BEATS OF LOVE 

146. Determination by Dean Parrish

MISTER WHITEHEAD, a balding, lanky, short fused stereotypical PE teacher, introduced me to the adolescent delights of dancing in his aerobics class. Get Up and Boogie was the track that stirred things up.

No idea what the goo in my shorts was, but thought I'd better keep it to myself. I was already called a wanker quite a lot. I hated PE and was truly gutted when those classes ended and I had to try my hand at Rugby instead. 

It's fair to say there's always been that same crazed element to my dancing. Crazed and slightly off key. Mastering dancing comes after lots of internal counting, which forces a remove from the listening experience making it cerebral. I like an instantaneous hit to both my ears and body. No remove and no mastery. And no brainpower. 

I struggle with the northern soul dancers in the now, but love sense stirring tunes like this more than ever. The old folk wear the same tops as dart players and the young folk dance impassionately like line dancers. There was a time in a sweat soaked mecca when appreciation for 60s soul sides like this was dead cool when folk were actually living for it. Or in the nineties when Baldie was doing his thing.

I take my dancing inspiration from Mister Whitehead's wonky aerobics class, who could see despite my ability I appreciated his music. Thankfully, not realizing quite how much.

BEATS OF LOVE 

145. Ode to Beer by Me 

Little folk came to stay, sex toys, explosions along the way, 

Rallying round, sipping tea and drinking beer

but us you could barely hear

Warning sign number one was full on

Distracted when thudding onto the living room floor. 

Or did you mistake the armchair for a door?

Confidence lost with remote still in your shaky hand 

Soldiering on, as these little folk got easier to understand

Warning sign number two was a right to do

Putting the gas on, the new pedal to the metal

It no longer smelt, thus

Melting your plastic electric kettle

Still, we poured a beer

and hid the hobs

There was no warning sign number three, just an almighty crash

Mistaking the massive rubber plant for something else

Something that could hold your weight

Spooning down hospital food, things quickly disappeared

First the home that you haven't really lived in for months, anyway

Then, hoping to escape the bed,

your strong legs, purposefully pressing against my hand,

Whilst being told they're as much use to you as sand

Killed said hope dead

Then the one-to-one care that's barely there

 A youthful social worker now dreads our calls

almost as much as the tired hospital staff, 

when asked to get another round of beers in

dread yours

Ironic, though in no way meant

we've only gone and quit the beer this Lent

BEATS OF LOVE 

144. I'm Gonna Change by The Velours

AN OCCUPATIONAL hazard of supermarket work is old work colleagues regaling tales at inopportune times or informing me of folk dying. 

One such guy informed me a former colleague was in a coma and asked whether I knew him. Course I did. He was the only guy who ever got barred from the works drinking hole. 

He threw the contents of his colostomy bag over his girlfriend's head after a heated argument. In the pub. I then added how unfortunate he was to miss out on redundancy. Leaving months before the announcement. I was abruptly told he did alright, pilfering from the firm for nearly two decades. Understandably, nobody in security wanted to search his colostomy bag despite strongly suspecting it contained company property. Even a CCTV camera installed over his workstation didn't deter him. Explains why somewhat ironically he had the sweaty, nervous energy of someone in constant need of the John. 

It then hit me that life gets reduced to a couple of anecdotes by people who are little more than caricatures in our lives. Clothing myself in Christ and not gratifying the desires of my sinful nature will not change anecdotes after my life is toast. It might make me less damaged and better equipped to die. When I was expecting death in my 30s, a death I was spiritually unprepared for, I promised God that if I survived, I would change. What life has taught me since is there's a plethora of deaths, many of which no amount of spiritual preperation readies you for. 

An occupational hazard of supermarket work is old work colleagues regaling tales at inopportune times or informing me of folk dying. And me being flippant.

BEATS OF LOVE 

143. Tu Amor by Mamacita

I RECALL my old pal Aidan saying to me in the mid-nineties 'we're on our own in this world.' I felt sorry for him as I was living with my kid sister and felt close to a clubbing community. 

I would never have dreamt of saying such a thing. Unsurprisingly, when my sister moved on and I knocked it all on the head,  facing massive personal hurdles, loneliness, temptations, and the feeling it was all in vain, his words came back to me. Despite praying deeply, I knew instinctively that I needed to go back to church.

It's easy to register faults with organized religion, and it still tests my faith for sure, but by going back to church, I've become much more like the person I want to be. Now, every day when I wake and every night before I sleep, I talk to God in prayer. I'm far from on my own in this world.

