The reevaluation: a standard device for the average rock critic. Bands that receive little attention at the time of their existence are given heady praise years after the fact, when no one can actually remember how amazing (or awful) they may have been. It’s effective—I know loads about the Velvet Underground from just reading album reviews in the past five years. I have never listened to a single Velvet Underground track, but I assume they’re awesome.

Edwyn Collins is an example of this second-glance phenomenon. Besides a moment of spotlight with “Girl Like You,” featured in the much-referenced Empire Records, he and his impenetrable brogue have trundled along unaffected by public regard, or lack thereof. From slumming around Scotland in 80s artsomething outfit Orange Juice, to determinedly mining a solo career in the 90s, Collins undeniably put in the hours to be a huge pop star. Indie roots, sporadic solo success, and operatic baritone; hell, he could’ve been Morrissey. So where’s the rampant fans, sex n’ drugs n’ name-dropping for him?

Orange Juice, admittedly, are starting to get some of the attention they deserve. Courtesy of the Franz Ferdinand-sponsored wave of bands not afraid to use synthesizers and exercise the full rights of tight pants, the band has been getting some nostalgia-success. This recent influx of British dandy-rock can easily be traced back to a track like “I Can’t Help Myself”: cute little guitar riffing, ebullient melodies, and a bass line that brings da funk…or something. A rad saxophone solo at the end cements what a listener should have figured out: these guys were way crazy fun, why did I waste my ’80s childhood wearing black eyeliner when I could have been awkwardly pogoing instead, etc.

Where Mr. Collins really shows off, though, is in his own hefty back-catalogue. His most realized work was the 1995 record Gorgeous George, which opens with a revelation: modern music is terrible! “The Campaign For Real Rock” is a bitter rant against trashed guitars, Disco Sucks t-shirts, and “overrated” musicians that are “overpaid and over here / And their idea of counter-culture’s Momma’s charge account at Sears.” Ouch. Any music fan could appreciate such a sentiment, though I do like Sears. Nice and cheap, good pants. Anyway, a few songs later, “Out of This World” sticks out as retro but classily so, with a killer groove. And strings. Oh, the strings are marvelous—this song, like the rest of the album, is immaculately produced by the man himself.

Now, for the kicker: not only is he an amalgamation of (sort of) political statements, sexy love songs, and talent (real, tangible, honest to goodness talent), he also has sweet hair. For that alone, the man deserves a second look—in the end, that’s all we really need from our rockstars, right?

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