BEATS OF LOVE 

108. Father Stephen Doyle

MY LOCAL parish priest deserves my warmest well wishes and thanks as he sadly retires his post from ill-health. Despite the bad apples and the church's systemic failure to toss them out, the mass-majority of priests still do a great service for their community. 

I first fell under Father Stephen's spell when he regaled his congregation with a warm sermon about his calling. He was young, like myself when his father died, and the dark episode convinced him to walk into the light towards the priesthood. I had some instant respect for him because of this strength of faith. All I could do was fumble around in the darkness. 

His candour and wit always temper a stiff-necked conservatism. I was privy to a lighter side of this character whilst being instructed for our wedding, when he regularly had us both in teary fits of laughter. And a deep pragmaticism discussing our tribulations with the home office when I found strength through his guidance. When the health service was reluctant to assist. Later, whilst the missus was converting to the faith and in regular consultation with him, she always came home smiling despite being given a massiv, great big book to read. And that is the important thing. Despite his staunch conservatism, he still spreads joy. 

He even injected his dry wit into my mother's funeral prep when I was skirting around the houses, refusing to tell him that in all truth she was probably agnostic. His eyebrows raised playfully when he thought the word liberal was a bit of an understatement for her. Then the look of sheer relief when I told him she'd had the last rites. He loves music and sat disapprovingly as I was culling hymns from the folk mass for our wedding that I used to enjoy back in the early eighties. Unsurprisingly, during the pandemic and without his musicians, the church was full of Gregorian chanting. It was brill and so utterly Father Stephen. 

I will even miss his high mass with incense peppering my eyes. His theological sermons that always either come with a cautionary warning or a bit of stand-up. And his long, unfashionable Eucharistic prayers. I will miss them because, probably, they won't come back. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

107. Thousands Are Sailing by The Pogues

WHEN MY OU studies coincided with my cancer diagnosis, a dividing line emerged. A before and after. A sort of epiphany. 

Up until that point I would've described myself as a Roman Catholic, left of the left politically, but definitely English. A point emphasized when I chose to watch Frank Sidebottom rather than The Pogues at Reading in 1989. My Irish and Welsh ancestry, although known to me, seemed so completely distant. My openness to study has consequently brought the distant past to life. Especially my own. 

My grandmother and her Irish mother and my aunt (taken into the home after her mother died) all lived with my grandfather. A Heyside local whose family all lived nearby. During the depression they all had to make the walk from Shaw to Chadderton for their state handouts. Two of her brothers died. Two of seventy-six million who perished in those two wars. Yet, retaining dignity, and containing sorrow, she remained a pivotal part of the church community.

Despite being highly intelligent, my grandmother was thrown into the mill at the age of fifteen. It partly explains why her children were so keen to iron out their Irish and Welsh ancestry and progress up the social ladder. Selflessly, she was driving them on. Remaining the beating heart in my mother's life, she missed her son dearly when he relocated. When she had a big win she gave half back to the church and split the remaining half amongst her two children. Keeping nothing for herself. I can only imagine what a great example had been set for her. Even in death, kicking against the hospital bed posts with the pain of kidney failure, she was defying the odds.

This mighty song, sung with such marvel and warm grit and kinship with Philip Chevron's quasi-poetic lyrics, sings to me through this truly remarkable woman. The daughter of what we casually call refugees. 

 BEATS OF LOVE 

106. Danger Dub by Panda Bear / Sonic Boom

I DEFINITELY regret that my dark moods and warped notions of authenticity necessitated a need to be out of it in much of my free time. It detracted attention away from my passion for loving the art of music. 

There are so many records that whirl around my musical vortex that are just lacking that little something to make them truly special. I can diagnose the problem but can offer no such remedy. Fortunately, in this instance, we have Adrian Sherwood at the controls, and he can and does.   

I have struggled with Animal Collective records since the mighty Sung Tongs LP. It cradled those harmonies, evocative of Brian Wilson's more troubled times, with an experimentation that sounded truly exciting. When they toured the follow-up, Feels, the harmonies began to grate. I was even resistant to the Panda Bear collaboration with Sonic Boom Reset for the same reason. Its conceptual nature and their symbiotic relationship on an equal footing definitely promised a lot, but it wound up being a little too straight-jacketed by its own idea of perfection. It was upsetting coz Danger is laden with brilliant hooky moments and really updated those 1950s samples but sounds a little artificial and saccharine.

