BEATS OF LOVE 

57. Charmed by Σtella

I WASN'T aware of Greek musician Σtella (pronounced "Stella") until one of the finest connoisseurs of horizontal indie, Jason Boardman, recently mentioned her randomly. 

Cheers again! That it's out on Sub Pop made delving absolutely necessary, and I am glad I did. An LP that is evokes Oldham's away strip, circa 1978, would normally be a bad thing, but not now that they've dropped out of the footy league. RIP. 

The mighty Khruanbin were the contemporary fix that drew producer Redinho and Σtella together but  their main inspiration came from digging through her parents' record collection. Namely, the sounds of Nikos Gounaris, Grigoris Bithikotsis, Tzeni Vanou, Tony Mottola and Julio Iglesias, among others, that she loved playing on her grandfather's old gramophone. She recalls with the Brooklyn Vegan that 

“living in a close-knit community by the mountains and sea, I vaguely recall being woken by neighbouring shepherds’ sheep bells...everything back then was so pure and innocent!” 

By comparison I was walled into suburbia and my most pure childhood idyllic memory was watching Heidi. Imagine my disappointment when I learned not only was the telly show American, but the snow was fake. At least my grandparents never played Julio on their gramophone, but I did have to listen to Strauss then say a full decade of the rosary before they'd give me the money for a chippy supper. I'm unsurprisingly more of a sucker for the nostalgic bents of other people. Especially musicians that add a bit of musical purity and innocence with them like Σtella.  

This tune for dreamers bobs and weaves with a colourful intensity and works wondrously despite the seeming fragility of the vocals. Vocals, that like my yukka, are better at the pre-flowering stage and slightly restrained. 

The folk on Pitchfork vehemently disagree, which makes me happy for the first time in weeks.   

 

BEATS OF LOVE

56. Hide and Seek by The Feminine Complex

A GUY I sit with occasionally rather brazenly said, 'you can't internalize your problems, don't take this the wrong way but I think you have Asperger's.' Not the first time I've been told. 

I think he may be right. I've scored 'highly likely' on every test and I've learned it's far more hereditary on the father's side. My father couldn't get his words out until his teens, which is why, despite passing key parts of his 11 plus, he never went to grammar school. Despite training hard to be a chief accountant, he decided he'd be happier being self-employed, but my mother carried him in the businesses before he died prematurely. Just like she carried me through life's trials and tribulations.   

I share many Asperger syndrome traits, thankfully, including the best one, by switching myself completely off in the fantasy world of listening to records, reading books, and watching movies. I've always assumed my sister really hates me coz from childhood right up until this day she has always dropped me in the shit with her cold embellishment of the truth. Or pathological lying. Folk on the spectrum are either too honest or chronically bad at lying. Tellingly, my missus, with what she has read and witnessed, thinks we both have this developmental disorder. 

It's sad as we've both suffered, causing ourselves psychological harm through self-medicating, by not being diagnosed at any stage in our lives. Do I trek down my past and actually listen and learn about a diagnosis to hopefully improve my circumstances, or accept I'm simply too old and re-adjusted to benefit from knowing why and how my life has been blighted and simply carry on? 

Whatever, I'll still be switching myself completely off in the fantasy world of listening to records, reading books,  and watching movies.  

 

BEATS OF LOVE 

55. Working Class Hero by John Lennon/ Plastic Ono Band

I WAS talking to a mate a while ago who welds for a living that told me his one regret in life was not being a postman. During the pandemic I got made redundant despite working around the clock and so I started working in a supermarket. Alas, I don't have a dream job. 

For over twelve long months of arduous slogging about, due to insane volumes of online orders, I went through a polite ritual of carting heavy loads of shopping to customer's cars. Whilst they masked up in fear. And then leaving it a few feet away from their boot, maintaining far more than a social distance before smiling then saying 'thank you very much.' 

I was an instrumental part of their vital service, yet barely registered a 'thanks' in return. This idea that I don't really exist is now confirmed. These folk are finally back in store, long after restrictions have lifted, and, more often than not look away rather than acknowledge me. These folk, I'm guessing, define others by the job they do. And I'm guessing again, that their own jobs pay more. Or did. 

As making ends meet becomes increasingly more difficult, we are more than likely going to see these once panicked snobs become brazenly unsympathetic to others less fortunate than themselves. Actively seeking the collusion of others when stigmatizing anyone financially worse off than themselves has always been commonplace. Often enacted in a humorous way to even get a laugh from the victim. It's all very British and Commonwealth. 

Having the courage to stand against snobbery impresses upon such folk the fact that we won't collude in their wrong-headedness. We can stand against it simply by making direct eye contact and smiling more. At least in warehousing, the dehumanization starts and ends with the embedded management structure, but in supermarkets it can often appear endless as you bounce from person to person invisibly.   

Just spoke to the postman and, like myself, he also gives his own job a big thumbs down. But needs must, for now.