BEATS OF LOVE

22. Le Chat Du Café Des Artistes by Charlotte Gainsbourg 

AS THE government becomes more Francophobe by the day, in a typical contrarian act, I have subsumed myself in all things French. 

This is a song I was happy to just spin on the turntable repeatedly until Charlotte randomly appeared in a Dix Pour Cent episode I was watching (guilty pleasure), which I took as a cue to type this. However, I'm more eager to turn anyone who isn't already onto this song, than her fluffy cameo.  

Having already approximated Jean Claude Vannier’s orchestral arrangements on the 1999 album, SeaChange with Paper Tigers specifically quoting Melody Nelson, Beck was an obvious choice as producer. Collaborating by exploring the dark theme of her brain surgery, he selflessly cajoled understated but rich vocal performances out of the fragility. Here he turns her onto this song written and performed by French Canadian's Jean-Pierre Ferland and Michel Robidoux, which are the only lyrics that aren't his own on the album, and truly transforms it into a brooding masterpiece. A wonderful subversion of colourful symphony music.   

This interpretation is a little less haunting and melodic but much more stripped-down than the original. Its darker hues really capture the song's essence. Whether it's my own wrong-headed take on authenticity or not, she sounds more earnest when singing in French. More convincing. I'm more than happy to lose the sense of great story-telling to gain that woozy feeling well produced music evokes by bringing warm pictures into my mind. Music for me is a great simplifier and quite often the darkest songs let in the most light. 

After 1998's Mutations, this for me is Beck's greatest musical statement. It's a sweeping orchestral track that has aged magnificently and a track that more than justifies this inspired collaboration by recognizing that neither without the other could achieve sublimity. 

And achieve it, it does. 

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

12. THE PRIMALS LIVE: up the slope & down the hill 

PART 1

THERE'S ONLY one band actually chronicle much of my early adult life; Primal Scream. A band that captured the zeitgeist on more than one occasion. I'd like to say I saw them tear up the Boardwalk in September 89 coz I was all set to go, but it was a weird one. 

I was half pissed and heavily obsessed with Jim Morrison. After reading No One Here... I bypassed his poetic influences, and rather predictably headed straight for his excesses. Only, I didn't smoke, so had never even tried cannabis before. That September afternoon I had acquired an eighth of squidgy-black, but was wary of being busted, so decided to swallow it whole in my bedroom, before departing for the show. 

A messy altercation with my sister followed and my wrist found itself flapping outside despite the window being locked. My sister drove me to A & E instead of the train station but unfathomably after getting stitched up, I jumped out of her moving car on our return. And rather than knock on my mother's door, I decided to shout expletives before launching myself through her porch windows instead.

 

I soon discovered Mum's next door, but two was a karate expert as he thrashed me all around the living room until the police arrived. Luckily for me, Mum refused to press charges on account of one of my teacher's telling her I was highly intelligent. I sat meekly in her living room watching the golf the day after on my final life at home before writing a cheque to a neighbour to replace 5 panels of glass (what was left of my inheritance). 

Just to register their own contempt for my appalling behaviour, my sisters left all my jazz-mags and the drugs that the police never found on the dining room table the week after. Thankfully, my mother reasoned that this was a past misdemeanor.

Fast-forward to July 91 and I'm off my box in a good way with both my sisters in tow enjoying my best ever night at the Hacienda and my favourite ever Tuesday night show. Despite convincing myself that it was my favourite Monday night show for thirty years. The Orb and Weatherall were spinning amazing records like System 7's Flutter and Liberation. 

Club veterans and DJs were milling around, but the half pissed, half drugged, gig aficionado's, had a euphoric woosh for big nights that set them apart and helped create an extra brilliant atmosphere. The Primals were simply stoned, immaculate, and playing their masterpiece Screamadelica to a sweat-box audience. Then many of us danced freely until 2 am. Not many people can put their hand on their heart and say 'indie-dance saved my life.'  

The year after, my kid sister had a mad crush on Bobby after dancing in dizzying proximity to him at the International 2, where leather trousers were out en masse. He glanced at me, a look akin to steaming hot piss ricocheting off a cold urinal but glanced her a wee smile. His skin actually looked sublime and, oddly, he was more impressive in the flesh. Most pop-stars were disappointing in real life. 