Thankfully, Sherwood reinterprets the project and, whilst retaining the vocals, he isn't afraid to chop them up and create something looser, less straight-jacketed by concept and, on this track, especially up-beat. I'm in skank heaven coz those brilliant hooky moments are captured, but thankfully, with less coherence and fresher sounding instrumentation. It repudiates the notion that a new psychedelia has to sound futuristic. It simply doesn't, it just needs to be creatively exciting. 

I also regret that such optimistic vibrancy wasn't around decades ago. Perhaps my moods wouldn't have been so dark.   

BEATS OF LOVE 

105. Love & Hate in a Different Time (Greg Wilson & Che mix) by Gabriels

WHEN I was younger every other weekend threw up some dark art shit. Now, with the wisdom that comes with age on my side, it has become a bi-annual event, throwing everything momentarily up in the air. The horror is not knowing how it's going to land.

Last year it was traversing the line between being with folk that liked me whilst being in the same company as folk who hated my guts. Needless to say I ended up with the folk who hated my guts and then the dark art shit happened.

This year I thought 'great, finally, no weird dark art shit' but then my kitchen roof began dripping water. Less than a week later I now know how sophisticated, calculating, and facilitated by Google rogue traders have become as I've shelled out a small fortune to have even more damage done to my old roof. Google not only guarantees their labour but points folk toward articles that call it an emergency. Inviting panic and poor judgement. 

The day after I felt violated and stupid and guilty coz that money could've put some big smiles on my missus face. I have acted on the advice of the CAB more as a tick-box exercise coz already the bankrupt business site credentials used to procure my custom are already down with another up and running. I suppose there's no end to bankrupt business web pages online. Would I have paid this stupidity tax to not instead scare myself in front of daytime telly so I could do things I enjoy? Definitely. I would however have rather paid it weekly rather than in one inconvenient, untimely lump sum. I can spare folk daytime telly hell by saying the words Trustpilot and Martin Lewis. 

That this particular rogue trader passed me the parcel that contained this beauty means I can almost forgive him. Almost, being the operative word. 

BEATS OF LOVE

104. The Refuge  

SO I finally took the missus to this much loved behemoth after falling for the charms of the Midland and more local restaurants since quitting the tabs. 

I felt bemused when Roberto ordered a meal in the Woodstock way back in the mid-nineties on a Saturday afternoon. I thought everyone was still out partying. To say I'm late to the party is an understatement, but I've become a bit of a foodie myself. Meaning I can be both critical of the missus' cooking or full of praise coz being experimented on is unpredictable. She likes to 'try things out,' so dining out is nearly always safer despite the missus getting better all the time.  

It was that madly busy time when tea-time drinkers were finishing off and evening revellers started out when we arrived. Abigail, who I didn't register with her tidied up hair and glasses, was hammering out classics like Rufus & Chaka Khan's Ain't Nobody (Hallucinogenic Version)  and I was beginning to worry about ambience in the dining room, which was just round the corner. We had a table booked. 

The bar staff were mega-friendly and informed me of the city's current rentals.  I was priced out in the late nineties and am now more than happy to commute by tram after hearing these mad charges. By the time our table was ready, the music's tempo had slowed significantly. There is an art to bar DJing that I didn't comprehend which also explained why the speakers were in the centre of the main space. 

Everything is on a massive scale. The ridiculously high atrium ceiling, the vast, expansive walkways and the huge pillars. Then the menu presents us with these disarmingly small shared dishes. Locally sourced highlights of which were the Pollen Bakery's sourdough bread that blended brilliantly with the Padrón peppers. Having never been to Spain, I was instead reminded of the rustic, intimate charms of Tuscany. Our choices diverged with the main, but came together when we both shared  broccoli, ssamjang, and kimchi. Like everything Nigerian, the Kimchi is cooked longer when the missus prepares it, so I was pleasantly surprised by its more flavoursome Korean taste. She only conceded it smelt nicer. 

Everything  we ate was a taste sensation and, unlike a tapas or sushi restaurant, these exciting hits were global. It was only fitting that we ended the night in Diggle, tucking in to  Grandpa Greene’s raspberry flavoured ice cream. Abigail was still in her own musical world as we left.  

