The bones of the title track were apparently laid down while Tony Blair was still in Downing Street, inspired by a Jamaican wife's gentle insistence that her husband try his hand at reggae. That he took twenty-six years to finish the job tells you something about C'batch's temperament: unhurried, a little stubborn, unwilling to hand over a melody until it had earned its keep. The result, mercifully, doesn't sound like a song that spent a quarter-century in a drawer. It sounds like one that was waiting for the right moment to walk out of it.

The EP's six versions function less like remixes and more like six angles of light on the same stained-glass window. Each pass reveals a different colour in that hook — the one C'batch apparently couldn't shake for two decades — without ever losing sight of the reggae backbone underneath. This is a canny move. Rather than padding out a single, C'batch has built something closer to a suite, a set of variations that rewards sitting through the whole thing rather than cherry-picking a favourite cut and moving on with your day.

The dedication to Ernest Ranglin gives the record its emotional spine, and it's worth dwelling on. A chance meeting at Heathrow in 2001 between a jobbing guitarist and a genuine architect of Jamaican music could easily have curdled into hagiography, all misty-eyed reverence and no substance. It doesn't. Instead, Ranglin's spirit seems to have seeped into the phrasing itself — a looseness in the guitar lines, a refusal to overplay, a sense that the space between notes matters as much as the notes themselves. That's a difficult thing to borrow from a master without simply imitating him, and C'batch, to his credit, mostly manages it.

This EP arrives as part of a wider project C'batch has dubbed his "Year of the Vault," an attempt to drag half-finished ideas out of storage and let them breathe. It's a generous conceit, and a slightly risky one — archive-clearing exercises can just as easily produce clutter as revelation. Here, though, the risk pays off. The song's long incubation has given it a patience that younger, faster-written reggae pastiches often lack; nothing feels rushed to market, nothing feels like it's chasing a trend that will have evaporated by Christmas.

None of this is groundbreaking, and C'batch would probably be the first to admit it. But not every record needs to reinvent an idiom to be worth your attention. Sometimes it's enough to take a well-loved form, treat it with genuine care, and finish what you started — even if finishing takes twenty-six years. On that measure, *I Guess You Want It This Way* is a small, warm success, and a fitting tribute to the guitarist who helped inspire it.