Final word: At last, the hunt pays off

Alan Perrott. Photo / Natalie Slade

Things began getting out of control when I started seeking out James Last records.

That'll be Mr Last to the likes of you, thank you very much. For us faithful, he'll be forever Hansi, the German with the gentle eyes, the goatee, the short-long hair and, of course, the bloody whistle.

My mum and dad had a James Last record and that whistle almost killed music for me. It didn't matter that it provided jaunty accents to his horn-fed arrangements, whistles reminded me of marching at Boy's Brigade and I hated both. By the right, quick, piss off.

Erasing that association took quite some time - nigh on 30 years - give and then give a little more. Which was enough time for a journey into sound. Hansi had no chance when I saw Split Enz on the first Telethon, then it was full steam ahead from punk to post-punk to ska to new wave to new romantic to reggae to soul to funk to hip-hop to jazz and then ... excuse me while I stand on my desk ... back to Hansi. Captain, my captain.

Okay fine, not exclusively. I'm using James Last as the mightiest kauri in the easy listening forest, the creaming soda of milkshakes because, to be honest, I think Bert Kaempfert is better. Even then, Bert must bow to the prides of England - Alan Tew, Keith Mansfield and the like ...

But when it comes to easy listening, well forget the quality and feel the output. Last has released more than 190 albums, more than four a year since his debut, and the old bugger shows no sign of stopping.

If you want to know what that many albums look like, visit your nearest charity shop. His wares are in every one of them. From This Is James Last, to Trumpets A-Go-Go 3, and on to Non-Stop Dancing 1976-77, his albums are vinyl cockroaches. As a career, it's a monument, if not to purity of vision then definitely to a determination to eventually get one right.

Just don't look at them too closely. German easy listening can be nasty. Not Hansi's records, mind but there were plenty of other mustachioed 70s-era Last-wannabes like Stef Meeder, who thought splashing naked bosoms on their covers would hide the fact that their particular version of Tie A Yellow Ribbon was complete rubbish. Trust me, I bought them to make sure.

Anyway, as I say, there's almost 200 James Last albums and despite somehow owning about a dozen, along with the odd box set or two, I've only ever wanted three. Chasing them has become an obsession that'd make Gollum wince. At least he knew where the stupid ring was. For me it's meant every journey takes ages because I have to stop at every charity shop I see ... you know, just in case ... and wade through boxes and shelves and piles of parp, toot and chuff. It's got to the point where I can navigate by Sallie Army stores.

At least I'm fast. I know before entering that the records will be near the videos and books, and on the floor. I don't even care that crouching plays havoc with my gammy knees, I absorb that pain as a deserved penance, much like that self-scourging Da Vinci Code monk. At least in my case that punishment could end with me finding a Gunter Kallman Choir album or, easy now, the Harry Roche Constellation, rather than dried scabs in my undies.

Then, just last week, we were cruising through Browns Bay - there are three chazzas there - when I lightly suggested a quick layby at the Red Cross store. They always have a heap of the easiest easy listening, although some bloke apparently picks through it regularly for stuff to entertain the boys at Paremoremo Prison, so the pickings are typically lean.

After 10 minutes my wee boy probably needed a change, a bottle, a pat on the head or something, but I still had one stack to rummage. These are the moments that sort the diggers from the pickers. Then, huzzah! His pathetic mewlings were drowned out by the thumping of my heart as I uncovered a pristine copy of James Last's Beach Party, followed immediately by Bert Kaempfert's Tropical Sunrise. Now we both had tears in our eyes.

I'm sure he'll understand. One day, especially once my genes kick in. Anyway, I read somewhere science-y that they don't develop memories before they are 3 anyway, so all's well.

Until then it's all about the happy madness. I know in my waters that Voodoo Party and Well Kept Secret are out there somewhere, waiting, and I must seek them out ... It's the least Hansi deserves.

James Griffin is on leave.