HALF TERM REPORT

MASSIV HATS off to Jason Boardman (again) for having the guts to start a label and another top drawer one, at that.

2 total gems in one mailer and I need never play my mighty J-Walk Mellotronique cassette again. Its mid 90s whacked out compilation cover affectations don't quite fit the unhurried reggae vibe and soulful summer stabs of the music and have been replaced by super sunnier fresh artwork that do. Dylan Woodall take a bow. If anything is going to wean me off my recent roots fix, it's revisiting this.  

I was more than a little gutted I missed out on the Tungusku promo but 'them's the breaks.' Before I Die is buy on sight. And memo to self 'check its social media pages more often.' 

A Torn Sail live CD is obviously a work of wonder and something I thought I'd actually dreamt up while I waited for it to arrive. It's reassuring to know there are enough devotees to make good shit like this actually happen. And enhance it. Cheers BJ Smith for making Coastal and Treasure sound both subliminal and important. They are. However, Mud People is even better still. Whether this CD is showcasing these less restrained new cuts or Jim's sparky inclusion is inconsequential. Just be highly thankful for it.   

Matt Timms has turned me onto my dream pop fix for the summer. Acopia's Chances is a spell-blindingly addictive listen. And looks superb too. Like all the best groups, this trio place you firmly in their world. A world of redemptive pleasures and pains. A world I'm more than a little at home in. Sheer bliss. 

Staying down under some wild reissues have landed. The stunning Efficient Space label has presented us with Hydroplane's Busy is Good  LP. A more experimental dream pop sound that at times cradles MBV and VU's light touch moments into   something truly ethereal and feather-light yet at the same time mesmerizing. A definite grower. Strangelove, not to be outdone, released Mindgames, Sjunne Ferger's masterpiece. Check Candlelight for some of the most meditative and transcendental new wave to ever surface. 

Om's incredibly dubby Older Brother From The Rock also got a timely reissue on the quality Sound Metaphors label and closer Brother That (Om Beats) is sending me off to head-nod heaven. 

One of Moonboots rarest finds Wilderness America: A Celebration Of The Land also saw light of day. Austrian label Ebalunga!!!'s 4.

7th Anniversary Edition doesn't disappoint. Choice cut Metropolis features luminaries from the gospel and jazz world; Walter Hawkins, Harvey Mason, Mike Melvoin, and Lee Ritnour. Yet their folk-funk resistance keeps getting ignored and admired in an unequal measure throughout the ages. Admire it, it's a record of rare beauty. 

Harry Harrison's riveting read Dreaming in Yellow: The Story of the DiY Sound System triggers me to crave nostalgia but also makes some generalizations that sit uneasily. I vividly recall Glastonbury 1990 and the excitement of finding anything resembling house music playing whilst getting ripped off continuously. I finally got high after a traveller type fell off his bike and sold me some litmus paper. I was definitely more Venus than Derbyshire quarry, but hardly a fashionista. Clubland was elitist for sure, but the freedom of ritualistic dancing under the starry night and hazy daylight in a time escaping trance became as limiting as real life itself.  

Unlike Harry, I failed to communicate with God when accidentally sampling Ketamine and was instead stuck on a bus for endless hours. Slender wires connected to both my left eye and the bus's front window put me in a state of constant friction by the toing and froing of passengers. Causing me to inner scream in a private anguish. 

Gordon King's signed copy of When Does the Mind-Bending Start? is in the post. Also, an apt title for my skirmish with Ketamine but thankfully definitely something to look forward to. 

BEATS OF LOVE

60. Little Lies by Fleetwood Mac

IN ADVANCE of the missus nephew and his lovely young family visiting for the first time since moving to Abu Dhabi, I painted the house meticulously and rehoused some vinyl so it would be safe. 

Upon arrival, despite having started work at the ungodly hour of 3am, everything looked to be going great. The young boys were enamoured by my Tonka toy and were predictably absorbed in gaming. Later I was watching the Open highlights before cheerfully waving them both off to bed. 

The following night adults were invited round but rather than go to bed despite still being stuck solid on 3am starts, I decided to entertain the boys and rely on auto-pilot mode. We went on an afternoon walk in the ridiculous heat, then prepared the suntrap of a back garden for the serving of restaurant quality fish'n'chips. 