Next time we might book the equally impressive Kimpton Clocktower hotel too, but we won't be needing the music concierge. Nobody should. Have they not watched Shoreditch Twat? 

But there will definitely be a next time. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

103. Moloko Island LP by Mike Salta & Mortale

FROM 1964 until 2006, there was a consensus as to what constituted the charts. Linked to its flagship Thursday night show TOTP, it was every British pop star's dream to get into the BBC top 40 to stand a chance of appearing in it. For that reason, the Sunday evening countdown was exciting. 

That the show fizzled out after a decade long decline since moving to Friday's in 1996, the chart itself became meaningless. Pop stars are now ubiquitous and can express themselves on social media all year round. Amassing likes for posting pictures of their dinner loses a lot of the mystique that made them so fascinating in the past. 

That said, it liberates the fan from caring about such superfluous detail and invites a deeper listening experience. TOTP could make or break folk. I was quite taken with Babylon Zoo until I saw a po-faced TOTP performance then distanced myself from it completely. You could banter about it whilst being conscious of the indie charts because it was an axis point. Like talking about the footy scores. Now I am resigned to blogging coz nobody in my real world actually cares about the things that fascinate me. Like reading Sonic Life by Thurston Moore.

Or deciding that this LP is a masterpiece. The tracks have been teased out individually but make much more sense together. The cover is super too and complements the music brilliantly. I can't differentiate between stand-out tracks coz the quality is so high. It plays coherently and really suppresses its disco, funk, and Tropicália influence to infuse something calmer and more soothing. Whilst maintaining those highly distinct flavours. No mean feat.  

All you need to know in this world of insignificant charts is this whole LP is this week's number one. And next weeks. 

https://musicfordreams-mikesalta.bandcamp.com/album/moloko-island

BEATS OF LOVE 

102. Now and Then by The Beatles

MARRIAGE IS hard. Especially interracial. Seemingly innocuous words or phrases can linger for months and even years, building up a sizeable store of resentments. Yet we try to pretend all is well as to admit a marriage can weaken demands trust in others. Others who might be not what they seem.

It is in this state of hurt and mistrust of others that I find myself listening to this re-polished Lennon demo from 1977. The ultimate marriage break up of a band finding the technology to enhance something rough and real, transforming it into something soaring and beautiful. Whilst losing a little tenderness in the process. 

However, by the third listen, you're asking yourself what would John, George and George make of it. What innocuous words or phrases would emerge and would they add to an already sizeable store of resentments? Definitely, coz it's a little too saccharine and nowhere near magically sparse enough by half to be a proper Beatles record. 

Their marriage was well and truly over. John was bullish and is probably fighting ELO fans who are in Beatle heaven listening to it.   

That said, it is still the best footnote of a single 2023 has to offer. I really hope and pray that my own marriage begins to re-bloom in its afterglow. 

BEATS OF LOVE

101. Paused in Cosmic Reflection by The Chemical Brothers with Robin Turner

NOT SURE why I bought this coffee-table book. I don't have a coffee table. However, the part of their story that has been mythologized into Manchester folklore is always interesting and I wanted to hear what Jim and Emma have to say. They don't disappoint. 

I'd always been a bit of a fanboy and I only made an effort to integrate into the more elitist Balearic clubs when I became obsessed with Justin's remix of Sea of Beats. Ariel were brilliant and quite possibly too cool for their own good. Their death knell was rejecting Tom's groundbreaking Song to the Siren. It instead became the Dust Brothers debut single and quite rightly gets analyzed at length. Moonboots turned me onto it and it blew the roof off the Boardwalk when Weatherall played it. 

What has been revelatory is Tom's candid and illuminating contribution. Much of my time was traded by stock taking in a warehouse and when I read this book I am filled with an admiration for his self value and the fact he had horded so much time to absorb himself in passions that have withstood the test of time. Maintaining an integrity and grace whilst co-masterminding a tacit understanding of musical abandon. The warehouse is now rubble. 

Ed always had an easier charm but comes across as deep and analytical, which again surprises. I should've guessed he was mixing in Acid Jazz circles coz he wore really nice hats. Jonno recognizes the key to their success when he cites them as being at the epicentre of clubs I was in. I was too self-obsessed to notice their gravitational pull, or too lost in Justin's music. What is apparent is how fucking cool they look in these pictures. 

