One of the things I like about most about Bob Stanley’s ongoing series of compilations for Ace Records is that they are almost always intriguing windows into musical realms that one might otherwise never think of exploring, whether through lack of resources (time, space, money) or general inertia. His endless fascination with and passion for recorded music that has either slipped under the radar or mysteriously ebbed into the strange demimonde of the Once Famous Now Forgotten must surely be applauded.

Much the same goes for his writing, and whilst I admit to a hefty degree of disinterest in most music books during recent years, a Bob Stanley outing is more likely to pique my interest than pretty much anything else. Even so, with my sights firmly set on mid-20th Century Romantic and Detective fiction, it is highly likely that his new book about The Shadows would have slipped past undetected were it not for a mutual friend’s post on the social media about it. It came at a fortuitous point too, in one of those occasional pauses in time when I had just finished a couple of detective reissues and four D.E. Stevenson in a row. In such moments the prospect of something non-fiction to cleanse the palette is always appealing. Added to that, there is still something about the post-WW2 British historical and cultural context that I find intriguing and the thought of reading about how Cliff Richard and The Shadows were at the epicentre of the UK Rock’n’Roll movement certainly tickled the part of me that enjoys throwing two fingers up to my younger self.

That younger self, superficially schooled in a period of Punk, Post-Punk and the fledgling ‘Indie’ styles would of course have been horrified at the idea of listening to Cliff and/or The Shadows. More fool them. Still, it’s rather fun to have the pleasure of (re)acquainting oneself with much of the music that is referenced in Stanley’s book in one’s sixtieth year. Now, the collection of 45s and EP boxes that lived in my childhood home and played on a red Marconiphone came courtesy of my mum’s sister who tragically died young, and although they were mostly dance bands and show tunes there were enough Bill Hayley, Teddy Bears, Johnny Ray and Elvis 45s in there for Stanley’s references to ring the bells of my pre-teen nostalgia. The early UK rock-n’roll numbers, however, are still largely new to me, or at least new in the sense of being rekindled memories of previous tangential acquaintance. By which I mean of course I would have seen Cliff’s films on the telly as a child and of course I would have heard his and The Shadows chart-topping singles on the radio as I grew up, mostly on the Radio 2 shows that my mum would have had playing in the kitchen at breakfast time. All of which means that revisiting the likes of ‘Move It’ and ‘F.B.I.’ in 2026 is largely an exercise in conjuring memories whose ‘reality’ may be questionable but whose comfort is not. Sitting on a tiger-striped velour sectional sofa, sweet milky tea in hand and NHS specs perched on nose, waiting for mum to find the car keys so she can drop me off at school (where she also works). Short trousers, naturally, even in the depths of winter. One evening, shorts discarded in favour of blue Wrangler cords, Cliff on the telly climbing into a white Lamborghini Espada, a detail my younger self could get behind much more securely than anything to do with Hank Marvin’s guitar.

For those of a similar age, Bob Stanley’s book will surely get those synapses firing and configuring similar visions and feelings. The peculiar security of familiarity with those things that have wormed their way into our deep subconscious. Delight in the Popular Mainstream coming back to pitch camp after kicking away the detritus of studied countercultural ‘cool’. This is a pleasure whose power should not be underestimated. Some may shake their heads at such an assertion and mumble things about rose-coloured spectacles (but still in NHS frames), reinforcing the received hegemony and so-on. Yet whilst there may be a thread of truth in that, the fact is that Stanley’s book does not really fall into those traps at all. For whilst there is much about ‘The Shadows’ that explodes with excitable passion about Just How Great some of these records were, space is also given over to acknowledging perceived mis-steps. Mis-reading the impact of The Beatles, who took over the position of Most Famous Group in the UK before taking that fame into stratospheres that no-one could match (or possibly even have dreamt of) is foremost of these, and the back and forth nods that Stanley makes throughout the book between The Shadows and The Beatles are well placed and observed. The connections and comparisons are useful in so much as they highlight the importance of those early Shadows singles on the very development of The Beatles but also the way in which the subsequent, erm, shadows cast by the industrialised Beatles machine have subsequently obscured and diminished the value of those very roots.

Bob Stanley’s book about The Shadows, however, makes a fine effort to at least tease this particular strand of historical context free of the black hole, even whilst acknowledging its devastating attraction. Throughout the book there are enough little tangential droplets of detail to keep the reader interested. These might be details one is sure one knew and then forgot, and is delighted to be reminded about, like how Olivia Newton-John’s father was a member of MI5 during WW2 and was one of the soldiers who captured Rudolf Hess, or how her grandfather won the Nobel Prize for physics in 1954. Or they might be things that one never knew at all, but which hit one with a peculiarly personal resonance. In my own case this would be the fact that Hank Marvin bought and lived in Higher Wiscombe, a place he called his “Devon Estate.” It’s a name I have come to know so well in my past few years of cycling around the East Devon Area of Natural Beauty, colouring in all the tiny lanes on an old 1970 OS map, and it is delightful to have this piece of knowledge to file away in that space between Blackbury Castle and Warren Hill. One does wonder, incidentally, if Dave Davies of The Kinks might have been a visitor to Higher Wiscombe in the days of Marvin’s ownership, for rumours abound that Davies had, and perhaps still has, a residence in Salcombe Regis or Branscombe, depending on who you listen to.

Musically too there will likely be new pleasures to investigate for many readers and certainly there have been for me. Notable amongst these would be Cliff’s 1974 ’31st of February’ set and his sensational 1972 single ‘Jesus’ which I admit I cannot stop playing. Or what about the two 1971 LPs by Marvin, Welch and Farrar, both of which are filled with terrific folk and pop infused rock that are a distinct pleasure, notably the fabulous ‘Faithful’ which is a sweeping, soaring soft classic. These are just my highlights. Others will find more, I am sure, and that is part of the pleasure of reading such a book.

As a whole, then, ‘The Shadows’ is a tremendous read, notably so because Stanley is so adept at striking a perfect balance between detail and keeping the story moving along at a decent pace. This balance allows the book to feel thoroughly researched but not so much that the narrative is suffocated, and like his earlier book about The Bee Gees it gives the reader a fabulous way into a historical realm whose essence feels both obliquely familiar and excitingly new.