She never touched drugs, and I was galvanized in turn by her natural enthusiasm. I was just grateful that we now had a telepathic relationship that meant my drinks got bought and my spliffs got rolled despite me being too out of it to speak. I did have a stupid great smile on my face all that week. Ditto, Glastonbury 92, where a large array of different people were really feeling The Orb and the Primals. Making it revolutionary even. In 1990, only a few of us were dancing through the night, but that year... 

PART 2

A LESS well received Give Out... LP meant their Academy show in 94 was fairly low key. Kris Needs was playing The Clash, Mott The Hoople and Grandmaster Flash, but it still felt decidedly more like a gig. A bloody good gig.

I was starting to feel more mature and despite necking down some strong lagers on the bus into town; I was relatively sober and straight. I didn't drink during the show either, as I was at the front so my kid sister could get close and missed the cynicism and jokey banter of the Jockey Slut posse who were standing quite a few rows back. My arm was blue the next day after a sea of people had leant against it. It was, without doubt, my kindest act ever. Unsurprisingly, when they returned as veterans in the summer of  97 with a more cohesive album Vanishing Point, they played the Apollo. I was in bad shape but recall the show being quiet enough to walk through spacious foyers. 

My last truly enjoyable Primal's show was the Ritz in 98. Weatherall and the Chemical Brothers span many tunes I owned like Placebo's Balek and lots of familiar smiling faces were out in force. Like Discopogo with more space. The Primals even played Higher Than The Sun to a reverential response but largely perfected tunes from their previous show. Mannie's inclusion is what cemented their home team status, but this brought about its own mess. 

  

Before the long coda of the plastic glass years, that I will try to summarize swiftly, there was another fine show at the Ritz at the start of the new millennium. Eerily prescient and politicized, XTRMNTR was an energizing sensory assault of an album that luckily for us was captured perfectly in their live show. However, for a band so hard-wired into the psyche of my generation, something buckled when the anti-capitalist movement stalled. Coupled with Iraq, that felt like an unjust dictate. Hope of any meaningful concrete change dimmed.

In my thirties I was reading a lot of poetry, (via OU study and not Jim Morrison, I must add), so my elitist self convinced me that I understood their shows better than most and that the swelling numbers were missing the central tenet of their messaging. And had just showed up for some light entertainment.  

However, because they were so tight and passionate, live, I went to countless shows at the Apollo and even Brixton, spilling beer all over my hands. I saw their fresh material condensed to smaller and smaller segments as the boozy crowds just wanted a sing-song, reducing them to pricey karaoke. 

The highlights were often hearing their warm-up playlists, which included The Byrds and MC5, while the places were still half-empty. These shows were fast becoming nostalgia fests for ticket-stub collectors and hearing them bastardize their masterpiece Screamadelica, that one, perfect, harmonious memory I had, was tragic. Well, they didn't, but the sing-along crowd spitting their beer out everywhere did. Actually throwing myself out of a fast-moving car would've been more fun. 

I drew the line right there but did almost buy tickets for Bobby's book signing until recalling the fawning self-importance of these intimate events and decided reading it without the surplus flannel or autograph would be better. 

Infamous Audrey Witherspoon review - https://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/1989-andrew-weatherall-nme-live-review-primal-scream-screamadelica-2610946

https://twitter.com/screamofficial/status/1191271362888790017?lang=en

BEATS OF LOVE

21. Gains on Gains (Shrinkwrap Dub) by Torn Sail

I'VE BEEN reading Bobby G's typically immodest but entertaining memoirs and was especially happy to re-read for the umpteenth time his anecdote about Loaded. I also concur with Weatherall that the best record he put his own name to wasn't that but the Primal's version of Dennis Wilson's Carry Me Home.

He actually gave the song more gravitas by pitching it a little slower and adding some depth with his psychotic coda that bewitches in a mournful yet meaningful way. Both Weatherall and The Primals were barely into their 30s yet still sound utterly convincing and soulful. As with other releases on NuNorthern Soul, I was awaiting my 2 track seven from Huw and BJ Smith only to discover it was a digital only second track. 

Thankfully, I bought a sampler twelve so at least have the stunning Sun When You Come on vinyl. I love the fact Huw like The Primal's hands over control of his work to surprise both himself and us. One copy of the vinyl sampler is left for sale on Bandcamp. Hurry! What I'm more interested in this week are the long anticipated Torn Sail remixes that were becoming as mythical as the B'dum B'dum... vinyl, which is also out now. Christopher Galloway delivers a yummy vinyl copy, and Shrinkwrap, a production duo permitted into Huw's thought processes, may not be prolific but are top drawer, make it absolutely essential. 

