BEATS OF LOVE

41. I Believe in You by Talk Talk

TALK TALK presented this single to EMI as the only one taken from their masterpiece, Spirit of Eden. The pinnacle of their many achievements was completely misunderstood by the label. Tim Friese-Greene's understated role in the group needs revising, as this song he co-wrote and produced amounts to nothing less than the deepest and saddest musical expression ever committed to wax. That somehow also manages to be one of the most soulful and addictive. 

The players all sound like they're in a brilliant trance and their blanker spaces create a real sense of subtle drama. I prefer this LP version, obviously, because it's nearly twice as long. Little wonder they ended their time together on the prestigious jazz label Verve.      

I tooted heroin a few times in a Rusholme squat on just the one occasion. It was exciting at first with all the paraphernalia, then became frightening as I began to feel a little too incredible. After the effects finally wore off, I luckily filed it under 'best tried once.' Mark Hollis's brother Ed wasn't so lucky and eventually died of his addiction, which makes this song so deeply emotive and personal. It apes heroin's comforting effects in both his fear-wracked vocals, and the haunting melody that smolders and snakes along magnificently, producing something both ethereal and truly pain-relieving in the process. 

However, Hollis states that 'within rock music, there’s so much glorification of it, and it’s a wicked, horrible thing, you know' asserting that the only real partial escape from suffering in his own life is through music. Preferring a sedated six-piece choral section to the twenty-five piece version that he erased. Preferring an amorphous structure to coherence and order. Preferring stark lyrical laments to metaphors. And, preferring life, with all its pain, to death. 

It sounds even more poignant, on this, the third anniversary of Mark Hollis's own death, and, the second day of Putin's evil act of defiance in the face of a divided world. 

Its brilliance will survive us all.    

BEATS OF LOVE

40. Sunset in the Meadow by Rahel Talts Ensemble

WITH THE inception of SFH came forth a predominant passion for European jazz of the breezy variety, but then a true spirit of eclecticism took a hold and all-sorts of sounds started to come out of my speakers. 

Vampire bit disco being among them. Thankfully, I still have time in my life for listening to European jazz to unfurl my toes to and let life just float by. I doubt there'll be a breezier example than this all year. I'm also, for this week at least, Rahel Talts's Facebook fan of the week (whatever that means), but much more than that, I've corresponded with her on a wonderfully warm human level. 

Slaving away in a Danish studio with like-minded players to make both musical and more abstract concepts come to life, she examines thought from an array of angles. Her compositions incorporate elements of folk, pop, and fusion, using warm melody, colourful rhythms, and switching between acoustic piano and electric keyboard. The magic is making all of this sound so natural and simple.

So glad Erki Pruul of Frotee fame shared this, the best track from his fellow Estonian's utterly joyous CD. (Yep, CD again.) She has been modest enough to send it, hoping that it brings some joy to my day. It's actually brought an immeasurable amount, and not just to my day. To my life. Although richly textured, for such a young ensemble, they show a subtle restraint, giving it an all important sense of space. Necessary, I suppose, when calling your composition this.

 

With so many musicians and without a trained hearing, I'd struggle to tell you who was playing what and when all the time, but I love its beauty all the same. 

Sunsets are always perfect whereas life so seldom is. Today, thankfully, is the exception.  

 

BEATS OF LOVE

39. Hernani by Top Sound

ALBIN LINDSTROM aka Eden Rock, a Stockholm DJ, is responsible for some of the only mixes to give AOR a good name. They're brilliant. He kindly shared this beautiful CD, in the dream-pop tradition, that only a fool wouldn't purchase. It's brilliant too. 

The idea of fetishizing CDs the way we fetishize vinyl is odd, but becoming much more common. All I'll say is that in this instance ordering the CD direct from Sweden was cheaper. My ears are hard-wired to hearing vinyl so CDs sound a little biting in their crispness. I have to suffer for your art, I guess. 

Thankfully, Top Sound makes it easier by creating a CD that plays well from start to finish. And then better still on repeat plays. How they've managed to escape me for so long is another of life's little mysteries. 