I recall wincing when they said in an early Face interview that they wanted to inhabit their own world like the Beastie Boys. It's still a naff thing to say, but as this book testifies repeatedly, that's exactly what they've achieved. 

And it feels surprisingly good to be let into it. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

100. Passion by Taffy 

THE PROBLEM with having a lot of vinyl is you lose track of it. When Sam Don dropped his latest compiled offering for Athens of the North, I was in forgiving mode. 

His last one suffered a licensing issue, so got re-released with a brilliant record he sold me ages ago. Byron Walker & Sandra Edwards pumping lovers cover of Don't Look Any Further. That's the problem with rare records. The ones you haven't got are easy to justify buying when they turn up on comps, but the ones you already have, you privately wince to see them popularized. 

When I heard the sound-clips for his UK Street Soul comp Just A Touch, I felt lucky to have owned a few already and convinced myself I also owned this. After a few weeks, I decided I wanted to spin it but couldn't locate it. Excited days later, I then finally found the white label I thought it was and put it on the turntable. It started at pace so I turned it over only to find it still at pace, which shouldn't be happening. I then changed the speed just to realize there was no Balearic soul at all dripping out of the speakers, just a faster paced stepper. 

The only Taffy record in my shelves was a mid eighties Italo-Disco number that plays like a pop of guilty pleasure. Massiv synths and vocals. I'm still not convinced that this understated masterpiece is the same person singing. To now have it on the turntable is special coz it's an incredible tune. No wonder the prolific sun-kissed DJ David Pickering has given its sultry throbs an airing.  

Course I'm in forgiving mode coz Sam has once again hit proper digging pay-dirt. I'm a bit embarrassed to realize I thought I owned a record this good but didn't. Cloth ears strikes again.   

 

BEATS OF LOVE 

99. The Love Revolution (Justin Robertson's Scream Team Remix) by Yargo

MY PARENTS had an off-license in Middleton in the late seventies. I'd be about eight and playing footy around the back of a neighbouring chippy when 'woof,' I somehow managed to sky the ball and smash an upstairs window. I sort of froze with the undamaged ball in my hands whilst everyone else disappeared sharpish. And said that it was me that smashed their window, when the owners bolted towards me. 

The upshot of the situation was I owed them about thirty quid, and my parents suggested I knock on doors and offer my services. (A seemingly more innocent age.)

Whilst everyone else was playing out and enjoying their hols, I was digging up weeds for buttons. I even had the stupid idea of knocking on the local nunnery. Then spent a full morning being put to use gardening just to be given chocolate biscuits. Therein lied the problem. I hadn't pitched my services properly. I think in the end I handed my parents a tenner and the problem from that point on simply disappeared coz when I woke up next morning an envelope was beside the bed with thirty quid in. 

Strange things began to happen after, though. The folk I'd laboured for became mega friendly. The nuns especially. And the chippy owner was bowled over when I handed her the envelope. It was my first taste of respect and it felt good. Sadly, though, I think it was inevitable that I'd turn back on that hapless eight-year-old. 

Just like it was equally inevitable that this wonderful anthem would find me years later and help alter the course of my life. Back towards that same hapless eight-year-old. Happily.  

BEATS OF LOVE 

98. Headache by Grouper

RUNNING THROUGH the farmhouses on Red Hill with my mates older brother, giving chase was exhilarating and once off the path and running across open field, I could easily picture my dead body, left, concealed beneath the long, reedy blades of grass. 

By the time I was eventually caught, all he could muster were a few limp footed kicks at my scrunched up body. I thought there and then that living in my imagination was more fun than anything reality could offer.

Just as well because by the time the orthodontist, Mister Bogues, had finished accessing me, I was sitting patiently with my red greyhound style brace clamp wrapped around my face every evening waiting for my teeth to be straightened. Unable to enter my mid-adolescence, I was instead surrounded by records that I would play on my imaginary radio show every Sunday night. 

By the time he showed me his success with the before and after moulds, my hooter had sprouted both across and out of my face. A face now riddled with at least four red boils at anyone time. No wonder I continued with my imaginary radio show and, in essence, still do. 

'So', asks nobody at all, 'what is the best record you've bought this week?' This haunting beauty, I reply. A record I should've bought in 2016 but didn't. Thankfully repressed in time for the duvet months. Enjoy. 

