When I think of classic “country-and-western” music I think of a song like this – a jaunty rhythm, the twang of a steel guitar, a catch in the voice, and a lyric filled with heartbreak (and a hint of humour).

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I Am Kloot’s dark domestic drama Twist illustrates John Bramwell’s gift as one of Britain’s greatest living singer-songwriters.

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The Streets came out of nowhere, creating kitchen sink dramas of life as a young working-class man in the UK at the turn of the millennium.

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DAF’s minimalist electro and ironic lyrics are a far cry from the sweet synthpop coming out of the UK, and didn’t get past the radio censors in 1981.

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No, this is not my guilty pleasure. In fact Black Lace’s novelty hit Agadoo has been voted the worst pop song of all time by a panel of critics.

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Harry Chapin is someone I vaguely recall in the same MoR mould as John Denver and Jim Croce, making sentimental string-laden songs with sermonising social messages. Which is true. But I do him a disservice.

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Here’s a strange slice of ’60s psych, with fuzz guitars and synthesised strings, from the strangely named and even more strangely (mis-)spelt Hooterville Trolly.

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In 2000 I was flown to Paris (business class) and plied with food and drink at the beautiful Hotel Costes just to interview an unknown French bloke called Mirwais.

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This is skin-crawlingly sleazy – the slippery funk bassline, the euphoric sweep of the strings, the jagged disco guitar… but most of all the words. And the way they’re delivered.

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I’m often drawn to a band by their name, their song and album titles and their artwork. So it was no surprise I loved Death In Vegas when they released their debut album Dead Elvis.

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