Katarina Andersson's voice is simply perfect for this song. A song that first surfaced digitally in 2016 but is thankfully included on this cd. It's a little clearer and more sophisticated than the more muffled voices characteristic of the genre. Einar Ekström's vibraphonette really gives it a more catchy feeling and evokes a time of innocence in pop when Saint Etienne was plotting world domination. It's also the perfect length for a classic pop song.

By the time Kylie's producers finally achieved world domination, with a sound mutated from synth pop, it became too brittle and cold to truly satisfy anybody other than Paul Morley. Thankfully, these woozy, throbbing synths and piano lines add layers of warmth that invite a nostalgic lament for the loss of innocence and I forget all about the dross that's currently out there.

Understanding that music is always at its best as a pure and simple form of escapism is what makes this sound so special.

Few bands do.

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

16. LIBERATION: THE GOD-LIKE ANDREW WEATHERALL 

PART 1 

ANDREW WEATHERALL'S propensity towards self-destruction was evident by the early nineties.

It made him feel much more real than other, more one-dimensional characters in the dance-scene. What began in my bedroom, being completely blown away by his Hallelujah and Loaded remixes, gradually became something of a shared obsession. I think every record collection I've ever seen contains at least a dozen of his magically fearless records. 

I was also blessed that folk I felt some affiliation with invited him to DJ at so many varied events over the years. 

Folk that became his genuine friends and still feel his loss on a profoundly personal level, and events where folk always seemed to go the extra mile to attend. And then go the extra mile.   

He took some slack on social-media for not crediting LB Bad (when in fact he did) on his masterpiece Smokebelch II. It operates with a completely different momentum than its influence. One capable of both filling the Academy with its majestic soundscape and putting everyone in a trancelike state in the process. Or one capable of adding even more beauty and taking it to the Cafe del Mar with a wonderful Beatless mix. He always found ways of mixing records that could also accomplish as much and stir similar sensations. 

I'd been completely entranced by his sets in London film studios and smiled for days after his legendary Herbal Tea Party sets that have rightly gone down in folk-lore. Watching the Sabres live at Basics and watching him get raised aloft at an early Naked Under Leather were equally memorable. He could be playing hard Djax-Up-Beats records to a peak-time dancefloor before ending the night with Shirley Bassey when nobody else would dare.  

That he reinvented both himself and his sounds to inhabit smaller, more intimate spaces speaks volumes about his reticence, about his potential future as a superstar DJ. Which was there for the taking. Wilmot's Last Skank and The first Lone Swordsmen LP in its entirety best exemplify this seismic shift towards subtler sonics and are both timeless classics. 

PART 2

HEARING WEATHERALL DJ more recently has, at times, been a little underwhelming but never, ever boring. His musical path markedly diverged from my own on several occasions, and, although psychobilly is not my bag, his earnestness about it was never once in question, so I actually gave it a go. 

After my pal Bobby had travelled to Euston Station in his company, way back in 1993, and I fired loads of questions at him afterwards, I was shocked to hear that they barely discussed music. Much later, when he called trainers 'plastic hooves,' I marvelled at his observational throwaway wit. He could hold court with just about anybody, I guess. 

He always, on a subliminal level at least, encouraged me to think independently of others. I sometimes disagreed with what he said in interviews, but only because he said so much about so much. On a less subliminal level, I was caught red-handed, paraphrasing him to my mate Jeff at work. I wrongly assumed he only ever read Husker Du interviews, and that Weatherall was beyond his sphere of influence. More fool me. 

Nobody else shared so freely and so heartily with a younger generation. A generation who'd been programmed to absorb a bit of everything to become much more eclectic. A generation who've lost count of his always diverse and often obscure records that they scribbled down from his sets and lists. And that they still love to this day. 

Such was his influence, I even made attempts at being a rocker but was too constrained by convention to ever transcend my self-conscious state necessary to actually be one. Weatherall is among a select few who actually managed it. And with ease. 

Watching him DJ the Crow's Nest playing a truly eclectic set and smiling like a Cheshire cat in his Anthrax tee-shirt was as visually mind-blowing as any performance on a stage I've ever seen. 

