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.