Some have called Derek Bailey a one trick pony. Maybe so, but his musical slight of hand is the equivalent to that "The Transported Man" trick in The Prestige: it is a mythological, lifetime-honed aesthetic that elicits responses ranging from thrilled to puzzled no matter how many times you hear Bailey deftly wrangle an electric guitar or a nineteen-string acoustic like it's a flailing cobra in a prickle bush

This collection of unreleased Bailey works come from two reel-to-reel tapes (reported, as the liner notes suggest, god knows where in London*) recently discovered on the same shelf as the original masters of his classic Lot 74 � as in 1974, a year which many argue as the apex of the guitarist's innovative meat. The impressive thing about these so-called B-sides is their creative quality, and one could easily recommend More 74 as a suitable starting point for initiates of Bailey's oeuvre. Present is an abundance of drastic volume tweaks when jamming on electric, something that gives his performances a three-dimensional quality due to phasing, room ambience that carries on after stunted notes, and raw-plectrum-mixed-with-amplified-signals; when he does sustain a tone or harmonic, he rarely lets it rest on idiosyncrasy (note: the swooping theremin-esque wisps in the "Catford" suite). At times he roots the works in a harmonic progression, dancing around an internal melody, while in other moments he leaves music behind for sound as the scrapes, slaps and plucks take over for extended periods (yes, I know you all already know his style, but maybe my grandpa is reading).

The most engaging connections arrive when Bailey sings, hums and mumbles, such as on "Wrong Number" when a sudden ringing phone interrupts the take. He greets it with a bark of "wrong number!" and resumes the music. With "Little Old Acoustic Guitar 1", he offers a brief version of his blues, shaking and digging into the frets of the nineteen-string while slowly muttering the title. After a wobbling prelude of detuning and retuning, Bailey pauses to reflect on "I Remember the Early Seventies", punctuating these words with a sneeze.

As with each Bailey album, two words continue to describe his music: timeliness and timelessness. The former because the late '60s needed a guitarist who blended Charlie Christian with Webern to represent the instrument in a sea of free-metered, free-tonal keys, winds and percussion superstars (who else could keep up with Evan Parker and Tony Oxley?); timeless because how many performers working sans electronics and looping tricks are still trying to catch up with the man's style?

*The production is a bit faded, but does not detract from the experience. In other words it's crusty in all the right ways that tape from the '70s should be.