The late eighties wasn�t the ideal time for Mark & The No-Marks� deranged hybrid of English folk, free jazz and ghost puppetry, but there never has been an ideal time. Exclamation Mark, dressed up in his ridiculous David Crosby-esque green cape, refused to pander to contemporary fashions and trends, and even seem to resent any acclaim or approval, as if it was a sign that he was doing something wrong. This may explain why he hated this live favourite, scornfully introducing it at shows as �our sell-out�.

I chose the track not only because it�s the only thing that was ever officially released (along with its b-side, an utterly spastic reworking of the Monkees� Theme called �March of the No-Marks� replete with Tube station announcements- �this is the Bakerloo line service to Elephant & Castle�- and girls yelling, �Mark NO! No MARK!!!� at the singer) but it is also by far the best thing they ever did. And it was still far, far from sell-out material (it barely sold any). It is the only No-Mark record you need to hear. All of their less grating eccentricities are here, the schizophrenic dialogues, the lyrical obsessions with pylons and German bunkers, the shoddy jazz drumming, the demonic chanting, the cackling, the mewing (!), but this time it�s all held together by an ace nagging riff, and a supremely warped and swashbuckling chorus where an increasingly unhinged mark sneers, �it�s cooool not to care, sooo cooool not to care�� before he eventually loses all sense entirely and barks breathlessly, �NOT NOT, it�s not sooo care! COOL!!!�

Mark of course was incensed that their label released it as a single and vowed never to �bow to the pound� again. And as a result retired to his studio cave, muttering that their forthcoming album, �a didactic concept album about animal reincarnation� would be their most progressive work yet. And disastrous. If the rumours are true �My Family Are Other Animals� was abandoned after a record company executive visited the studio, described the tapes as �utter utter shit�, and then tried to throttle Mark with a microphone cable.

This is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard. I play it when I have people over listening to music and they get the glazed-over "too much information" look, and I need something to confound expectations. Always with the warning that they need to listen to the whole lyric before breaking down in laughter or confusion. I don't know how closely this english version follows the original Jacques Brel french, but each lyric is more ridiculous than the last! But I thought the Albert/morphine episode of Little House on the Prairie episode was one of the funniest things ever, so maybe I am just warped. This is my favorite Scott Walker album, with the other great Brel tunes "next" and "the girls and the dogs", great originals like "plastic palace people", and the haunting slow version of the Bacharach/David "windows of the world".

Cathy Dennis' music is predominantly rubbish. As UK residents know, she is now the writer behind much of the teeny crap that fills the top 40 singles chart every week. But When Dreams Turn to Dust shines like a beacon amongst a fog of blandness. I bought the single for 50 pence from a charity shop in 2000. I thought I'd paid too much. I was wrong.

I was out of work at the time and looking for a job. Dennis' masterpiece is the sound of those crazy job-search days - there was a good two week period when I listened to this song continually. Hard times economically - even tougher times on the turntable...

The song has a king of warped Beatles/Byrds quality. And an amazing minor chord chorus. To top it all, she shifts the whole chorus up an octave in the final eight or so bars and kills the listener with a repetitive and insistent refrain.

Convinced by its majesty, I then bought one of her dance albums from a car boot sale for �1. Never has money been so well intentionally spent and inevitably wasted.

Like a song by Cole Porter infused with the Mael brothers warped Americana and sung over the backing track of Donna Summer,s "Hot Stuff",if that gives you any idea of what to expect then you wont be disappointed when you finally get to hear it .
So just to add to the most bizzare of musical ingredients there is a sci-fi/prog rock keyboard solo somewhere in the middle strange but-------------------------Great .

When I think of my favorite stuff by Tom Waits, I always look back to the time when the writing and arranging of his songs were more playful, avant pop exercises, colored by a range of intense and deep emotional swatches, yet always with humor. My favorite stretch in his catalog of work is from Swordfishtrombones to Franks Wild Years (Marc Ribot?). Songs were always off-kilter, tenuous, unpredictable...far-away organs played against a punchy latin rhumba beat...oh, here comes the circus, jolted by a bended-note/feedback guitar part. Wha?

I heard a lot more characters in his voice, too. The sideshow barker, the Ironweed hobo, the cocky but sensitive playboy, or the frustrated, suburbia-warped freespirit looking to make a break.

This track off Franks Wild Years feels like an old, worn out, spaghetti western-inspired guitar shuffle. Its whispered from the lips of a grizzled shopkeeper in a soon-to-be ghosttown, telling his concerned companion the need to reach for where your dreams dwell: "out where your enemies lie." There's little consolation against what most likely will be an exercise in futility, but necessary nonetheless, to carve out some sort of happiness. Get used to it.

Somehow it seems to fit these times very well...