     

BEATS OF LOVE 

97. Supa Kool by Mr Fingers

AGEING IS great. If you do it properly, by taking a leaf out of Saint Anthony of Padua's book. Who stated wisely:

 'Consider every-day that you are then for the first time beginning ; and always act with the same fervour as on the first day you began.' 

Folk often use their ageing process to ossify dogma into their brains, which sort of steals time away from the self so becomes depressing. Which is why so many older folks look really glum-faced in their unknowing sense of knowing, or vice versa. 

Propaganda is nothing but a calculated lie and, thanks to social media, it pretty much dictates what riles us. Whether we're buying fake news or opposing it. We've witnessed a complete clusterfuck of conservative policies and are still sloshing about in a state of false consciousness. Unable to recognize the face of our oppressor. Thankfully, I've now switched off and decided humans don't evolve. What I probably thought aged five.  

When I was living with my kid sister, our housemate was properly middle-class. She had a part-time job that paid more than my full-time job and an allowance on top. I never used the phone, but spoke to my mother when my sister was on the phone. Anyway, we get this bill and our housemate said she didn't recognize some pretty pricey numbers and wanted it split between us.

My sister, being softer natured than me, said she'd oblige, but I snuck into her room and rifled through her things until I found a pad with these numbers. When I confronted her, she soon-after packed off and left saying she didn't feel secure in my company. Her posh family looked at me like I was a thief. It then formed my belief that people with money and easy access to lawyers are not to be trusted. A belief that I still hold today. 

But I know I must truly let go of it if I want to live with the fervour of a fresh new beginning. In the meantime, I almost convince myself that I'm beginning already by surrendering to this beauty. 

BEATS OF LOVE

96. Scorpio Rising (The Scientist Mix) by Death in Vegas with Liam Gallagher

WOKE UP up feeling lost at sea. Then had to sweep a big fucking dead pigeon into a bin bag and felt even worse.

That sinking feeling when you know you've got two dozen working weeks ahead and you already feel totally knackered after just one. The regret you feel at frittering away all your holidays in a summer that's pouring with rain. Then you bang on this and everything brightens up.

Life in technicolour even. And the sun even comes out giving me a full whole day of clear blue sky. If ever Noel's trite Status Quo styling were borrowed to sound gratingly like The Beatles it was here. The original version sounds too self-consciously aware of this and creeps about like a non-poisonous snake. The genius that is The Scientist strips away a lot of those superfluous psychedelics and decides that adding keys and vibraphone with toasting over Liam's Lennonesque drawling works best. And it does. General Jah Mikey steals the show, demonstrating that sometimes seemingly suspect ideas work really, really well.

You can either roll a big fat one or do what I do and psyche yourself up for a day in the garden. Reaching up for the trowels whilst swaying your head along to its majesty. Music has nearly always saved me from total despair.

I've always found my freedom in listening to it and that probably gives me the strength to endure real life. To paraphrase the great Abba, 'thank you for the greatest music!'

BEATS OF LOVE

95. Something in the Air by Me

 The grazing sheep, the divisive red-stone brick

Of a mill-town anger! or is it just innovation stifling the air?

Why commonwealth cousins sailed across a body-filled ocean

owing to the starkest decisions, and ripping, and killing

Thus, as they arrived, the sixties swung so wildly they hurtled 

curlers clean into the air, and our rich little cotton spun town 

sprang into the sharpest decline

Two sets of once opposing footy firms stand together

united in their micro-aggression, then clean vanish

into a millennial springtime smog

All eyes now on folk they baited on national telly no less

responding with that same carmine fury 

 As the inflamed suffragette toughening up her fight, 

purely to defend a fundamental right

BEATS OF LOVE 

94. Honey Sanba by Katsuyuki ItakuraTrio

AS AN ex smoker I'm constantly plagued by smoking dreams where I'm puffing away in a state of contentment, only to wake up in a guilty cold sweat. Before thankfully realizing that was another life. 

A life of unfathomably long bus commutes to get me to work and back. It's little wonder I subconsciously recall the often torn brown and orange stitching on the upstairs seats where I puffed away far more than the nightlife that first drew me into the metropolis. 

For four years, my kid sister encouraged me to try a new life there, but the fear of being too skint to buy records stopped me. I finally went to live in my mate's back bedroom. My job was somehow intact and now much nearer to home. 

