BEATS OF LOVE

35. Spirit Dance by A Certain Ratio

WHEN YOU fall out with a good friend for well over a year, you have time to reflect. I was embarrassed when my mum told my school mates my father was a fully qualified accountant. Not least coz the ones whose mothers just said accountant were smarter than me. And mechanic, much smarter. 

I decided Iggy Pop would make a far better mentor but my good friend unfathomably declared he was decidedly lower-middle-class so was mentored instead by somebody decidedly middle-class. Not just somebody, anybody. 

Consequently, I ask him to be my best man, and then he tells me, after accepting, despite not even having a woman in his life at the time, that his then mate, and then, Nick Clegg's speech writer, will be his. Yes, it's true. Clegg's speech writer. Instantly, I wished I'd asked my mum's partner instead. Before I met my good friend, I was already taking music very seriously. I bought records in Musicworld, my local town's wonderful vinyl emporium, that I would never have bought in E-Bloc. ACR had been on the scene for a decade and this, their latest effort at the time, had been in their bargain crates for an age.

This record is enigmatic. I had no clue who ACR were back then, but they provided the basis for my journey towards something more ritualistic and communal. Something that was only beginning to happen in my head that magical summer. I was in between nightclubs at the time and transitioning from indie-dance to house variants, so I was taking lots of LSD and moving my body about far less lumpenly. The abstracted voices and shifting keys completely play with musical texture and blow my fucking head off. It's a blurred marriage between a pulsating Sheffield electro rhythm and Africa that still sounds as distorted and invincible. And still makes me putty in its God touched hands.   

I was standing with Chris, protesting Johnson, proguing parliament, as you do, and Martin Moscrop came over chatting to him. Despite owning a fair few of his records, I still had no idea who he was until Chris told me after he'd departed. If I'd known, I would've said 'thanks' at the very least. Upon reflection, Iggy and anybody decidedly middle-class, aren't the best mentors. Life is short, and, with misfortune, sadly, even good friendships can run their course. 

However, happily, the positive effects of great records can last a lifetime. Thanks Martin.  

THE LONELINESS OF THE LONG DISTANCE RECORD BUYER : AN END OF YEAR REVIEW

ANOTHER YEAR begins as weirdly as the last one started. Luckily Perfect Lives are on hand with the perfect prescription for the January Blues. Colin Broster's Somebody Else's Heart is straight out of the right Greenwich post code and wholly out of step for its time, which makes it as memorable as the Pale Fountain's jangle classic There's Always Something On My Mind. Yes, that memorable. 

Must thank Matt Timms for turning me onto the acid-fried might that is the Zauberstab Volume 1 compilation. I especially love the sleeve instruction to 'use this record to build beautiful memories.' I have, albeit nodding out on my own with a little flicker of curtain light darting across the room. By the time I arrive at the highlight, Le Ronins brooding delight Été 2017, I've convinced myself that the Spanish compilation of the decade is already spinning. 

Then inexplicably I pick up La Ola Interior : Spanish Ambient & Acid Exoticism 1983-1990, a comp lovingly curated by Bongo Joe, and I have to think again. Although the deep expansive opener Transparent by Miguel A. Ruiz is never matched, the standard is high enough for a full spin session. Especially interesting are the classically trained musicians experimenting with raw technology that culminates in some intriguing and magical results. 

Then inexplicably, I pick up the Soundway comp Ritmo Fantasía: Balearic Spanish Synth-Pop, Boogie And House (1982-1992) and am completely blown away by more upbeat tempo. I'm moving my hips (a first) almost in rhythm to at least seven massive winners. Ma Ritter's Flamenco Rap (In the Land of My Dreams), although unashamedly more dated, gets me the most excited. I love all three comps equally and can't recommend them highly enough, as they've collectively put me in a Spanish paradise that touches down on most musical bases. El Cielo.

