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weighed the pleasure and the music itself was too often forced into the background by economic and business considerations. The recession bit deep, friends became the victims of cutbacks and closures which if no more or less than essential on the face of it, are vicious in their debilitating effect.

While Begin went on the rampage in Beirut, Reagan backed the CIA in El Salvador and the Soviets re-exerted their stranglehold on Poland it was sadly down to fighting your own corner and making the most of a hostile environment. In that climate it takes something particularly special to shine through and among the rising stars and latter day heroes, Kevin Rowlands and Dexy’s Midnight runners above all provided it. ‘Come On Eileen’ leapt from the radio, leapt from the hi-fi and then leapt gloriously from Top Of The Pops: an absolutely unforgettable surge of primal sproid tastily leavened with good dynamics, it richly deserves its extended run at No. 1 ‘Too-Rye-Ay’, the album that followed was equally exhilarating, bearing irrefutable testimony to the depth and breadth of Kevin Rowlands vision.

Elvis Costello’s achievement with ‘Imperial Bedroom’ was less publicly celebrated but no less impressive. If anything, his increasingly prolific output damages Elvis’ commercial impact: in terms of shifting units, as the warped business phrase has it, the resourcefulness and depth of his genius has become a liability. Bizarre but true, ‘Imperial Bedroom’ dented the charts but no more. It contained no barnstorming chart-topping single. But it was nonetheless a sustained tour de force of lyrical insight and melodic inventiveness. Its choice as Hot Press Album of the Year – Elvis’ second running, ‘Trust’ having wiped the floor with last year’s opposition – was utterly deserving.

Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Nebraska’ also deserves to be singled out – no other songwriter captured the global malaise of ’82 so starkly, so effectively. This is an album to inspire a fearful chill, conveying as it does such a creeping feeling of desperation. Staring into the fire at 3 a.m. of a winter nights its morbid vignettes bring it all back home. Desolation row.

But the album of the year from this exposed perch was much less doomladen, much less world weary. Van Morrison ‘Beautiful Vision’ finally gets the nod from your truly because of its healing power. Mixing the sparklin effervescence and wit of ‘Cleaning Windows’ with the weightier manifestations of his increasingly spiritual quest, Van achieved a balance that was the closest thing we’ll get to heavenly in its efficacy. It was the album to which I’d turn and return most frequently and with greatest assurance. It delivered every time.

Otherwise: The Cap was back with ‘Ice Cream For Crow’, and superbly, Madness maintained their artistic growth with ‘The Rise And Fall’, Grace Jones slipped only marginally from the superb ‘Nightclubbing’ with ‘Living My Life’, Donald Fagan sounded in excellent voice on what I heard of ‘Nightfly’, Gil Scott-Heron unleashed the remarkable ‘B-Movie’, and Barry Wailer did the righteous thing twice with the superb ‘Rock’n’Groove’ and ‘Tribute’.

On the Irish front both Rory Gallagher, with ‘Jinx’ and Philip Lynott, with ‘The Philip Lynott Album’, tipped the quality count. Stocktons Wing gathered momentum before launching ‘Light In The Western Sky’, a superb if uneven meisterwork. And Clannad confounded the pessimists with the success of ‘Theme From Harry’s Game’, bringing home the bacon in fine style and warming the cockles of their friends hearts in the process.

Down at the club I still wanted to hear Kool And The Gang’s masterful ‘Get Down On It’ (one more time Mr. DJ Please), but Kurtis Blow and Grandmaster Flash were coming up on the inside lane – the latters near-classic ‘The Message’ providing one moment of hilarity blasting out on the diverse subjects of homosexuality, rape, drugs, murder, incarceration, suicide and the rest on Radio 2’s Saturday morning kiddie spectacular ‘Poparama’.

But at the end of the day and with a load of good music under the bridge, 1982 is still a year which will be remembered with little fondness. Unless of course, as many fear, and with some justification, that its downhill all the way from here on in.

Happy Christmas.