And last, but not least: Criminally overlooked musicians in the modern era.

You know the sort of moment I mean. That moment when you’re listening to a song you’ve heard hundreds of times before, a song which has tattooed itself onto your very soul, and suddenly you notice some new dimension to the track; something you somehow failed to notice yet which makes the song that much more revelatory. It happened the other day when I was casually listening to The Smiths’ Barbarism Begins at Home from their album Meat is Murder. The song is up there with the band’s funkiest moments but all of a sudden I found myself physically locked into the groove provided by the bass and drums. Sure, Morrissey’s lyrics are astoundingly astute and Johnny Marr’s slinky guitar gets the limbs a-movin’, but the rhythm section suddenly broke free, demanding to be recognised.

So, here is a hastily assembled list of criminally overlooked musicians who have struggled to muscle past chiselled frontmen or cool-as-fuck guitar heroes. Enjoy. (WARNING: You will have heard of all of these bands)

*Andy Rourke + Mike Joyce ~ The Smiths: Considering it was these two gentlemen who inspired me to write this it is only right that I begin with them. Unable to bustle past Morrissey’s ego and Johnny Marr’s arrangement prowess, these two likely lads provided an unshakeable rhythm section to the 80s most treasured peddlers of glum. From the happy-go-lucky bounce of the band’s more jangly moments to the soft, tender grooves of the more heartfelt numbers, Joyce and Rourke never let you down. They could rock it with the best of them aswell. Take the title track from The Queen is Dead: that rhythm section takes some stopping.

*George Harrison ~ The Beatles: For all the genius of Lennon and McCartney’s songwriting, George Harrison was always on hand to deliver a preposterously cool riff or tasteful solo. Practically inventing the notion of the lead guitarist, his own songs weren’t bad either: just as the band were falling apart amidst petty arguments and messy legal wrangling, Harrison dug deep and wrote some of the bands most iconic songs (While My Guitar Gently Weeps, Here Comes the Sun). Never one to bask in the limelight, he was, as Dave Grohl once put it, “the secret weapon”.

*John Paul Jones ~ Led Zeppelin: You’re probably thinking Who? but Led Zeppelin wouldn’t have been the same without him. The heaviest band of them all needed a special type of bass player to work alongside John Bonham and that man was mild-mannered John Paul Jones. A former session man, his knowledge was as vast as it came. Simply, he could play anything. As quiet as a doormouse, Jones’ basslines made Zep that much heavier.

*Mick Taylor ~ The Rolling Stones: Stepping into a dead man’s pair of snakeskin cowboy boots can’t be easy but when Mick Taylor replaced Brian Jones after the latter had decided to go for an impromptu swim it heralded a rapaciously creative period for the Stones, arguably their finest era. Joining the band as an introverted vegan and leaving as a full blown junkie, Taylor always let his guitar playing do the talking yet it didn’t so much talk as sing the sweetest tune imaginable. His flowing melodies danced a merry dance over Keith Richards’ raunchy riffs to create a string of records not matched by the band since. And Richards will never find a better guitar partner.

*Carlos Alomar ~ David Bowie: When David Bowie put his glitter jump-suit back in his dressing up box and embarked on a romance with Philadelphia soul in the mid-seventies, he replaced guitar legend Mick Ronson with slick sessioneer Carlos Alomar. Alomar’s influence was immediate; steering clear of distorted riffs he instead helped Bowie move towards and altogether smoother sound, taking the occasional co-writing credit in the process. Arrangements were now grander and Bowie found a brand new audience with his album Young Americans. Alomar stayed on the Bowie payroll longer than any other musician and helped the latter push boundaries well into the 80s. Bowie never sounded funkier.

*Stuart Copeland + Andy Summers ~ The Police: Don’t worry, it’s still cool to think Sting a twat, but his cod-Jamaican vocals would have sounded infinitely dafter were it not for messrs Copeland and Summers unique playing style. The former’s drum prowess borders on the genial, providing the clipped, syncopated rhythms to which the foot cannot help but tap to; the latter’s guitar technique was probably considered too technically accomplished in post-punk Britain. The band broke up hating each other, so nothing new there then. Then they got back together in 2008, but who didn’t?

Rest easy dear friend, I’m sure you are raging at that the fact that there are others who should be on this list but who aren’t. If so, then feel free to send me your suggestions. I would naturally be interested to be enlightened to more fantastic musicians.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - It's Blitz! (2009)

When I first saw a picture of Karen O, spoon-faced singer of Yeah Yeah Yeahs, I entertained unsavoury thoughts such as I reckon she knows how to service herself with an empty beer bottle. I couldn’t help it, she just had that look about her. I then had the pleasure of listening to the band’s debut album, Fever to Tell, and found that the songs were about things like, well, servicing yourself with empty beer bottles and non-committal oral sex. Not that that was a bad thing, mind. Instead Ms. O’s manic, often hysterical vocal style aligned itself perfectly with the scuzzy, grimy New York sound produced by two geeks who looked like they still lived with their mothers, creating a revelatory vacuum of noise.