  

The most widely loved LP has been Bremer / McCoy's Natten that smoulders breezily along in aquatic washes of musical splendour without ever letting the quality slip. Absolute aural heaven. Another solid spin was Guy Maxwell's Outside My Window LP. A year when you only have space to mention one Growing Bin record is a good year. Check Beautiful Day for dreamy Dutch pop perfection. Tip-top.

Australian labels A Colourful Storm and Efficient Space both released beautiful records. Maxine Funke's Seance LP on the former comes with the highest of recommendations. The warm chords and lush vocals that make Lucky Penny so woozy were my favourite sounds before Micky Browne posted Moody Relish. I have to admit, this stripped down affair is pure class and just about steals the show. But, what a show.    

The latter delivered holy grail jazz in the form of Singing Dust's Involution LP. A righteous brew of breezy ethno-stew, folk, and Jarrett, all serve to make this long-player light touch dynamite. The title track is stunning, but once again the whole record plays ridiculously well. 

 

It would be rude not to mention the doozy that is You'll Never Get to Heaven's Wave Your Moonlight Hat for the Snowfall Train LP on Seance Centre. Ethereal beats and vocals that sort of creep up on you in a good way give it a highly distinctive flavour. Dust evokes Julee Cruise's voice transported to a less melancholy musical dreamscape. It's brilliant. Some people are put on this earth to compose a large canon of work, but I suspect Psychederek was put on it to create Psychedereka, 2021's sole contribution to the indie-dance canon. What a great contribution it is, though.

A year when you only have space to mention long players, comps and one twelve inch single, is a mighty fine year indeed. A year when I've already had a moment with Rae & Christian's Sail Away remix is also shaping up nicely. Cheers!

BEATS OF LOVE

34. Catch Me If You Can by Wrekin Havoc

ODD THAT such an epic tune should land so early into a new year, but brilliantly odd. Brilliant, too, that all the profits made are being donated to charity.

Rob introduced himself to me by messaging a link to a secret Italo tune, and I was a little nonplussed. Then I began seeing his sprawling, spasmodic posts appear on my timeline, where he sends everybody links to wonderful music. Much that I'm often impelled to investigate further. I now await his drunkenness with trepidation as it nearly always costs me a few quid. 

This edits EP is the high quality excavation you would expect from West Midlands finest music freaks that hits proper pay-dirt with its finale. Here, the edit becomes much more dramatic than the pricey original. I love it on these rare occasions when the edits actually add something, not least coz it saves me a few quid, and a lot of tracking down.

Originally recorded at Middelkerke's Beach Studio, this is indeed a properly Balearic record that is thankfully new to most of us. I love the play on words in the title that allude to both their dig and their musical escapism. 

Already the spoilers have unearthed it as a slab of late 80s Belgium delight, but the alchemists have amalgamated the sultry throbs of the instrumental that build and build before finally teasing in the voice of Pascale, a Kate Bush soundalike, creating a proper moment. Right up there with Fragile's We've Got Tonight, Boy. 

2022 has begun already. 

 

BEATS OF LOVE

33. Sight Gag by E Ruscha V And The Only Thingz

WHEN WE talk of tunes today and say things like, great for flailing* on the hammock during a sunny day, we clean forget that music used to make us feel fucking majestic. But so too did footy, and yer mates, and having good hair. 

I'm fucking old, so great for flailing on the hammock during a sunny day is about the highest accolade I can heap upon a great tune. You should hear what I say about footy, my mate, and my hair, nowadays.  

To me at least, silly season means a general over-work, and I neglected to purchase this upon its release. Not because I didn't want it but rather the fact that in my lethargic state I clean forgot about it. Luckily, and unusual for Good Morning Tapes, when I finally reminded myself about it, one was still available. 

Played as a whole the LP is very satisfying, which is unsurprising because Secret Circuit was top drawer. Although still a marriage between technology and something more organic, what differentiates this venture is a warmth and playfulness which oozes out of the speakers and forces a docile smile to surface on the listener's boat-race. That never happened before. 

