John BarryThe Ipcress FileReview

First up, Len Deighton's The Ipcress File was, and is, a fantastic book. The film was an unusually successful rendering of said book, and was graced by a soundtrack to match, courtesy of the maestro of such things, John Barry. So, it's all good.

As an antidote to James Bond's far-fetched, murderous exotica it was perfect - a world of grimy brutalism, mundane bureacracy and the vividly realistic, morally-empty, quotidian horror of Cold War espionage. A skilful counterblast to 007 and his license to thrill. The book's un-named narrator, brilliant played in the film by Michael Caine and christened Harry Palmer, was the anti-Bond, and at once, a far more interesting character. Both the film and the soundtrack play on this contrast.

A sardonic, world-weary cog in the machine, Palmer's essentially a good man whereas you know, deep-down, Bond is really most unpleasant. An anti-public school rebel from Burnley, Palmer has no respect for authority, whereas Bond is authority, establishment (OK - Caine's accent in the films is hardly Burnley, but it is gloriously Caine). It's so 1965, when the times were a'changing - Palmer still chats up 'birds' but will happily talk to them about Stockhausen whilst cooking for them, earning £1300 a year, and angling for a payrise so that he can afford a new infra-red grill - this, sadly, involves the mundane reality of numerous forms labelled L101 and P107. The latter suggests, when read out by his supercilious superior, Palmer is "Insubordinant. Insolent. A trickster. Perhaps with criminal tendencies." How different to Bond?

And this soundtrack is all about that contrast too, despite the fact that Barry would famously score both. The music has echoes and strains of Barry's brilliant themes for Bond, but is far less bombastic. Appropriately, it's darker, more reflective. There's even that contrast within the main theme, between the lush vibes, strings and harp, which perhaps allude to the exotic thrill of spying but really just provides a bed for the spare, fragile flute lines, and then, majestically alone and utterly haunting, the distinctive sound of the cymbalom, a hammered stringed/tuned percussion instrument (of Hungarian origin I believe). This contrast continues throughout: between up-tempo sensuous jazz and sombre, brooding, menace.

As with any soundtrack album, you're going to hear the main theme played out across numerous variations, quick quick slow. But Barry's skill in orchestrating and arranging makes it a pleasure to experience this particular problem-solving exercise. And the theme itself is such a distinctive melody - this truly is a classic of 60s cinema.

It's neatly packaged, with some decent liner notes, though perhaps not up to a Rykodisc soundtrack release, say. Each track is followed by a snatch of dialogue from the movie, giving you tantalising glimpses of Caine's peerless performance (hot on the heels ofZuluand then a genuine star, commencing his golden years). You'll also hear his two classically smooth-talking superiors, played with flawless icy charm by Guy Doleman and Nigel Green.

A 'hidden track' features the sound-based brainwashing machine Palmer is subjected to in the film - a fantastic moment of early electronica. It'd be nice to hear more of it actually, though it does work better with the visuals. This, and the dialogue, are certainly a bonus over my lovely, old vinyl copy of this soundtrack. That and the fact that there aren't that many lovely, old vinyl copies around anymore. So, go grab this fine CD release of one of the finest 60s film soundtracks, especially if you're a fan of Barry, Caine, Cold War thrillers, or exotic instrumentation of Hungarian extraction.