Then something peculiar happened: Karen O suddenly found an otherwise unrealised maturity and started singing about ethereal subject matter as the band ‘grew up’ on their second long-player Show Your Bones. Maturity – the moustachioed bastard antagonist of Rock. But wait, it didn’t matter because the songs were still as stylish as before but they were just a smidgen more evenly produced. Gone were the chainsaw guitars and walls-came-tumblin’-down drums, replaced instead by vast expanses of synthesizers and ‘Big’ drums creating monstrous, unoccupied canyons into which you could jump gleefully.

I’m now told it is 2009 and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs ride into town once more on their spangly horses, brandishing ten new songs on their new album It’s Blitz!

If you haven’t heard album opener Zero by now then I’m afraid you are a Philistine at best. What an opener though! Exploding with a euphoria designed purely for sweaty dancefloor encounters, the song can easily count itself amongst the tracks of the year already. Following this dizzying tirade, Heads Will Roll entices the listener in with its vacuous synths before the guitars pound along with muscular abandon keeping the party mood afloat.

The band have always insisted that they can pull at the heart strings with the best of them but all of a sudden, three songs in, they throw a couple of maudlin bad boys on the listener. Not that they’re bad songs: Softshock is a beautifully intoxicating number, continually gaining frenzied passion and makes a convincing case of being the album’s highlight, whilst Skeletons mines the dewy-eyed tenderness of Maps to great effect.

Then it all gets a little muddy as the band seems to run out of ideas, relying upon predictable riffs on Dull Life and the safety net of the quaint ballad. That’s not to say that it’s a clear-cut, black and white album of two halves. There are still magical moments to be had: Shame and Fortune has the menace of one hundred schoolgirls brandishing kitchen knives, whilst Runaway harnesses icy feelings of loneliness with expertise. Dragon Queen gets all funky and sounds like CSS (remember them?) but, for fuck’s sake, there it is again. That voice. Whilst Karen O has one of the most distinctive female voices in modern rock, don’t you just wish she belted out a few numbers from time to time like her protégé Beth Ditto? (Although I’m informed Karen doesn’t have the range, darling).

The album parts with the ears in unremarkable fashion: Hysteric is a sunny pop song whilst closing number Little Shadow delves into the irritating ‘Look-How-Fucking-Quaint-And- Smug-We-Can-Be’ hamper one last time.

So, is the album a glorious success or a failure ne’er to be mentioned upon these shores again? Well, it’s neither really. It seldom sounds as visceral as they once were, nor does it appear to break any new ground: ultimately it sounds like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs making a Yeah Yeah Yeahs album. It seems to wrap itself up nice and tightly in a purgatorial fur coat and just feels damn good about itself, which is a shame because for an album that starts with truly unbelievable promise it ends up not putting up much of a fight. Why do people have to grow up?

David Bowie - Young Americans (1975)

No one does re-invention quite like David Bowie. After moving from hirsute Folk-Rock to trashy Glam in the early-seventies, his next move would prove to be his most shocking yet. Confounding his Glam disciples he re-emerged as a smooth operating practitioner of Philadelphia Soul with the album Young Americans. True, the transition had been coming; embarking on the second half of his infamous Diamond Dogs tour in 1974 the Philly influences were apparent – a slicker sound, grander arrangements – as Bowie had absorbed blue-eyed soul music like only he could: by drowning himself in the music and its concurrent scene.

Always, always, surrounding himself with the most brilliant musicians Bowie’s dalliance with Soul yielded a remarkable album that proved he was capable of mastering any field of music he turned his hand to. Opening with the lusciously lucid title track the listener is treated with a design of things to come: a big, confident sound full of yearning emotion. The elegant ‘Win’ is as heartfelt as you are likely to hear whilst ‘Fascination’ (co-written with Luther Vandross who is part of the sumptuous backing vocal group throughout) delivers a funky bounce as infectious as the bubonic plague.

Elsewhere, ‘Right’ delivers a cool latino shake and the opulent ‘Somebody Up There Likes Me’ is delivered with religious fervour, played in the funkiest church you’re likely to visit this side of Suffragette City.

Was his version of the Beatles' ‘Across the Universe’ a wise move? That’s for you to decide but it certainly is a valiant attempt. The delicately poised ‘Can You Hear Me’ makes amends and could easily be sung by Dusty Springfield or any other soul great.

The album closes with the highly-stylised funk of ‘Fame’. Co-written with guitarist Carlos Alomar and John Lennon, the song takes a wry look at globe-eating stardom and, ironically, delivered Bowie his first US no. 1.