However, this track is really standout. I probably shouldn't use an art analogy but it evokes the miniature in that it seems to scale down the dubby ambience of tunes like Towers of Dub yet retain its spirit. The result still feels as expansive. More pastoral than astral, it's a three-part odyssey that encourages horizontal musical-mind pinball** and is perfect for the January month when we retrain our brains to appreciate a much healthier diet.    

In fact, it's also great for flailing on the hammock during a sunny day.

*    Did I say flailing? Yes, have you ever seen me on a hammock?

** Beats of Love number 10 

https://goodmorningtapes.bandcamp.com/track/sight-gag

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO 

14. LUVDUP : TOP ONE, SORTED 

PART 1

CLUB REUNIONS; only ever tried them once on a Luvdup Sunday boat party in 2009, and it was odd. The internet had hoodwinked me into thinking time had stood still. It hadn't, of course.

A reunion where you barely recognize anybody is tough enough, but when you're also three quarters of the way through proof-reading a final's dissertation that is due in on the Tuesday, it's plain weird. To compound my problems, Mark actually felt sorry for me and invited me to an after after-party where panic was already setting in.

I hadn't been out in over 6 months and blood was pouring out of my big hooter all over some poor woman's expensive designer kitchen fish-tank. And tenner. A kitchen I spent New Year's Eve 1997 partying in, apparently. 

I was actually quoting passages of my dissertation out loud at one point to help me memorise my ideas, so got some very strange looks.

I made a truly bad impression as per usual and I didn't make it home until Monday evening in a state of near senselessness. I set my alarm at stupid o'clock on the Tuesday and attempted to proofread it and post it off. I posted it off. Needless to say, I've not been to one since. 

When I first met Adrian, he was impossibly effete and aloof, but a very sound DJ. I was a scruff and a fish out of water and he was making D.S.K and Colonel Abrahams really sing, so had every right to ignore me. As unfriendly as he was towards me, Mark was utterly vivacious. He wore the brand tee with tight sweatpants and never walked past without making spirited conversation.   

He was the first to twig that I was out clubbing with my kid sister a lot. She knew what everyone was wearing, and I sometimes knew what was being played. The pain-staking effort that went into decking out the Venue with love hearts, goodie-bag treats, and fruit, every week, was mighty impressive. The suspect PA's less so. The music policy was also bonkers.

The infamous Like A Prayer acapella that got mixed twice really created a moment. I'd wake up after about 4 hours sleep with a daft smile on my face and face work because of it. HI-NRG classics pumped out alongside the 3 Beat piano monster Feel It and there were giddy, whirling, smiling faces everywhere. The Hip-House call to arms C'mon N Shake Yer Butts created even more dancefloor mayhem. 

However, they also broke in tunes with less momentum. The gorgeous Who Needs Enemies and the subtly anthemic Funkatarium spring to mind. Another quasi-religious experience was had when they spun Undercover of the Night's cheeky dub. Hard to believe a few doors down folk were skulking around a moody Hacienda. 

PART 2

LUVDUP'S MEMBERSHIP policy was born out of necessity and not elitism, as all this euphoria took place against a backdrop of escalating gun-crime.

This became much more apparent to me once the club doors were shut firm a few years later and gangs openly moved into the Conservatory and Isobar to force worming tablets down my neck at a tenner a throw. 

The same Cheetham Hill gang member with his weathered face and a possibly imaginary stun-gun had me over twice in a matter of weeks and didn't even recognize me the second time.  

Luckily, there were still some shenanigans to be had in the time between. We had a great laugh when they took over Liberty's for a short run called Holidays in the Sun. Instant Replay, Even Better than the Real Thing, and Shine On have never sounded better. Flake-Out at Robinski's was a trek for me, but I thoroughly enjoyed my one night there. It was a precursor for many a night to come. I'd been in a floatation tank but not a chill-out night before, and I loved it. 

When they moved to the No 1 club with their night Hell, I had very high expectations, but it was half-empty and musically fell short. It felt like hell pretending to enjoy their overloaded musical concoctions that were more overground Euro-house than underground. I think it was short-lived.   