Disconnected has been on a journey with me, as I was hoping it would gain the traction needed to get to honour the Playhouse show. Sadly, it didn't, but it has evolved into a song that sprays like shards of fine cut glass, transforming itself with a fragile beauty. And that's just Huw's own reinterpretation. Like BJ, this duo understand production and compose a sunset masterpiece out of his once tight pop song.

That they turn two further Gains on Gains remixes abetted by BJ on Moog that truly maximises its wondrous musical passage that unsurprisingly sounds much more aquatic than astral, is a massive bonus. I'm more smitten with the lighter weighted dub right now, which bobs along brilliantly but all that could change as all three tracks are on rotation. Three epic, differing excursions that all explore wider-screen musical routes out of Huw's more plaintive expression. And all for the price of a dessert. 

Yes, hail the remixers, but hail the artists who permit them freedom. More. 

https://testpressing.org/review/torn-sail-disconnected-gain-on-gains-shrinkwrap-remixes 

https://soundcloud.com/soft-rocks/sss001torn-sail-gain-on-gains-shrinkwrap-dub?in=soft-rocks/sets/sun-sea-sound-001

    

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

11. WE WANNA GET LOADED AND WE WANNA HAVE A GOOD TIME

             PART 1   'Just what is it that you want to do?'                         

LOADED WAS a game-changer, altering everything since the day I first heard it from a fuzzy monochrome into crystal-clear technicolour. Everything except my clobber. Other than Blundstone boots, everything I owned was from my mother's or sister's wardrobes or Wednesday's Oldham flea market. I went to a Loop concert on half a trip the day I bought it, but couldn't wait to get back home to spin it on repeat throughout a sunny Thursday morning in the back garden where it sounded truly wonderful.   

I loved the hazy intensity, the day after a decent trip, when I would convince myself I was becoming a little more enlightened. However, by 1997 I was so pleased to hear the Beta Band's Champion Versions EP rewinding everything back to that same point, as I had become truly jaded with going out clubbing, but, in between time, there were Justin Robertson, Greg Fenton, Tom Rowlands, and Ed Simons, whose music had a cumulative effect of further enlightening me, I think. 

The minute I walked into HP's night, I knew I had found something ever shifting and much more stimulating than any other nights I'd attended. Records I owned through Spice and Boy's Own charts, but I never heard anywhere else, were rocking a really cool mixed gay and straight crowd. 

Greg's tunes really held that vibe together, but Justin had a massive pull and created buckets of energy and enthusiasm. Introducing my good mate Stu's cousin (an Arches regular) to their full on Thursday was memorable. The sweat was just dripping off his carrot top and flying everywhere. I'd never seen anything like it before or since. And I've been in some mad-houses. 

My kid sister fitted in well with her Geese clobber, but I only went in there for fanzines and flyers. All my spare cash went on an ever-growing records wants list and going out. Tom sometimes wore a really cool leather jacket with Renegade Soundwave emblazoned on the back and his cohort Phil South an even greater Exile tee. The Stones were my main obsession, and I hadn't at that point considered my socio-economic dis-advantages, let alone my own image. I just felt some spiritual kin-ship and having my sisters in tow helped create that sense of affiliation. 

                                      

 

PART 2   'Ground Controllll!'                                     

LUCKILY, MONDAYS at the Brickhouse were a more dressed down affair and mainly given over to Ariel T-Shirted straight lads and impromptu PA's from the likes of Andy E and Rowetta, who always sounded champion. They wouldn't stand on a stage but would instead belt out numbers on the stairwell. People forget that there was one tune that charged up Justin's dancefloor that summer. The girls were admiring one another's I-D recommended clobber and swish haircuts, then Rhythm is a Mystery dropped and the place erupted into smiling and dancing. Not many Monday night DJs could then keep their floor full by playing Sheer Taft and the Fun Boy Three. Hats well and truly off.  

Monday clubbing really made a statement, but with working Tuesday's I was supping Sol and other than a bit of puff on the journey down was pretty much straight headed. Most folk for most of the time were in a similar laid back head-space.   

Kid Sister

Tim used to drive down from Lancaster and was much more energetic and enthusiastic than me. Even after a week in Berlin, he was full of vim. He was great coz his congenial nature meant he shared the track titles Justin was playing without making a meal of it, saving me the embarrassment of approaching the DJ booth. 