The music here is distinctly upbeat, positive and relaxed, something which was incongruous with Bowie’s whirlwind, drug-addled life at the time. Ditching the theatrical wail of his glam period and instead mining his sumptuous baritone, Bowie’s voice lends the songs here an almost soothing quality yet fortunately it all verges just the right side of easy-listening. A gloriously intoxicating album and one which furthered his ever-rising star.

Lady GaGa - Poker Face (single)

Who the hell does Lady GaGa think she is? Actually, who the hell is Lady GaGa? You turn your back from the pop scene for thirty seconds and suddenly a new peroxide-blonde upstart is wearing a bin bag and gyrating your way on screen. This latest pop offering releases her second single, Poker Face, on Monday and you just know the song is going to be played in Turkish discos.

Drawing that great parallel between gambling and love (whether to stick or twist, keep your cards close to your chest, blah blah fucking blah) the song betrays GaGa’s Wild Child image and opts for cosy synths and a particularly limp chorus. Alternately it could be about oral sex – try and picture the boisterous geezers on dancefloors shouting “‘Ere, I’d like to Poke ‘er Face! Oi! Oi!”

She’ll probably be huge because I just don’t know anymore.

Iggy Pop - The Idiot (1977)

It’s hard to imagine just how fucked up Iggy Pop was back in the mid-seventies. As the Stooges crumbled in a murky swamp of drugs and death Pop found himself a broken shell of a man, the result of an intense heroin addiction. After an ever-increasing series of embarrassingly pathetic incidents, both on-stage and off-, he checked himself into a mental institution where he claims his only consistent visitor was David Bowie, something of an old acquaintance from headier, bygone days in London after Pop re-located there after yet another Stooges meltdown. It is fair to say that Bowie helped Pop tremendously in his recovery from his serious problems yet Iggy returned the favour, assisting Bowie through a period of crippling cocaine use.

So, as Bowie absorbed the Pop into his now-downsized inner-sanctum, the two set about writing and recording an album to be known as The Idiot. It certainly holds its own place in Rock history: it was the album Ian Curtis listened to when he decided to hang himself. Contrary to Curtis’ dramatic reaction to the record it is, in reality, a mighty fine offering from the pint-sized rocker.

Partly recorded in France and Germany (Bowie’s fascination with Krautrock present throughout) the album is notable for Bowie’s role as producer and co-writer. It says something so deliciously apt about Iggy Pop, the perennial almost-was, that one of his finest, most focused and personal albums has someone else looming ominously over proceedings; here it is Bowie as puppetmaster. Despite some mystery over who features on the album it is generally perceived that the music is practically all Bowie’s whilst Pop deals primarily with lyrical duties.

The album opens with 'Sister Midnight', an exercise in measured funk courtesy of Bowie’s superb rhythm section of Dennis Davis and George Murray complimented by the grandly talented Carlos Alomar on guitar (here taking a writing credit).

From here the album wears it’s electronic, postmodern influences on its sleeve, most notably on the clunky 'Mass Production' and the post-punk classic 'Nightclubbing'; the latter is as sleazy and lecherous as you’re likely to hear, its lobotomized beat and stabbed synths creeping along with menacing detachment . The creepy 'Baby' sees Pop’s croon at its most melancholy and features the delightful line ‘Maybe there’s nothing to see/ I’ve already been down the street of chance’.

Delving deeper, Pop casts a nostalgic eye back on his days in the Stooges with 'Dum Dum Boys', a song which exposes the singer as a lonely soul, abandoned by his brothers when he most needed them. Shouting, ‘Where are ya now I need ya?’ he sounds battered and bruised, yearning for a simplicity the past, and drugs, have laid waste to.

The albums centrepiece, however, is the impossibly brilliant 'China Girl'. Far superior to Bowie’s glossy attempt six years later, this version grooves around euphoric melodies before Pop adopts a pained, strained vocal as the song gallops away into the distance, leaving this listener slack-jawed in awe. A breathtaking song.

For those thinking that this is some sort of ‘rehab’ album for the Motor-City native, they are grossly mistaken; he was still battling many demons during this period of his life and the album chronicles a man merely picking up the pieces. Generally overlooked in the Iggy Pop canon, The Idiot is a pale, anaemic album (check out the vampiric 'Funtime') which rarely looks optimistically on proceedings. It does, however, chronicle a particular flux one of Rock’s most inimitable characters was going through and the listener can’t help but root for him throughout. Just don’t mention car insurance.

The Rolling Stones - Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out (1970)

Live albums can often be patchy affairs. Live Rolling Stones albums are often patchier. However, one thing which can be said about them is that they certainly reflect the particular phase the band would have been going through at the time. From 1982’s Still Life when they just didn’t care anymore to 1991’s Flashpoint which captured them as the well-oiled money-making monster we know and love(?) today, the evolution of the band has always been caught on tape. The quality of the recorded show is also dependent on Keith Richards’ own dependence on drugs.

