The record doctor: Liza Tarbuck

It was something Liza Tarbuck had seen happen to other people, but somehow she never thought she'd find herself doing the same thing. A few weeks ago, eager to buy some new music, she bought a compilation entitled Acoustic Chill-Out - 'not bad for reading the Sunday papers and doing the crozzie, but somehow too naff for comfort. I had to admit to myself that, in terms of what's going on at the moment, I no longer knew what to buy.'

As if to illustrate that this wasn't always the case, the 39-year-old actress, former Big Breakfast presenter and sole occupant of this terraced north London house, slides open a cupboard. Inside are two long shelves which house upward of a thousand vinyl albums and 12-inch singles. It is, by any standards, a connoisseur's collection. Long unavailable cuts by soul greats such as Oscar Brown Jr and Irma Thomas nestle alongside Johnny Cash originals, all of David Bowie's Seventies albums and a smattering of exceeedingly collectable platters by old-school rap troupes Digital Underground and Digable Planets. A 12-inch of the Stone Roses' 'Fools Gold' - 'one of my all-time top five singles' - still has a £3.29 HMV sticker on it, dating back to Tarbuck's years in Manchester filming Eighties sitcom Watching.

As she warms to her subject, she suddenly remembers a whole host of old favourites that she just has to hear. An original copy of Dean Martin's 1963 album Dino Latino leads to a brief analysis of Westlife's new 'Rat Pack' direction. 'Westlife can go and have a shit,' she says flatly, before alighting upon Sam Cooke's 'Whole Lotta Woman'. The effect of Cooke's velvet tones is instant. 'I've got a rocking chair that rocks,' she sings along. 'A rubber ball that rolls/ I need a whole lot of woman/ To satisfy my soul.' This is the Tarbuck we see giving it some cabaret oomph as Linda Green in Paul Abbott's eponymous drama.

Given that she works her own turntable like a DJ, it's no surprise to find that, for a while, she used to be one. In the early Nineties, when the acting jobs briefly dried up, she found some work in the West End, playing a selection of soul and lounge cuts. This turn of events wasn't without a certain irony. In the wake of alternative comedy, her dad Jimmy Tarbuck couldn't have been less cool. Yet records that once belonged to him were wowing clubbers in the heart of Soho. Liza Tarbuck pulls out a copy of Harry Nilsson's excellent 1969 album Harry - one of her father's - to single out a version of the Beatles' 'Mother Nature's Son'. 'People think they know my dad, but they don't. My parents were liberal as hell. In the wake of punk, I used to walk around town with dreads down to my waist and pyjamas on and they didn't bat an eyelid.'

Oddly enough, Tarbuck's only memory of her music triggering any kind of inter-generational conflict was when her dad overheard a line from Madness's 'In the Middle of the Night': 'I think the line was, "Get your knickers down," and he just ordered me to take the record off. I tried to explain that they meant, "Down from the washing line".'

Along with Madness, Squeeze struck a chord, and she liked Adam & the Ants' Dirk Wears White Sox , but by the time her dad used his showbiz connections to get her an autographed copy of Adam's Prince Charming, she was 'well and truly over him' - not that this has stopped her holding on to the album.

Impressive as her knowledge of older music is, Tarbuck feels that it sometimes holds her back from getting into current sounds. Modern R&B artists seem to lack the warmth of their predecessors and, try as she might, she struggles to work up much enthusiasm for Keane and the new vanguard of literate angst-poppers. As for mainstream pop, 'I find it irritating because more often than not I've already got three or four versions of these songs that would wipe the originals' arses. So can you see why I ended up buying that Acoustic Chill-Out ?

THE diagnosis

If it isn't emotionally upfront, then forget about it. This patient won't stand for any nonsense - but she does require instant gratification

Noting Tarbuck's love of sophisticated easy listening, the Doctor immediately earmarked Where Our Love Grows - the new collection by Swing Out Sister - for her attention. With her affection for Harry Nilsson also in mind, Want One by his 21st-century equivalent Rufus Wainwright was also dispatched - as well as When I Said I Wanted to be Your Dog by Swedish singer-songwriter Jens Lekman. The Doctor also had a hunch that Tarbuck might go for Get Away from Me, the debut album by New York's Nellie McKay, an intelligent exercise in modern AOR with showtune pizzazz. Sixties treasures came in the form of How Cool is Cool? - a blistering reissue from lounge trio the Peddlers - and a recently unearthed soul masterpiece by Jamaican-Canadian soul singer Wayne McGhie entitled The Sounds of Joy. Another underrated soul trouper Bettye Lavette made the pile with her brand new A Woman like Me. Also recommended were Goodbye by the Czars (Keane for grown-ups) and the Brand New Heavies' forthcoming Allaboutthefunk.

Cured?

Her dad is currently out of the country but when he returns Liza Tarbuck says she intends to grill him about the Peddlers: 'It was as though I was in the Bag O'Nails sharing a bag of Planters with Alan Price. That evocative.' On a similarly retro tip, Wayne McGhie was 'pure catnip to me', and while Tarbuck hadn't previously encountered Bettye Lavette, 'her album sounded bloody marvellous. I love her great band, and the balance of blues and soul. It was heartfelt and sharp.'

Jens Lekman was 'funny and fearless - someone I'd definitely recommend to my mates', while Nellie McKay was 'totally up my streetm ... an artist I could really grow to love in time.' She liked Rufus Wainwright for his 'harmonious marriage of great words and evident musical mastery'; the Brand New Heavies album because it was fresh, honest and great for cooking to; and the Czars, in spite of their Pink Floyd-y overtones.

Was there anything, in fact, that this month's patient didn't like? 'Swing Out Sister were, without doubt, the worst of the lot. Cloying songs, scrawny themes, no grit whatsoever. On paper, it should have been my favourite of the lot, but it left me utterly cold.'