Igor Clark

It’s time to get this worked out. It won’t take long; there’s no need for extended therapy, risky medications or complex rationalisations, and I won’t charge you a penny. The treatment is brief, concise, and to the point. So let’s begin.

Like many people - so many more than you realise! - for some time now, you’ve been vaguely aware, somewhere deep in your hind-brain, of an unfathomed, unfulfilled desire. A primordial pining, a powerful yearning for understanding, comprehension, enlightenment even; a preternatural realisation that for far too long, your basic appreciation of what might reasonably be described as the definitive British heavy metal band - let alone any kind of respectable working knowledge of the detail of its oft-overlooked œuvre - has been so sorely lacking as to bring gut-wrenching shame upon you and your entire line.

Not only does this ignominious ignorance disgrace you socially, but it leaves you lost, lonely longing; desperate for deliverance from your sorry state of incompleteness, driven to distraction by the certain knowledge that someone, somewhere out there, has carefully curated exactly the collection of aural appetisers which together constitute the musical meal you seek; an introductory repast, an opening into the world of that which salves your soul and soothes your sorrows: the domain of down ‘n’ dirty, rough, ready and willing to rumble rock ‘n’ roll.

The scene is now set; the reason for your subconscious sorrow summarily laid bare, the fix is clear. All you need, to fill the void gnawing at your very core, is for that someone to be made known to you, in order that you might benefit from the balm of that unguent for the unconscious.

So let us tarry no further: I reveal myself to you as that someone! Yes, O weary traveller, I have the cure for your malady, and I present it to you now, for your distraction, delectation and delight: the highlights of 12 years of heavy metal history at a key point in its evolution, stripped of the populist and the filler. Friend, I bring you Motörhead killers, ’75-’87; a Spotify playlist of an hour or so of the best, beefiest, most straight-up tracks from the main proponent of what metal music is really all about: fast, heavy, bluesy rock. Get in there. Knock yourself out. You’ll find your emptiness evaporating immediately.