BEATS OF LOVE 

163. Biko by Robert Wyatt

AFTER WATCHING in awe and wonder, Beverly Glenn-Copeland spellbind his audience, by splashing colour and hope, it set me to wax lyrical about politics and the personal. 

Then I heard this whilst exploring some Afrobeat. The prolific Man Power turned me onto Robert Wyatt a few years ago. A voice I was once resistant to suddenly mesmerized me by its rough fragility. Paradoxically abrasive and tender at the same time. 

Whether it is simply the voice or the subtly penetrative Adrian Sherwood production that makes the stood back anti-apartheid anthem sound less tiring here than on Peter Gabriel's longer, more intense original, I can't say. Maybe it's not hearing bagpipes but a haunting, austere minimalism. Another case of less is more.  

The effect is more disarming as we get teased by the warmth of a simple electric organ before having to face some harsh truth about reality. Steve Biko's brutal torture and murder was as brazen as it was harrowing, with many arguing that South Africa's collective consciousness hasn't recovered. It's partly why the system of injustice and brutality survives at the end of apartheid.

That Wyatt can splash some colour, and hope is possibly down to his musical genius. Or just maybe Biko's spirit is still alive and well.

BEATS OF LOVE 

162. This Is What She's Like by Dexys Midnight Runners

THE CONFERENCE season finished with Theos think tank's annual lecture, delivered in compromising tones by Andy Burnham. Who lacked the conviction necessary to fully explain his third way of doing politics. 

Prophetically concluding his post lecture Q and A by saying we should 'prepare for a very dark road ahead.' Very defeatist, from someone with more than a modicum of power. Akin to losing at musical chairs by sitting down before the music stops.

Luckily, here the music never stops. I'm reading Kevin Rowland's disturbingly candid autobiography and spinning Don't Stand Me Down a lot. Starting with a song of greatness. The Occasional Flicker exuding the uncompromising confidence that comes with having a great but muted style and the musical talent to outreach oneself. That this exhilarating even more original effort eclipses it epitomises the valiance at its heart.  

To start the greatest ever 12 minute song with a rich accented conversation about the elusive topic of love is absolute genius. To then weave said voices into a musically uncompromising vocally harmonic Pièce de résistance, whilst not forgetting the violinist or to mock the English upper classes, is as insane as inspired. It's both as catchy as hell and utterly opaque. Fully expressing a third way of doing popular music. 

If any song proclaims 'we should prepare for a very sunny road ahead', it is this.

BEATS OF LOVE 

161. Penetration by Iggy and the Stooges 

SORRY, BUT being pro-immigration is more a part of my Balearic being as Ibiza is. 

What's striking about Farage's polling is only a third of his own supporters think he's racist and will abolish our NHS. Predictably, his week started with a humongous lie about what we'll save addressing the Boriswave by attacking legal migrants and nothing about what we'll lose, namely our collective soul. 

His own vanity and fear of Boris Johnson has led to a flagship announcement that assumes we'll want a system that's no kinder to us Brits but far, far harsher to everybody else. So harsh that we'll just let folk die outside hospitals so we won't have to queue as long. So harsh that we'll happily work alongside folk who see no future, just the prospect of deportation. 

Farage shares some semblance of punk rock's ideology in that he seeks to destroy things, but where punk sought to expose truths, he seeks to conceal them. Seeking to destroy integration to conceal the truth that there is more that unites us than divides. Seeking to destroy our human rights to conceal the truth that they protect us more than threaten. And seeking to destroy our NHS to conceal the truth that it misdiagnosed his testicular cancer decades ago.  

I'm heartened that two-thirds of his own supporters don't think he's racist or trying to abolish our NHS, as they must now be having second thoughts. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

160. When Will it End by Honey Cone

LAYING OFF 500 people one day and inciting nearly 150,000 protesters to act in defence of their country, the next, takes a special psycho. A country not under attack and not even his. 

Elon Musk that special psycho loves choreographing the very folk his politics has laid to waste. The next logical step for these folk was to turn toward a party intent on redistributing wealth, but social media has schooled them. Social media doesn't challenge opinion, its algorithms create echo chambers which simply reinforce existing belief. 

Users are now adept at rebuking Corbyn whilst failing to explain what Thatcher ever did for the traditional working class. They're armed with quotes to defend the billionaires, but can't explain why less inequality creates happier societies. They've also adapted to deflect criticism, rebuking correlations with Nazi Germany, but cannot explain away their rising anger. 