The Rolling Stones first official live album, Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out, was recorded in late 1969 as part of an American tour, their first tour anywhere since the halcyon days of 1967 when the band couldn’t hear themselves over the screaming girls who would leave auditoriums stinking of piss. The band now faced a different challenge: the audience were there to actually listen to their music, so the band bumped up the amplification, the length of the show, everything.

The album begins with the band’s now-trademark recording claiming them to be ‘The Greatest Rock ‘n Roll Band in The World’ – first used on this tour – and, on listening to the album, one really can’t argue with the claim. Capturing a band embarking on the peak years of their career as both a live act and as a recording group the album is drenched in the sex and death blues which they so excelled at.

The tracklisting isn’t instantly recognisable for fans expecting yet another run through of 'Satisfaction' or 'Get Off of My Cloud' – but doesn’t that make it all the more exciting? Here the Stones flex their blues muscles with renditions of Robert Johnson’s lonesome 'Love in Vain' - sounding like one of those perfect concert moments where time and unexplained emotions are perfectly crystallised - as well as the creeping 'Stray Cat Blues'. Yet it is the utterly menacing 'Midnight Rambler' where the true magic of the album lies. Stretched out to nine minutes Keith Richards’ raunchy riff (does he know any other?) is gradually replaced by a bluesy breakdown, the essence of the blues dripping from Richards and Mick Taylor’s fingers.

For those who possess a sketchy knowledge of the Stones there is enough here to remain satisfied. 'Jumpin Jack Flash' is played with heady abandon whilst 'Honky Tonk Women' is dispatched with glorious enthusiasm. 'Sympathy For The Devil' bounces along intoxicatingly as Mick Taylor screams and wails on his Les Paul (his playing deliciously gorgeous as usual) and the welcome inclusion of 'Live With Me', including a fantastically bum note right at the start of the song, harks back to the band’s R ’n B roots (never has a group of skinny white cockneys sounded like a troupe of black Chicago natives). There is of course a couple of Chuck Berry numbers, 'Carol' and 'Little Queenie', to keep Keith Richards happy.

They were the baddest band on the planet during this epoch, a time when hippy idealism was being booted in the head, and no band anywhere possessed such an inherent sense of danger or a knack of backing it up. The performance recorded here captures a band in fine live form and, more importantly, having a hell of a time on stage. And to think Altamont was just over a week away...

Late of the Pier + Support - Komedia, Bath - 23.02.09

Standing across the street from Bath’s shiny new Komedia club I puff on my cigarette. The red neon sign bathes the pavement and washes over those in the respectably hefty queue. An aesthetic dominates: angular haircuts and fine facial hair for the boys, similarly geometric haircuts and shimmering, multicoloured leggings for the girls. I think I spot someone who is over 21.

Komedia’s neo-classical opulence appears better suited to opera than sweaty Rock ‘n Roll but no one minds as groups of students and teenagers huddle in groups in front of the stage, no doubt exchanging tips on what shampoos to use (or not, in some cases).

‘Thank you for clapping; people sometimes throw things at me after the first song’, says Connan Mockasin, standing alone with his guitar. Flitting from the psychedelic to the haunting to the unashamedly catchy, he manipulates his guitar like a Hawaiian Jimi Hendrix, bending and twisting notes out of all recognition. His songs take off properly when he is joined by his drummer, gaining a ramshackle bounce which would make Jack White proud.

Four young men walk on the stage looking like they’ve just spent the day in Topman. They are Post War Years and they are criminally ripping off Foals. It is so painfully predictable, so painfully now that half of the audience are resigned to obligingly pay attention whilst the other half lap it up like Pavlov’s dog as the band lay on synths and clipped guitars over jarred, fidgety drums. Keep looking interested and move slowly towards the bar...

As the house lights go down, a wave of clammy anticipation washes over the venue. Late of the Pier launch headlong into singles 'Space and the Woods' and 'Heartbeat' and the sound is thunderous. The brittle synths and keyboards are replaced by thick zaps of sound, the bass threatens to bring the walls down and my nostrils actually start quivering.

Looking like the confused offspring of Gary Numan and Freddie Mercury, they are dressed in capes and binliners as they storm through Fantasy Black Channel. The band whip the pit of teenagers at the front of the stage into a hot, sticky frenzy; 'Focker' is a particular highlight grabbing the audience by the neck and refusing to let go until it has its way. Which it does.

As they play their final song, 'Bathroom Gurgle', the band is looking drained. Vocalist Samuel Dust is sitting on one of the speakers dangling a beige dap on the end of a hospital-thin leg out towards the audience who are trying to get a touch of their hero. They don’t quite reach. They never will.