BEATS OF LOVE 

62. Som Nayme by Bruno Berle 

WHEN WE were cobbling together a fanzine with a free CD and charging a packet, Luke was giving his effortlessly superior one away free. Electric City's impassioned scribbles and great graphics pretty much already did what I was aspiring to do. No CD mind. 

I can at times find myself indifferent to Luke's many online ramblings, but when he enthuses about music, I take notice. He has got very good ears. This LP is, as Luke rightly exclaims, 'spiritual, transcendental, and magical' and yet feels oddly familiar. Its spirit is apparent on the opener and by track three, transcendency has been achieved, but the magic really starts to happen on the closing two tracks on the first side. 

Bruno's highly expressive search for beauty in part showcases his innate musicality, and in part his enchanting voice, especially before this track, his very own take on West African highlife, which reveals something magical. 

Something is still sat alone on the couch but something other worldly has happened and something else is transported to a vividly alive beach by these rich strings and by the oddly calming chatter.

I had a thing to do list a mile long today, but who in their right mind would tend to chores rather than play this beautiful record on repeat all day instead? 

BEATS OF LOVE

61. When Does the Mind-Bending Start?: The Life and Times of World of Twist by Gordon King

THE BEST thing about Gordon King's brilliant book is that you feel he has been coerced into writing it. 

There is usually a large amount of vanity to forgive when musicians pick up a pen and write. Failure and death are recurring themes that also foreshadow the tragedy of their own demise, yet it is in the main a hilarious read. Must confess that I never noticed the lack of guitar during their legendary Ritz show either. 

What becomes quickly apparent is the principal members were probably better suited to ideas, humour, and songwriting, than fronting Manchester's most happening band. 

Normally when paragraphs contain glib punchlines, there is something contrived at work, but this book naturally writes itself with warmth and candour. Subtly elevating kitsch to the realm of serious art, with a knowing wink, was always their stock in trade, and this mighty book shares a similar spirit by actually making trivial asides seem rather important. Reclaiming the footnote as truly essential reading in the process. 

My only beef with the self-depreciating tone is that it downplays the potentiality of a band who took the best post-punk Sheffield had to offer and married it to a decidedly 70s aesthetic. Whilst also both looking and sounding fabulously futuristic. 

Anyone involved in their story is a wizard, but someone who wrote the bulk of Sons of the Stage stands with the very best of the best.