The seminal closers Don't Fight It (Scat mix), Temple Head, and Fallen were quasi-religious in their effect, and sent us all off to the high place.

However, I'd soon be fast asleep on the car journey back home before jotting down the titles on my way to bed. I was the worst of things; a train-spotter in denial. In all the other clubs, I was too wasted. 

 

Glitter Baby at the State was a case in point. I was still prone to losing the plot, whereas Greg would waft himself in the heat with records I could only dream of buying and never have a hair out of place. Tom would sit down in sober conversation often with carrier bags of records whilst I'd be sliding down a wall in a poppers and sweat haze. 

I only ever recall him dancing once and that was to Weatherall's Come Home remix at a Primal's gig. He'd already enjoyed his dancefloor conversion long before me and had obviously considered his socio-economic advantages and own image.   

One Saturday I was too inebriated to even leave Mum's house, so gave her cat Garfield, who I called Brian, some poppers instead and laughed as he walked into the radiator. I laughed too on another sorry occasion when my mother called into my room to tell me my uncle had just died as I had just been sampling some pills. Mother, luckily, had the wisdom to recognize my folly and knew I would feel dreadful eventually. Or did my sister tell her? Anyway, I eventually I did.  Brian exacted his own revenge too when he began talking to me in a cold manner when we were alone together and this completely freaked me out for well over a year. 

I recall Nicola Stephenson, whose character Margaret Clemence shared that infamous kiss in Brookside, showing concern for my mental-state one night, and me predictably making a poorly judged pass at her. These nights morphed into days and other nights, Circus took the reins from Glitter Baby and Most Excellent moved to Thursdays at the Wiggly Worm before it got ram-raided by gangs. Ed became increasingly chatty, discussing MBV, Graham Massey, and the Roses, whilst Tom, whose band Ariel was on the wane, was every bit as transparent as myself. His look of complete disdain when I enthused about Nia Peeples was only matched by my own when he was buzzing about the Prodigy. Looking back, it was a primitive form of market research.

I was surprised and supportive when Tom and Ed eagerly started Naked Under Leather. It attracted a load of students and was a cool place to try out Dennis the Menaces with my good pal Bobby, or introduce Stu's maddest cousin in day-glow pants to magic mushrooms and crazy dancing. Or did he introduce us? Either way, it was mental.

I like the fact that it was Justin who had told Tom to concentrate on the weird interludes in his music. Moonboots deserves credit too for arming them with dubbed-out, hip-hop records, which really stood them out. Often sounding not unlike their own output.  

PART 3 'Gu-Gan-Gu Gagga-Gan, Gu-Gan-Gu Gagga-Gan- Girl i'm high!' 

THE DUST Brothers produced really ground-breaking music. A case in point is their Swordfish remix. It retained a Balearic air, but, with the help of an East Side Hoods sample and some lysergic acid dimethylamide in the groove, they took them off to another stratosphere. 

It was definitely another Loaded moment for me as it sounded not too dissimilar from the noise reverberating around my own head as I lay on my bed awaiting another unfathomable night of strange dreams. In no time at all, their DJing was uniting journalists and you could anticipate their success. Lots more women and freaks began attending NUL, and they really relegated Phil to a workaday role, despite him being a great DJ in his own right. I actually thought they might be as big as Greg one day.  

In fact, Greg played some blinding sets in the Pavillion with Jon Dasilva at Space Funk before it too got ram-raided by gangs. He championed Chicago house and Disco and then, with the release of his own disco-infused house bomb, Love Infinity, it all quickly fizzled out for me. Invariably, post-club, whilst folk were wandering around looking for after-parties, I'd be stretched out, star-shaped, on the local bowling green, tripping, and still seeking enlightenment.  

I took a lot of magic mushrooms and wandered around his new night, Vive Le Rock at the Wiggly Worm, realizing I was definitely in the wrong meeting. Stu took a lot more than me and was in a far worse state, actually crawling around, and I was in a bad way.     

Shortly after, we both suffered very definitive, but wholly separate, breakdowns. He fell back in love with footy, but because I still harboured hopes of being an uncompromising DJ, I wasn't finished with music. Unsurprisingly, there were more breakdowns to come my way. Everything became very disjointed and very foggy until Discopogo at the Paradise Factory where Tom and Ed sounded next level. Long before their fancy Dan light shows and their need to fill bigger spaces with their sound, they were mixing records I owned or selecting cuts off them I myself had overlooked.