They were obviously acutely aware of their strengths and weaknesses, as they had the good sense to move into both floors of the Paradise Factory with their next venture, Jolly Roger. 

What made me a regular there was the wonderful upstairs room called the Crow's Nest that was laid out with mattresses and played anything non-house. The queue was also great fun with a warm camaraderie and a delightfully friendly bouncer. That I had to queue to inhabit a half-empty upstairs space was a bit rich, and I rarely saw my kid sister or the folk I'd been bantering with again. 

The music downstairs was bloody awful, but upstairs McCready and Moonboots were phenomenal selectors, making staples of I'm Only Sleeping, On a Sunday and the Rockford Files theme and saving the night for me. They really brought the best out of their guest DJ's.  I've never seen Weatherall have as much fun or Justin play so many winners. Dub Symphony Higher than the Sun followed by Sunday Morning was just sheer bliss. Stepping Stone into Rise sounded genius. 

When Mark E Smith arrived pissed with a carrier bag of records, everybody stepped back. Well, everyone except Mark, who patiently helped him cue up his awful records. It was without doubt the funniest thing I've seen whilst trying not to laugh. Something was lost when the mixed scene I enjoyed so much became top heavy with less open-minded students. Musically, something was also lost on the mixed scene, too. It's a crying shame that there wasn't a night to bridge those divides again. 

Despite staying away from Home and Code where their takeover continued apace, I shared some amazing sessions with Mark thanks to my friendship with Baldie and he turned me onto Spaghetti Westerns and Nick Drake. He turned me off the studio when he played me some God awful piano tune in the making, but he was always super fun to be around. 

I recall clean forgetting Adrian was one of Vinyl Exchange's original employees when I over excitedly played him my Electric Prunes LP in the summer of 98 just prior to leaving South Manchester. I'd discovered that some shady deal over Club Code had cost him and Mark 35k, which seemed like a fortune back then. Still does. They'd sorted it within a year, which explains how big their brand was at the time.  

My abiding memory of Luvdup was my mate's Thursday night in Dino's in the summer of 94. I'm in the backroom playing to nobody and they're setting up for the following night.

Not Adrian and Mark, but the Luvdup juniors. At that point I thought 'God help us.'  

BEATS OF LOVE

32. The Cross by Prince

SO MUCH mediocre music annoyingly wafts around our lives. Do folk even realize that there are actually folk who are driven solely by a compulsion to create glorious songs?

The problem is that they don't waft about in folk's consciousness because they are actually fucking important. One such being is Prince and one of many of his glorious songs is this. My own faith is very important to me. I sought transcendence through music but came back to the fold after a few breakdowns and a serious illness. The real-life music biz is too much about ego.

Josemaria Escrivá taught that "joy has its roots in the form of a cross", and that "suffering is the touchstone of love" which really resonated with me. I still grapple with my Catholicism. Its obscene wealth sits uneasily with me. I call my God a last resort one because I've tried everything to be less spiritual, but no pub philosopher or acid house hero has convinced me that I'm wrong and I've never attempted to convince anyone that I'm right. Christians are called to convert folk and save souls. Unlike Prince, I'm more evangelical about this song than Christianity, I guess, which is no bad thing.

The lyrical genius is his reverence for absolutely everybody. Sharing in this song my own tacit understanding of the Gospels, that Christ doesn't discriminate between believers. His Ghettos are not poorly built overcrowded man-made hellish housing developments but the faithless. The flowering of faith is all you need to redeem yourself. Escrivá also pertinently noted "there are some who pass through life as through a tunnel, without ever understanding the splendour and the security and warmth of the sun of faith." Making faith pretty Balearic.

This masterpiece begins like a folksy spiritual then adds a stiff military drumbeat that evokes the battle-cry of the Creed before culminating in a psychedelia that borders on grunge. Cobain must've been listening coz only he puts his voice through the ringer like Prince. That sitar knocks me out every single time.

Experiencing it twice on the Lovesexy tour will stay with me forever. It didn't waft about, it truly transfixed everybody.