BEATS OF LOVE 

71. Time Has Told Me by Nick Drake

THIS YEAR has taught me an awful lot and strengthened my faith. 

Letting go of family members and a close friend is private and the rights and wrongs are ultimately somebody else's business. Somebody else's opinion about what has happened will get heard. Opinions that will then change from person to person. Opinions that will all but bury any semblance of truth.  Throughout the remainder of my life, there are going to be times of  anguish as a consequence of events that have occurred this year.  

However, I take massive comfort in the fact that other important relationships have strengthened or healed, drawing what remains of us closer together by understanding exactly what has happened and what has been happening for years. The missus' astute observations were especially trenchant and perceptive. Time itself will tell my side of the story. That's how faith works, I guess. 

That this magnificent song, written by a mere 21-year-old, resonates so much with me and the predicament I now find myself in, speaks volumes about Nick Drake. His odd maturity, his disdain for convention, his lightness of touch, and his inspiring faith during the emergence of what was to be a short but magical musical career. 

These lyrics manage to wrap themselves so completely around an experience of internal struggle where solace is only ever found by honestly exposing a beauty in solitude and in the imperfection of companionship. Consequently, faith in the future is all we have. Without it, we're as good as dead already.  

I never let a day pass without praising the magic that transformed such a troubled soul into the wisest old sage. Teaching me how to heal and warmly nudging me toward a tomorrow, with all its wonderful imperfection.  

BEATS OF LOVE

70. Cold Blooded Love by Thee Hypnotics

READING GEORGE Orwell's Diaries have been illuminating. 

Other than more cleanliness, the conditions that bind today's society are pretty much unchanged. The false dominant narratives propagated by the right wing press still cut through, and wage slavery is still the norm. What surprises is the man behind the persona. A man who passionately loves gardening. A man we wouldn't know existed had he lived to write his autobiography and burn his diaries. 

He hated the artifice of mass-consumerism but nurtured a public image to sell on to the public. It's nigh on impossible not to. We all do, especially folk in bands or folk influenced by them like me. Thee Hypnotics were a tight rock act who I caught live twice but who fetishized Iggy and the MC5 to the point that their public image appeared a bit retro and naff. In 1991, John Leckie, fresh from being scarred working on Lawrence's magnum opus, produced their second studio album. Not that I knew it at the time. Singer Jim Jones told Shindig : 

"In the past, I’d said to people, ‘You know that BIG Phil Spector reverb… well….’ and they’d give you a tiny bit. When I said this to John he swamped the album in it…. woahhhh. He’s a proper producer.”

Forgiving bands a retro or naff public image and instead evaluating the music as a separate entity gets to the essence of what Balearic Beat is all about. Leaving no stone unturned to unearth woozy music with warmth. Music a bit like this. 

Ignore the title and get lost in the earthy organ, then let those seductive slide guitar motifs work their magic. There's even a female backing singer low down in the narcotic mix too. It feels pretty epic, but in truth isn't all that long, and marks a quantum leap for a band hitherto related to the word lounging. 

Other than more cleanliness, the conditions that bind society since the 1930s are pretty much unchanged. However, this deeper reading of rock'n'roll that owes a massive debt to jazz and the Velvets, in equal measure, is a magnificent way to kill time in the 21st century.  

  

BEATS OF LOVE 

69. The Hacienda: The Club That Shook Britain documentary

MY FATHER passed away suddenly less than a fortnight into my first ever job. Exploiting my naivety, the staff-trainer adopted the role of boss and proceeded to make my confusing life even more confusing by ordering me about and making unreasonable demands. Even chastising me for crying a couple of days after my father died. It took me an age to fathom that he wasn't actually my boss and to move on from my ordeal.

However, the reason this guy still sticks in my craw is that back in late 1987 he taped house music off the radio and then in 88 drove his car to go clubbing at the Hacienda. The apex of its mythical heyday. Whilst all the while raving about Debbie Gibson. As if I was ever going to go clubbing there...

(I did eventually, but I didn't like it much.)

Architectural Review 1982

These latest talking heads promised much, as Kath and Soo are great. John Robb was always lurching about town and is normally a reliable raconteur, but he's obsessed with making punk the main driving force of this story. Nobody's anticipating a Free Trade Hall BBC documentary anytime soon.

Other than Mike Pickering, who let go of his ego to reminisce, the other pop stars took up far too much time over emphasizing their part in its backstory. It could've been covered in the following sentence, Factory owners and cult band New Order attempted to recreate NY's Funhouse in the rainy city by introducing diverse nights and acts in their club-space, that often looked even more massive and impressive when it was less than half full, which it often was.

Sure, it started in a gym in London, but the Ibiza inspired acid house phenomenon properly took off here. As Soo rightly states, its historical significance was only far-reaching because the pioneering Hot night and E helped change clubbing attitudes in the UK forever. Once the shenanigans were exposed in the media, people all over the country suddenly wanted to dance and hug one another. Dance alone, dance with friends, dance with family, or, as was often the case, with new friends. Not many of us could stretch to 25 quid for an actual E, but by simply being in Manchester at the time we became less predatory and more relaxed with one another. And, more inclined to dance under the influence of far cheaper drugs.

Peter Walsh

It truly had a trickle down effect and people at its epicentre like Jon Dasilva remained warm and humorous, influencing the next generation whilst even finding time to entertain folk like myself.

Everyone I got to know in the nineties through clubbing had some link back to the Hacienda. Evoking my move to a new school when upon my arrival, the class was told a pupils sister had sadly died. There was something bonding between these folk in a way I could never begin to fully understand. Whilst I like to blame the guy from work for missing out, the truth is it was quickly over-hyped with a trendy reputation, so took flack in the music press. Being an impressionable teen, I was always unlikely to go.

I still blame him for holding back my fully fledged house music initiation, though.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m001dsm0/the-hacienda-the-club-that-shook-britain