Then the soul-boys claim him as one of their own and seeing him make mutant-funk out of everything he touches it isn't hard to see why. They're right too. Only a true pioneer could create such brilliant confusion.

I, like so many, many others, felt completely stunned two years ago today. I'd only seen him play an authentic dub-reggae set replete with air-horn at the Golden Lion a few months earlier, when he looked healthier than me on his day two. I then felt reassured that his memory will live on forever when almost everybody I've ever met through music felt compelled to post something about his colossal influence. Jockey Slut was even compelled to produce a wonderful commemorative book in his honour. 

That I'm still discovering fresh music connected to him is nothing new. It will no doubt go on for the rest of my life. 

               

BEATS OF LOVE

38. Spike Island by IDEA books 

PART1

SPIKE ISLAND as a glossy photo-document is not quite as historically significant as it claims to be. Sure, lots of us were there, but lots more weren't. My mates in the main found weekly clubbing too expensive and hardly ever went to gigs. They'll swear blind they were there to this day, but I was on my own that Sunday with my strawberry tucked inside my wallet, waiting for the coach. 

It was a sunny day, and I was only ever so slightly groggy after winding up in one of Drake Street's more lively drag-clubs the night before. My mates were intent on making sure I had the mother of all hangovers because truth be told, they were regretting not buying a ticket themselves, but thankfully I drank at my own leisurely pace. 

I was very concentrated on the journey down because I feared that I had to navigate my way back to that same coach in a much more senseless state. I wasn't keen on the uniform look of flares that covered most people's footwear, or their predictable long sleeve tee-shirts either, so I sat in my own headspace. 

Not that I was troubling the photographers Dave Swindells, Patrick Harrison and Peter J Walsh and Juergen Teller, whose sterling work is compiled in this great documentary book. I wore the ripped 501's, converse all-stars, and the Spacemen 3 tee, that had served me well at many a gig. However, I also resurrected a patterned Next jacket bought in the mid-eighties especially for the occasion. I still wasn't troubling the photographers.

Coz there were still a lot of suspect looking people like me about, I didn't want to be pissed or too out of my head either. I just took half a trip and sat on the grass people watching. The sound-system was too far away to really feel any grooves. 

Mid-afternoon soon arrived, and I felt thirsty, so queued up for my one and only pint. It took a fucking age and was warm by the time I finally began sipping it. I still couldn't hear the music over the general banter. At gigs and in underground night-clubs I was used to being surrounded by music-obsessives and half-cut but at Spike Island a lot of people who generally wouldn't go to gigs or underground night-clubs were instead soberly excited to attend a large-scale cultural event on their own door-step. And buy a Reni hat.  

By the time the DJs were a bit more audible, it was all getting a bit too regional. 'Manchester nah, nah, nah'  and all that shite. Some of my footy mates would've loved it but I decided to move nearer the stage in preparation for my remaining trip. I was mindful of the coach, but didn't want to be set too far back, either. I was also still mindful of how a crowd that size had a propensity for petty crime. 

PART 2

A LOT of the house music I was hearing sounded unfamiliar, but I was happy watching folk who moved unselfconsciously to it. I'm guessing these photographers were, too. I finally sat down tripping when I gave up finding any familiar faces. This wasn't Blackpool, this was much bigger-scale. Being alone definitely kept me in check coz I'd been used to being a bit of a casualty in longer sessions. I was finally on my feet and swaying about. I'm assuming Dave Haslam was playing because it began to sound a bit more like The Boardwalk. I was still young enough to feel genuinely excited.

My good mate Stu had spent one day working in an abattoir and had not eaten meat since. Well, once or twice he had. I also noticed that being a veggie was a good line with students, so I pretended to be one myself on the odd occasion I was out on my own. However, completely wigging out to the Perfecto mix of Beef wasn't such a good idea at Spike Island.   

Then Weatherall's epic Soon remix kicked in and so I was still in seventh heaven at just the time the Roses were hitting the stage. The rest, as they say, is history. The critics may have brought it down to size afterwards, but the sensation they created was truly electrifying and exhilarating. It can't be over-stated enough that so many people singing along to Elizabeth My Dear felt truly revolutionary.  