Sadly, not long after arriving, our guests began dying in the heat, so we retired into the tiny living room and all felt awkward. The missus then had the brainwave to sweep out front and move the wheelie bins and dine in an exposed but shadier part of the house. Everyone was seated and despite being completely fucked, I was conversing and pouring drinks. And things were going well. I won't mention the restaurant quality fish'n'chips. My missus, more in a spirit of reputation salvage than bonhomie, invited two more guests, so continued cooking. The boys had retired into the living room, which is where my problems began. 

As still as the night sky was at seven ish by eight, the breeze had got up. When I went into the living room, my once pristine colour coordinated sevens that were placed lovingly at the front of the Kallax boxes had blown everywhere. Looking dangerously like potential children's toys. I was now very tired and getting nowty and so were the boys who had gone from sliding my Tonka on the wooden floor to hammering it. I sharply took it off them whilst discreetly putting the sevens back onto the shelves, but, no sooner had I done so, another big pile blew down. More sevens were now on the floor than in the boxes, including a record that had amassed quite a bit of monetary value. 

Scrambling desperately to locate it but unable to, I had clean forgotten about the guests and the boys. I finally closed the back door shut and then felt a stillness I hadn't felt for almost an hour and also spotted a few sevens under the sofa, including the aforementioned one and this. Sheer relief brought a big smile to my face, but alas, my panic about the missing seven was by now no secret, and everyone began making excuses and left. Including our embarrassed visitors who had hastily booked into a hotel. 

Not wanting to further offend the missus, I just played this song in my head before sheepishly sloping off to bed. Despite this, I woke up for work at 1.45 am with the air con wafting into my room and began trying to imagine how I could make it up to her. 

I'm still trying. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

59. Rough Road by Telford Nelson 

LIKE MANY suburban reprobates in 80s Britain, the band Culture marked my initiation into the satisfying warmth of roots reggae via listening to Peel.

Joseph Hill's sweet voice and their wondrous harmonies on creations such as Holy Mount Zion and I'm All Alone in the Wilderness have since lullabied me to sleep after many marathon sessions. 

Nowadays, with marathon sessions a thing of the past, I can fully appreciate these harmonies far more as I begin to capture a truer sense of the deep spirituality at the heart of roots reggae. That sounds not unlike a musical bible when played well.  

Telford Nelson was a latecomer to the Culture stable and his input passed me by, but this solo effort is simply magnificent. Voiced for producer and long-time friend Sonny Thomas in 1990, its sparse digi-rhythm is more in the vein of Latin Quarter's wonderful cod-reggae than of the classic ensemble mould.  But every single note well and truly hits the spot.  

On a warm sunny evening after a long shift of work when the temptation to pop open the fizz at Johnson's predictable departure is strong, I instead steady myself and put this song on the stereo. And let its sun-kissed majesty interplay with the clear night sky. As a result, I now feel less pensive, much calmer, clearer headed, and more hopeful about all manner of things than I would be by necking back the fizz.  

The fizz is for when we finally find the collective strength to kick the tories out for good. 

BEATS OF LOVE

58. Dub the Right Way by King Tubby & Soul Syndicate

  BEEN IN a dub-reggae wormhole all week, which is no bad thing at all. 

Reading King Tubby's biography by Thibault Erengardt was hard wearing as much of it could've been succinctly labeled 'credits are still a contested field.' And condensed onto a solitary line.

Quite why you'd proceed with a biography when everyone who was anyone has told you to jog on is a mystery. That said, without Tubby's studio in 18 Dromilly Avenue and his sonic architecture, a lot of these egotists now arguing or demanding royalties would sound second rate.

Blood and Fire records were second only to Steve Yates in satisfying my mid-90s dub-reggae cravings and revisiting the highlights of their impressive catalogue whilst keeping one eye on the tennis has been a blast. Yabby U's and the Scientist comps are particularly noteworthy, but this tune has had the most repeat plays. 

That the Scientist is claiming it as his own whilst rubbishing the Blood and Fire imprint is symptomatic of the contested field I alluded to earlier. That I can hear a bit of him in this tune is also problematizing, as it actually gives some weight to his claim. 

With hindsight, Betram Brown's Freedom Sounds label could barely afford a semi-retired Tubby but did release some sublime roots. Roots by acts like the Soul Syndicate who Tubby's studio unquestionably turned inside out by teasing Rod Taylor's sweet voice in an out of their deeply hypnotic mix to reinvent them as dub practitioners par excellence. 

In the mid-90s, Tubby was the main selling angle and everyone seemed happy being affiliated with him, but nowadays his assistants are rightly lauded in their own right, so have more to gain than lose by setting the record straight. Or lying. 

Whatever, I'm just thankful that dub-reggae was created as it properly chills me out. Amen.