Punk kicked open a number of musical doors before stumbling and slipping on its own vomit. “Look,” it shouted as it died, “go and do what you want. Go and make the music you want to listen to.” And thus the post punk era was born... or so some people would have you believe.

In truth punk owed lots to the pub rock of Doctor Feelgood and Eddie and the Hotrods but its lineage died out in a speed-fuelled spasm of bile in 1979: there were no heirs. Yes, it had preached the DIY ethos that helped create ‘indie’ but no self-respecting punk would have been seen dead with a synth, let alone one that made big, fat farty bass sounds.

And yet this collection would have you believe that Front 242 and Dead Can Dance were in some way the natural successors to punk with its strap line “New Wave to New Beat: the post punk era 1979-1981”. Their Teutonic rhythms and cold, grey veneers might have touched upon Joy Division, but only in passing - this is impersonal music made with machines, and time has not been kind to much of it.

The pulse of a distorting analogue synth accompanied by a Lin Drum sounds as tired and dated a as Chuck Berry lick, but without the humour and sly wit. Killing Joke just about make it work - but there’s still not a laugh in sight - while Tuxedomoon’s Desire is frankly just laughable. It’s the sound of miserable teenagers writing bad poetry about nihilism and ‘difficult stuff’. “I’m angry and I wear an army surplus coat. Concrete, steel, isolation…” Bor-ing.

But that’s not the worst of it - the chipper young things on this collection also decided to add some funk, the music of sex and dance, but in a miserable way. What was wrong with these people? Just listen to the Loose Joints track, Is it all Over My Face, and the full horror of this approach is startling clear. It’s just not any fun.

It is impossible to imagine anyone listening to this CD. It’s not exciting, funny, sexy, catchy or danceable - unless you want to dance like a robot. What it is, on the whole, is a collection of drab, grey slices of teen angst, backed up by farty bass lines and twangy guitars.

No fun, as someone once said. No fun.

There’s a Gary Newman track on the CD all about replica people - need I say more?

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Anthony Clark