When I was being made redundant (22 years after I'd hoped), it seemed like all that record buying would permit me the chance to own a little vinyl cafe. When the redundancy finally happened covid was happening and then when it wasn't the cost-of-living crisis happened. I figured only a completely brave bastard would pursue such a risky endeavour. Not me then. 

A life of unfathomably tough 3am starts keeps me in my current job, but I still count all my many blessings. Like buying brilliant records like this. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

93. Hold Me Now (Extended) by Thompson Twins

AFTER MY father died, I was given his gold wedding ring, which I duly wore until 2010, when the finger it was on swelled up and it had to be cut off. The ring, not the finger. 

I then gave it to my ex to look after to buy time before refashioning it to my wedding ring. I would like to say I ended the relationship when I found out she pawned it, but the relationship only ended after a heart to heart with mum's partner. It's poignant that the two men in my life were instrumental in me reaching that decision, which helped me turn that difficult page. 

I'm not a multi-tasker, so had I been knee deep in that life SFH wouldn't exist. That it has survived ten years where the only low was being unremittingly abused online one Saturday morning is down to the missus. Pure and simple. She knows my limitations and lets me meander, but she also knows I've promised to start selling some records again. It all got a bit complicated after we left the EU and that gave me an excuse not to. We're even looking at a sporadic dancefloor based night once that's up and running.  

I sometimes look at my life as the third person, so have to really remind myself that I've done all these things before. Way back when my hair was darker and my mum and kid sister supported me through my anxieties. That support has never abated despite my hair turning white and my mother dying. Add to that the missus' unflinching faith in me still and I should be fucking invincible.  

Viva the women in my life for this fresh new chapter. And let loving start.

 

BEATS OF LOVE

92. Slam Dunk Funk by Future Perfect

 LAST NIGHT in the late summer evening sun, the magic happened. 

Without headphones and in the main just picking up records randomly, I got in the zone and built things up brilliantly. I should be coz I've been doing it for nearly 40 years. There were many satisfying moments, but picking this up and playing it after roughly two-thirds of Herbert's People That Make the Music was blissful and kept me dancing.  

Yes, dancing. I'm all for a mix that locks two tracks together and takes the dancefloor somewhere surprising but not that keen on the seamless join. At least not if the DJ has locked themselves in their headphones for about two whole minutes to perform it. They could be dancing and enjoying themselves and still keeping their dancefloor happy.   

This record dating back to 1995  has been totally forgotten, and I fully anticipated it spoiling the magical mood I had created, but for reasons outside my understanding, I played it anyway and was richly rewarded. I love its extra sensory layers. It's subtler and sparser than I imagined it was going to be, and, in that moment, without the aid of mixing it, or filtering it, it totally slayed me. 

I totally bought into the idea of the DJ as shaman and the all surrendering ritualistic reverie of their followers, but now, as I age and decay, I better understand the limitations of such an idea. 

And so fully understand why my next-door neighbour went outside to mow his lawn rather than appreciate my alchemy and hand-claps. The bastard! 

 BEATS OF LOVE

       91. Guided By The Sea Came Death By E.R. Thorpe

A COMPANION piece to the most important LP of the century: This Short Sweet Life is Christmas come early.

I create a lot of conundrums in my head, but by far the longest unsolved one is why so many folk are really popular when Huw and Emma create such transfixing music and only press up vinyl copies in the low hundreds. It's really annoying that being so into their important music is seen as an elitist deeper listening past-time. It shouldn't be. 

Despite its lovely sleeve both feeling and looking incredible (hats off Joakim Boren), it is truly upstaged by the wonderful music. The whole EP is top drawer, but this track is totally addictive. Huw's harmony is the perfect counterbalance for Emma's candy floss delivery. A delivery that truly disarms the listener with its subliminal imagery. I'm reminded of Tanya Donelly's sugary, unsettling, and distinctive contributions to The Throwing Muses.

Popular music in the blues/folk tradition can so often sound a bit sterile but thank-fully that same sonic fizz that sets Torn Sail apart sets this apart. Its evocative sensory effects transport me back to my teary grandparents' front room, where together in nightly prayer they reminisced about two young guys blown-up in a tank.

A simple expression for something so unfathomably complex. That has great depth and poignancy. Just like this cantering, dizzying gem of a tune.