff Lynne; a moody and enigmatic tune that features dual vocals from Lynne and Wood, suitably cryptic lyrics and the menacing intrusion of an electric bassoon.

Yes, an electric bassoon! Of all things!

But it isn’t just ‘The Words of Aaron‘ that make Message From the Country such a worthwhile cause. Throughout, The Move play like a band in their prime and the songwriting is top notch, this is despite their attentions having already moved onto the Electric Light Orchestra project. A more conscientious triumvirate of tuneful Brummies, you’d be hard pressed to find.

‘Message From the Country’, the opening track and Jeff Lynne’s meditative ode to impending environmental disaster, is another strong contender for the all-time greats vault, and nestled between these two fine songs is a collection of the diverse, the experimental and the downright bizarre.

The Bevan-penned Elvis pastiche ‘Don’t Mess Me Up’, gives Roy Wood the opportunity to roll out his best Presley vocals, which he’d go on to revisit for both the first and second Wizzard albums. Elsewhere, Bevan himself is given the opportunity to take lead vocals for the first time since ‘Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart’ on The Move’s debut album, this time with the Johnny Cash-flavoured ‘Ben Crawley Steel Company’. As in the case of his previous stint out from behind the drum kit, the results are – at best – interesting.

Such frivolities aside, the remainder of the tracks are all firmly on the right side of decent, with Roy Wood’s Middle Eastern tinged ‘It Wasn’t My Idea to Dance’, being a particular highlight. Even the daft as badger-buggery, music hall wheeze of ‘My Marge’ passes muster. That’s how good this album is.

But it doesn’t end there. The 2005 Harvest reissue of Message From the Country features eight bonus tracks, made up of the final singles The Move released (none of which feature on the original album), as well as three previously unheard session tracks. Nestled amidst these bonuses is the wonderful Jerry Lee Lewis-styled ‘California Man’, the final song recorded under The Move name. A raucous, 1950′s throwback of a rock ‘n’ roller, it serves as a more than fitting end to a cracking legacy, one which began with a very different line-up at Birmingham’s Cedar Club, six years before.

Likewise, Message From the Country is an enviable swansong from one of the great bands sitting on the 60s/70s cusp.

Message From the Country by The Move is reissued by Harvest and available to buy from Amazon.co.uk

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It also begs the question of whether following these outpourings of creativity, the bands were just too spent to think of an album title. Either that or the drugs had worn off. Why else would so many bands opt for the boring eponymous route for their debut opus?

Progressive pop/rock combo Cressida is just one of the many to venture down this well-trodden path.

Released in 1970 on the Vertigo label, Cressida, the album, showcases a band eager to get in, do the business, and get out before anybody has noticed. Not for them is the traditional avenue of extended guitar and keyboard solos. Breaking with the unwritten norm, the songs on Cressida are, in contrast to other venerable members of the progressive community, succinct.

If Cressida was a property on the housing market, it might well be sold as “compact and bijou”. As it isn’t, one presumes the band had an eye firmly on the bigger picture, paring away the excesses associated with the genre in the hope of mainstream commercial success. Obviously, that’s mere speculation and probably about as accurate as any other scandalous presumption you might’ve read within these pages.

Nevertheless, this tighter, fat-free approach offers an alternative perspective looking out onto the less weighty vista of a proto-prog/pop crossover. That’s not to say there aren’t enough elaborate and intricate organ melodies, courtesy of Peter Jennings, to keep the old whistle wet.

‘To Play Your Little Game’ is an excellent starting point for an album and at three and a half minutes is a perfect distillation of this particular stage of Cressida’s musical career (their second, superior album, Asylum, being in the more customary mould incorporating lavish arrangements and extended instrumental passages). Swimming in a cathedral of sound and buoyed on by the undercurrents of a moody organ and bursts of lightning fast keyboard magic, the remainder of Cressida seems to struggle to maintain the dizzying standard set by its opener.

Both ‘Winter is Coming Again’ and ‘Depression’ are worthy of mention, the former being a particularly atmospheric piece, but, unfortunately, the rest of Cressida fails to offer anything as memorable as those three tracks already mentioned.

Still, it’s worth a listen if you’re after something a little bit different, none too taxing, and capable of idling away the odd 45 minutes or so. Plus, the keyboard playing is top drawer.

Cressida by Cressida is reissued by Repertoire and available to buy from Amazon.co.uk

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Although Birmingham’s finest beard (and bard) can boast a finger jabbed deep into many a musical pie, as far back as his early days in The Move there has been an experimental edge asserting its authority over the poppier elements. The Move’s third album, Looking On, was as progressive as they come, and then there’s both ELO’s debut and Wizzard’s Wizzard Brew, the latter a heavy, eclectic mixture that’s the sonic equivalent of a progressive brick wall falling on your head.

Roy Wood’s second solo album, 1975′s Mustard, is no exception. Traditional prog rock, in the vein of Yes, ELP or King Crimson, this is not, but the scope of its invention and the refusal to adhere to what might be regarded as common musical strictures makes it equally as progressive as a Gentle Giant album. The fact that, as with his previous solo excursion Boulders, Roy Wood wrote, arranged, produced, sang and played all the instruments himself only adds to this unconventional approach and justification of the prog label I’ve bestowed upon it. I like to label things, see?