An anger that divests folk of individuality which has its roots in aggressive violence and not victimhood. It's more pitiful still watching labour politicians too scared of losing votes to big up multi-racial, multi-faith Britain. Instead, giving legitimacy to no marks like Tommy Robinson. Instead, apologists for this huge, ever growing loveless grievance narrative that stokes this rising anger. 

A narrative manufactured and bankrolled by folk who think nothing of laying 500 people off. Absolutely nothing.

BEATS OF LOVE 

159. Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' by Michael Jackson

IT'S EASY to clap when your political beliefs aren't being challenged. 

Such was the case last night when Jeremy Corbyn came into town to outline the vision of his future party. Likening himself in this moment to Kier Hardie, who had to break away from the liberals, added a touch of gravitas to an otherwise confusing enterprise. 

How, with no name, no leadership personnel, no trade union support and no print press interest, the guy next to me expects him to win the 2029 election, is anyone's guess. Everyday Reform is pulling away with an anti-immigration spin. Once again, their acolytes I speak to get their facts wrong. Telling me half a million asylum seekers is too many. I have to correct them and say 40,000 tops. 

Farage's mass deportation plans hinge on finding an estimated number of illegal migrants. He's very confident that the number is over half a million, but will probably only find a few thousand on account of his number being imagined. He's also very confident his top team aren't racists, but more than any other politician has to sack a load for being just that. More people now see that capitalism is a death cult, and it's no surprise to see a very confident former hedge fund manager masquerading as an everyman to distract from the fact. 

Demanding that people turn away from economic truth to explain loss and social reality to explain justice and instead believe in something that radicalizes the dreamer in them. Them nearly always being white, working class and poor. Outside were small-town activists, labelling those dreamers fascist with an air of self righteousness, but Corbyn, if he's to become a political threat, will have to wake them up. Convincing them they're both brainwashed and wrong.

Sadly, he'll probably need Farage in office to achieve that. And challenge our political beliefs and his staunch humanitarianism. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

158. Patron Saint Of Elsewhere LP by Sewell & the Gong

NOT SURE how this talented duo was going to translate over a long-play listen after a mighty impressive twelve, but they've locked into one hell of a mood and groove with a confidence which is highly addictive. A tad weightier but still spangled with enough air to take all the heavy chocolate in your life away.

I would've been heaping a lot of high praise about the coming together of kosmische precision and pastoral reverie, but Dr Rob beat me to it again. * And far more eloquently descriptive. Even citing the sound within to be evocative of a drug free Spacemen 3. I've never dared imagine a drug free Spacemen 3. Surely it's like imagining the Beatles without George Harrison. 

The pressing is flawless too, which helps when drifting off deep. So deep that I stubbed my little toe on my swivel chair's foot while surrendering to it. The most pain I've felt in ages which is odd considering how many heavy pallets I've mishandled of late. So much so that I actually put on a pair of socks to lie down and finish my listen. 

If this was a dish, it would be paella. Best shared. I miss communal listening. Whilst not as intense, it is great sharing the energy and space with someone appreciative. Loving the print too with its soft sherbert hues that nailed what I was imagining my flyers would be like when an illustrator friend helped me out until they came back. Nothing like this, of course. 

Only this time I actually bought their work for the colourful psychedelia of the music in its entirety. Beguiling drones and all. 

* https://banbantonton.com/2025/07/31/sewell-the-gong-patron-saint-of-elsewhere-dsppr/

 BEATS OF LOVE 

157. You are the Place by Shilpa Gupta 

MASSIVELY INDEBTED to my missus Factory International family. Their support following Ma's sudden death has been incredible.

I slipped out of the house for a second visit to this highly emotive multilingual sound installation. It encouraged me to lie back, immersing chill-out style to the fractured tender voices that moved nearer and further away. 

Lamenting voices singing about the personal  as stored in memory, echoing the Rochdale community in all its brilliant diversity. Gupta's clever attempts to strike discord, the ever moving lightbulbs and microphones, brilliantly show that the harmony which sits at the heart of this most vulnerable of choirs cuts through anything. Their verses get to the essence of what makes us human. Our vulnerability so often masked is what unites us and not constructs of power like flags. Celebrated in a plethora of different languages, it sounds less like a sound tapestry and more like a meaningful whole. 

I'm an honorary migrant. I feel the same shrill in my ear going past an immigration solicitor's office, and that same dread when the far right is in the news. My Nigerian family is mainly abstracted overseas, faces on the phone, where the remove during emotional crises is greater felt. Especially at this sad time. 

I laid back on the floor with small pools of tears in my eyes as I meditated on what could be and not what is.