There was a warmth and whimsy to the music of Caravan in their heyday that remains uniquely charming and not at all influential. They did not rage hard, they did not kick ass; they sang sotto voce, with a shy English diffidence, enacting their curious hairpin bends and deft dovetails as if they didn’t like being looked at. Yet while they forsook ego, they brimmed with character. Part Lewis Carroll, part 1940s/50s filmmakers Powell and Pressburger, they whispered stories of magic found within the mundane, flashes of sensuous joy spotted within the familiar. Their in places beautiful body of work is now gathered in this agreeable retrospective. Being enormous and expensive it probably won’t spark mass conversions to the cult of Caravan, but their 70s albums in particular are treasures, a balmy treat for any newcomers.