The coach was found with ease and these people who all looked the same on the journey down suddenly became much more individual in their state of excitement. The banter was lively right up until the coach stopping and we all knew we'd witnessed something pretty fucking special. Book-worthy? Dead right. 

I then crossed the road and saw Dennis from work, the oldest teddy boy in town, crooning and swaying wildly, as he gave me a big wave. 'The past is yours but the future's mine' I foolishly thought.    

   

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

15. POKING MY EYES OUT TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE: BETA BAND, JULY 1999 

PART 1

A WORD of warning campers national express coaches are to the world of travel what ketamine is to the world of drugs. A really bad trip. However, due to a low-budget I had to endure a six-hour journey to Victoria in this sorry form of transportation. I could've sworn I'd prematurely started hallucinating, when, on arrival, wandering around Trafalgar, every other person had a riot squad helmet on. I only had the misfortune to run right into the centre of the Anti-Capitalism demonstrations. 

On my way to the tube these protesters meant nothing to me, and, only on my way to Kilburn did I give it a second thought and challenged myself to think of one person who's benefited from the over-privileges, fortune offers in the 20th century. I couldn't think of anybody. I was travelling there to witness a gig by a group I consider being of great significance in these sorry times; The Beta Band. Having been fortunate enough to attend their gig in Manchester last year, where they managed to colour-in an otherwise dull Monday night, I was somewhat disappointed by the lack of intimacy and friendliness in London. 

Its feel-good warmth was replaced by something akin to cynical isolation. Although their music still transcended me to a warmer place that offered some hope, it was a place nonetheless where I knew I was all alone. Once again an alien voyeur peering over the ledge only to be blinded by the light. 

When they kicked into an eagerly anticipated Hard One, it all made the most perfect sense. The 20th Century was all about looking, but hopefully the future will engage us in more stimulating ways. Sight is for wimps. And with this newfound realization, I shook a few limbs to the ever-varying House Song, then just shut my eyes until the music stopped and the punters had exited. Basically, until the bouncers tapped me on the shoulder telling me to 'fuck off.' 

I departed via a mini-cab to Brixton, due to a failure on the tube-line, and sat back, pretending to be blind. The driver pulled over right outside the gaff without stopping the cab once. I needed some confirmation, and he concurred that he hadn't hit one red-light. I'm onto something here, right? 

PART 2

FAST FORWARD to my arrival back here with their self-titled LP spinning on my stereo, and I'm listening out for something. Like, really listening. You see, this album, by and large, has been given cracking reviews. Albeit, a few rags called it patchy and self-indulgent. But, the only people to label it 'complete shite' are the band themselves. I read their self-depreciation on the way to Kilburn and presumed they were just taking the piss, but, having now watched their live set and re-read the article, I now know they were deadly serious. (I'm still listening.)

The band, current media darlings, are signed to EMI and had already stated in the past that they wanted a similar license as The Beatles had when they produced Sgt Peppers. The same studio time to 'fuck about for fun.' They weren't given it. 

Consequently, they haven't succeeded in producing the best album of all-time and have instead only offered us the finest this year. Whoopee-Whoop. Not only do I recognize this, but the band does too. Have they got the right to be royally pissed off? What needs to be considered is that they wanted money for studio time and not designer gear, gear, or dance-lessons (so like every other piece of shit, they could shit together in sync.) Only fuckwits like record company executives want to make money to invest in such cliched lifestyles. The band merely wanted, as musicians and artists, to make a great record together.

They don't over assault us visually to court MTV. If they wanted the big-screen, they'd direct feature-films. It must be soul-destroying for a band with earnest ambition to witness today's record-company investments. They aren't alone. Badly Drawn Boy's live set is suffering similar setbacks. One minute he's anonymous in the crowd, then the next the stage lights flash and the crowd cheers with over expectancy. He's up there, alone, with his low number of instruments. 

