There’s a strange beauty in music that’s been lost and then found again—like a ghost haunting a record player, whispering secrets to those who dare listen. The Riot Squad’s story is one of those tales, a forgotten chapter in the 1960s rock-and-roll saga that now gets a second life through Cherry Red’s new 3CD anthology. But what makes this particularly fascinating is not just the rediscovery of their recordings, but the way their legacy intertwines with the mythos of David Bowie and Joe Meek, two figures whose shadows loom large over the British music scene. Personally, I think this collection is more than a nostalgic trip—it’s a reminder of how fragile and fluid musical history is, and how much we’ve missed by letting certain names fade into obscurity.
Let’s start with the obvious: David Bowie. His brief stint with The Riot Squad in 1967 is often cited as a footnote in his biography, but what many people don’t realize is how deeply his theatrical sensibilities shaped the band’s identity during that time. Bowie wasn’t just another member; he was a catalyst. From my perspective, his influence here is subtle but profound. Imagine a group of mod-rockers suddenly experimenting with makeup and staged performances—this was Bowie’s way of injecting chaos into the status quo. What this really suggests is that even in his early days, Bowie was less about being a star and more about creating a spectacle, a role he’d later perfect with Ziggy Stardust. Yet, the fact that this collaboration was so short-lived raises a deeper question: How many other artists were similarly transformed by fleeting partnerships with rising stars, only to be erased from the narrative?
Then there’s Joe Meek, the enigmatic producer whose Tea Chest Tapes are the backbone of this collection. Meek’s work with The Riot Squad is a masterclass in experimentation. The band’s sessions with him reveal a willingness to play with arrangements, styles, and even the very structure of a song. One thing that immediately stands out is how these recordings feel both ahead of their time and deeply rooted in the soulful, mod-rock aesthetic of the era. What makes this especially interesting is the contrast between Meek’s chaotic genius and the band’s relative obscurity. If you take a step back and think about it, Meek’s death in 1967 robbed the world of a visionary who could have reshaped the sound of an entire generation. This compilation is, in a way, a posthumous tribute to his unfulfilled potential.
The sheer volume of unreleased material here—40 tracks previously unheard and another 14 newly remastered—feels like unearthing a buried treasure. But what many people don’t grasp is the cultural significance of these recordings. The Riot Squad wasn’t just another band trying to break into the charts; they were part of a vibrant underground scene that included acts like The Kinks and Stevie Wonder. Their collaborations with Glenda Collins, for instance, hint at a broader trend of soul-infused rock that was thriving in London’s pirate radio networks. A detail that I find especially interesting is how these sessions with Collins were intended to form an album that never materialized. This raises a haunting question: How many albums were conceived, recorded, and then abandoned due to the capricious nature of the music industry? It’s a sobering thought that so much creativity was lost to the whims of producers, labels, and fate.
The inclusion of David Bowie’s demos in this collection is a revelation. Tracks like ‘Toy Soldier’ and ‘I’m Waiting for My Man’ aren’t just early experiments—they’re blueprints for the art-rock revolution that would follow. What this really suggests is that Bowie’s evolution wasn’t a sudden leap but a gradual accumulation of influences, many of which came from working with bands like The Riot Squad. Yet, the fact that these demos were released as a separate compilation in 2013, and now included here, highlights how fragmented our understanding of musical lineage remains. It’s as if we’re piecing together a mosaic with missing tiles, forever wondering what might have been.
Finally, there’s the broader implication of this release. In an age where streaming platforms reduce music to data points and algorithms, projects like Cherry Red’s anthology are vital acts of preservation. They remind us that music isn’t just about the hits—it’s about the stories, the collaborations, and the unsung heroes who shaped the soundscape. This collection isn’t just for collectors or Bowie fans; it’s a call to reexamine the margins of music history. After all, what defines an artist isn’t just their chart-topping singles, but the people they worked with, the risks they took, and the moments they left behind in the form of acetates, demo tapes, and forgotten studio sessions. As I reflect on this, I’m left wondering: How many other forgotten bands out there are waiting for their moment to be rediscovered? And more importantly, what stories are we still missing?