On Mustard, Wood effortlessly creates the sound of a full band, and in the case of ‘The Rain Came Down on Everything’ and ‘The Song’ a full symphony orchestra, long before sampling and digital trickery made it possible to do from the comfort of one’s own bedroom. He also double tracks and speeds up his own vocals to give the impression of an accompaniment of female backing singers. All of this in 1975.

Aside from a few brief vocal contributions from Phil Everly (yes, that one), Annie Haslam and regular collaborator and ex-Move bassist Rick Price, this (like Boulders) is a solo album in every sense of the word. It’s also Roy Wood’s last great album under any guise.

Dependant on the version you’re listening to, Mustard either kicks off with the title-track ‘Mustard’, an Andrews Sisters pastiche relayed through the scratchy speaker of two-valve radio, or, in my case, the thundering single ‘O What a Shame’. It’s then onwards into a fine selection of songs that include the aforementioned symphonic excursions, ‘The Rain…’ and ‘The Song’, and another single and Roy Wood favourite, the infectious ‘Look Thru the Eyes of a Fool’. The highlight has to be ‘You Sure Got it Now’, a multilayered, hectic blend of styles that Wood himself describes as “The Andrews Sisters backed by John Mayall.” Such a description fails to do justice to what’s a track bustling with energy, off-kilter nuances and the familiar brand of Roy Wood humour. ‘Get on Down Home’ is a rousing close to the album, featuring the vocal insert by Phil Everly, and harks back to the weighty rock ‘n’ roll blend that fought for air throughout the Wizzard debut.

Give Roy Wood a kitchen sink and he’d probably get a half-decent tune out of it, and Mustard, like its 1973 predecessor Boulders, serves as a terrific showcase of the man’s love of music and his mastery of the instruments he chooses to incorporate. Of the two, Mustard, controversially, remains the HFoS favourite. It may have flopped because of record company apathy but it retains a stronger edge than the patchy-in-places Boulders. That said, both are must-haves for fans of Wood’s considerable body of work and easily knock anything he released post-1975 into a thoroughly cocked hat.

Progressive rock, progressive pop, progressive pop-crossover… Whatever you want to label it, Mustard is a golden dollop of Roy Wood at his inventive best, guaranteed to leave your musical taste-buds a-tingling.

Unfortunately Mustard is presently deleted and only available to those with an aversion to money through Amazon.co.uk

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I have all manner of concept albums, sonically detailing topics as diverse as deaf, dumb and blind pinball players, alien invasions from Mars, the life cycle of a lad named SF Sorrow, poetry competitions, creepy old tramps and the bucolic lifestyle (Jethro Tull can lay claim to the last three) but what I didn’t have was a concept album about cricket! What’s more, I didn’t have a concept album about cricket that nodded towards the late seventies ELO sound.

Until now, that is. All hail the Duckworth Lewis Method, an album that not only ticks all the above boxes but also goes a long way to restoring my faith in ‘modern’ music.

The Duckworth Lewis Method are a match made in heaven, marrying Jeff Lynne to Flanders and Swann and embarking on a cheeky affair with the eccentricity of Giles, Giles and Fripp before the icing on the wedding cake has had chance to dry. And the tongue remains firmly in the cheek throughout.

As quintessentially English as Brian Cant, Camberwick Green and punch-ups on pub carparks-

But wait! What’s this? The Duckworth Lewis Method isn’t the product of a clandestine liaison between Noel Coward and Terry Thomas but the work of two Irishmen (Shock, Horror!) They be Thomas Walsh of jaunty prog/popsters Pugwash and The Divine Comedy’s Neil Hannon. HFoS tips the trilby to both the aforementioned gents.

The twelve tracks on Duckworth Lewis Method stick firmly to the subject matter of cricket, from ‘The Coin Toss’ through to ‘The End of the Over’, playing on the absurdities of such a bizarre sport in an affectionate manner as the language of the game is employed to humorous effect. There are some genuine laugh out loud moments, the outrageously jaunty and wonderful ‘Jiggery Pokery’ being a particular joy, and the likes of ‘The Age of Revolution’, ‘Meeting Mr Miandad’ and the pastoral ‘Flatten the Hay’ all offering a quirky brand of progressive pop.

HFoS can’t recommend the Duckworth Lewis Method enough. It’s ELO, it’s funny, it’s English through and through (okay, maybe not 100% English), and it has a song that mentions both Merv Hughes and his bloody great handlebar moustache (Jiggery Pokery). And what’s more, it knocks anything else that’ll be released this year into the pavilion for an eye-blackening six.

To end on a groaning cliché/metaphor – you don’t need to know your Chinaman from your Googly to appreciate the Duckworth Lewis Method, what is the perfect pop package, dispatched with the gusto and sureness of a Shane Warne delivery.

Duckworth Lewis Method is released on Divine Comedy Records and available from Amazon.co.uk

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