He makes beautifully intense, soulful pop in the studio, but he's shrewd enough to know he can never meet his audience's demands, so gives us short sets. A knowing 'fuck you.' These artists suffer because they're solely interested in creating honest, emotive music, and don't want any part in the fake lifestyle that record-companies still invest the bulk of their money in. We've become a nation so pre-occupied with looking and talking that we've forgotten how to listen and think.

It's now time to acknowledge thousands of wonderful, sacrificial skeletons for giving us such stunning, fantastical art to take with us into the next century, but to also acknowledge that for all its beauty, history will still define it as an ugly century. 

Only by opening our hearts and ears more and our mouths and eyes less can we begin to capture any real beauty in the future.           

I wrote this for Brian's short-lived 409 fanzine back in the summer of 1999. 

                        

BEATS OF LOVE

37. Shiloh Town by Tim Hardin

PRIOR TO writing anything I like to have something physical in my hands before playing it through my modest sound-system. Preferably vinyl. So I'm really looking forward to Low Drift's self-titled LP landing. If taster track Deadwood is symptomatic of the quality, we're in for a masterpiece.  

Also, and against my better nature, I have a couple of Scandinavian CDs in the post that I will have to mention at length when they finally land coz they're really beautiful. Despite being lauded by Dylan, as a great composer, if there's one singer who could captivate me by singing just about anything, it's Tim Hardin. A voice of experience and tenderness quite like no other. 

This song, ridiculously cheap to buy, has been on constant rotation for many months now. I must thank Chris for turning me away from Mark Lanegan's faithful, sombre-toned rendition, and toward this. A proper tragi-comic backstory too, as, according to James Sullivan, he 'wasn’t careful with his copyrights. At one point...  he accepted a briefcase full of money in exchange for his song rights and fled to London, where he could register for free methadone.' 

Dropped by his major label, he had a point to prove in London, and while his song-writing understandably suffered, his achingly beautiful voice really delivered. And because of arranger Jimmy Horowitz, it hooked him up with the great Lesley Duncan who sang on backing vocals elsewhere on the album. Someone else I'll have to mention at length in the future. The purists will dig his more traditional earlier compositions but I prefer this more colourful song. A song that conveys so much more about his desperate predicament than mere words could ever hope to express. 

You have to wonder about the so-called vinyl revival when, for the price of a pint or a garlic bread starter, you can have this beautiful song playing on your turntable. Insane. 

   

BEATS OF LOVE

36. Hole by The Jesus and Mary Chain

WHEN SMASH Hits heralded the JAMC to be 'loud, spotty, and weird' on its July 1986 cover, I had discovered my first post-school fixation. Much of my life was spent covering the spots on my chin with Biactol and hiding the ones on my forehead with my ever-growing mop of hair. 

I was already self-conscious and angry before my father died suddenly, so was pretty much tailor made for a no-holds barred descent into the Indie-underground or whatever it's called these days. 

Some eight years later, the three British protagonists that had blown up big; The JAMC, Primal Scream, and The Stone Roses were all releasing albums. Two of which were hotly anticipated, and massively disappointing. However, not many were hotly anticipating Stoned and Dethroned. It is a mighty album that examines failure, addiction, depression, and at times redemption, with a simplicity that still sounds like utter genius. And pre-dates Beck's similarly more lethargic efforts. 

It encapsulates all the musical honesty, integrity, craftsmanship, and transparency that the Roses and Primals were striving for but failed to deliver. The Reid brothers had only ever given us glimpses of their acoustic prowess on b-sides, but here their raw talent is finally laid bare and sounds both effortless and majestic. I come back regularly to the whole album, but especially this song. I reminisce about the constant diaries I kept. The most boring diaries of all-time. 

7th Feb 3 pints, 9 cigarettes, 8th Feb nothing, 9th Feb nothing, 10th 4 pints ,,, etc. 

Diaries that helped me quit smoking and greatly reduce my alcohol consumption. It wasn't just the diaries though: it was the music I played, too. 

Music like this that makes me feel less alienated and less inclined to cave-in when the days feel hard and blank. As they often do.

When I opened that aforementioned copy of Smash Hits in the same summer that I opened my exam results, my life completely changed. My abject failure actually started to become my strength.