Follow 4 Now sounded absolutely astounding and truly futuristic in their set. I was a little in awe and actually thought for the first time that they might be a little bigger than Greg one day.    

BEATS OF LOVE

20.The Crystal Ship by The Doors

I CAN safely say that the apex of poetic popular music was The Doors and that living past 27 is vastly over-rated. I love Lawrence, whose integrity and wit sear into his songs in a highly unpretentious, poetic manner. However, being honest, he self-destructed over a lack of fame. He was hardly popular. 

 

NME darling Morrissey is now a bugbear for many, but me especially. I bunked off school in part to memorise his lyrics, especially Headmaster Ritual, which brilliantly caricatured the state school monsters who made my life so miserable. This song became a sort of survival kit.

Sadly, to keep his songs relevant nowadays means freezing in time, the monsters that characterize many of his songs. Sadly, the only allies he can find, intent on doing this, are the far-right. A far-right he duly sucks up to in a despicable fashion by wearing shitty little For Britain button badges. 

Another important band of my late adolescence, the Stone Roses, utilized the Bible to give gravitas to their lyrics on otherwise formulaic songs. Front man Ian Brown sang these songs in a broad regional dialect but was still propelled by a lot of music journalists into the limelight, and he actually seemed like an iconic figure. With hindsight, he wasn't. 

It's tragic that they reformed to desecrate their name. Perhaps a twenty-something can still hear the fiery menace in I Wanna Be Adored, a song written by and for folk in their sexual prime. Not fifty-somethings, who are already decaying. Who are they even kidding? More tragic still is that he now bangs on about covid inanely to desecrate it further. Despite Oliver Stone trashing Jim Morrison's character in his hateful biopic by lampooning him as completely insane, it wasn't real. Alas, Ian Astbury's tragic karaoke bastardization was. It actually happened. 

   

Morrison's short time in the limelight testifies to a sensitivity, evidenced in his poetic lyrics, which more than confirmed he wasn't completely insane. In that all too brief spell before the whiskey took a hold of him, he both looked and thought better than anyone else before or since. This baroque lament for a left love has been over analysed for its drug connotations, but I prefer to read it as a sombre love song. The Doors brought his poetry to life, and it's the richly colourful instrumentation here that kills me. Left on a page, it wasn't too great. This truly emotive love song is made all the more intense by realizing he never did make it back to drop a line.

It's also one of my favourite love songs of all time and needs another spin as everything in my life becomes uncertain. I have many records, but not that many musical anchors.    

          

BEATS OF LOVE

19. Anti Mako by Francky Vincent

PRIOR TO covid I had sketched plans for a night called simply - BAREFOOT IN THE HEAD. Featuring crazy funky tunes, mad dubby house, wrong-speeders and the most whacked-out tunes in my collection. With guest DJs pencilled in from mainly Holland, it was to run 3 times a year and press heavily on the delirium button. Like much of my other life as a bedroom DJ, it's now on the cutting room floor, but I still aspire to soundtrack it whenever the mood takes me. 

I always knew that the internet was going to both help me join the dots of my 30 year musical odyssey and cost me a packet in the process, which is why I stayed off line until 2008. And it has. Much like my Japanese parcels, my French parcels tend to arrive spasmodically, but in pretty hardcore fashion. Throwing a few curveball buys in for good measure to elicit some surprise. 

This, however, was always going to be a major blast. The only questions I asked myself were 'is it a minter, and does it play loud?' Luckily, the answers were, yes, and yes. Francky is Zouk's answer to Serge Gainsbourg. His sexually explicit lyrics often courted controversy, but if I'm honest, I haven't got the foggiest of what he's singing about here. All I know is that the song is delirium on wax. Whether his cheeky smile on the sleeve has disarmed me, I'm not sure, but right from the dizzy opening, I'm completely hooked.

Pure marmite by nature, you're either gliding across the floor in glee like myself, or reaching for the sick bucket. Both vocalists employ their voices instrumentally to engine drive the song at pace in a manner reminiscent of early Wham! and their backing singer classics. However, the tropical percussive heat given off is distinctively Francky and decidedly Zouk at its absolute best.

I'm so glad I purchased it as I've gone from dancing for my mental health to dancing to keep my feet warm in the space of a week. Like 1991 all over again, then.