Seeing my aunty, a much better paradigm of a practicing catholic than me, face major surgery, not to survive but to get my sister on the property ladder, I marvelled at her courage. She'd been floundering in the hospital for weeks and could've opted for palliative care, but she still strove to do good. Driven by the company, she kept in her spirit and a tacit understanding of what it means to be at one with the world. 

With or without God, it appears we've replaced that giving generation with a taking one. One with inherent greed and a sense of entitlement at its core. Unforgiving natures have replaced mercy, selfishness has replaced selflessness, fear has replaced courage, a confusion has replaced assurance, hallucination has replaced faith, and saddest of all, a sense being on our own in this world has replaced what it means to be at one with each other. 

It needs restating 'we are not on our own in this world.' And restating again, I fear. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

142. Miles Further by Wrekin Havoc

WE WRITE a lot. Deconstructing the process that folk who deconstruct music to create fresher sounding music undergo, so we can all feel a little more enlightened. 

Well, this week was a real toughie. It was the anniversary of the death of my kid sister's husband and to compound things, my nephew, who has been home with her since, has just started a new job, so she was all alone near the Devon coast miles away from us. 

My mother's surviving partner is awaiting the memory clinic's assessment and is losing sight of us more each week and needing more of our attention. And sadly, work was especially weird. I say work because the manager that pissed me off is just programmed to operate in a hostile manner. Luckily for me, I had a couple of freshly bought records to play on repeat. 

The trancey warmth of Hey Mister Mister by Kriss, a massive want after Rob J posted it, has sent me to sound heaven. Weightless arms aloft. I'd settled for a CD version but the brilliant Sound Metaphors stable have thankfully put it out on their Thank You imprint. In the same packet was this absolute gem of a tune. Rob again with his fellow West Midland cohorts, Stuart Robinson and Richard Hall. Who've produced this epic dose of musical madness which eclipses everything I've bought this year. 

Fuck the process, and fuck enlightenment. It is simply emotional pop at its very best. Its memorable vocal refrain teases in, carried mesmerisingly on a floaty bed of synths, then a dramatic guitar lifts it up even higher, and then we have lift-off. It all feels way shorter than its nine minutes. My outstretched arms, in a musical hypnosis, are attempting to glide on the magnificence of it all. 

I really pray these special people in my life have things that can make them feel momentarily blissful that puts aside all their heavy chocolate.

BEATS OF LOVE 

141. Blue – 80s Extended Unreleased Vocal Mix by Wham!

ORIGINALLY, A b-side track, the result of the eleven spare studio hours left after recording the mighty debut album Fantastic, and an obsession of mine in 2018. 

Its dubby synths evoke the DIY spirit and not the work of students of the chart takeover. Footage of George replete in his Borg Elites on The Russell Harty Show put him centre stage in a more intense pose.   

You forget it was basically Nothing Looks the Same in the Light with less production but instead get seduced by a melodic charm and hushed vocals. A tentative delivery by someone who has all but shut down the creative input of his partner to make their band massive. These were the last songs of theirs that felt like mine. Consequent releases would happily transfer into the cassettes my father would play in his car. My sister's. 

Its release coincided with the last time I felt naturally happy, so when I play their earliest records, it touches me personally. I can taste the fresh orange I drank before leaving the kitchen and picture my father's outstretched arms as I ruffled his neatly combed hair on my way to school. Life felt warm and playful, and I loved going to school and church. When their sophomore Make it Big album came out, I didn't. 

This edit works wonders with the vocals and turns this notion I have of it being a DIY tune on its head. It sounds crispy fresh and not unlike a smash. I love the tactile cover and the Lovevinyl bullshit that accompanies the release on their website. Especially the lie about it being a hundred only pressing. After two failed attempts, I've finally got a copy. 

There's nothing bullshit about ECLA, their mighty edit rocks, and like a nice pair of heavy duty velvet curtains, it shuts out the world today brilliantly.

BEATS OF LOVE 

140. Looking Glass by The La's

USED TO go to Liverpool Poly to catch bands occasionally. Getting there early to watch the soundcheck but when The La's played there in 1990 was a different vibe. It was already busy.

Ordinary, expectant people were milling around the bar with thick scouse accents. This was their band and with my deep monotone North Manchester accent, I was wary of speaking. After all, I'd been obsessed with most of their songs for just over a month whilst many of the crowd had lived with them for years. They were an incredible live force with a fiery spark, and the tunes were just dripping out naturally. 

Hearing from folk who'd heard Maver's demos for a follow-up album was a regular part of post-clubbing in the 90s. The stuff of legend, yet when they surfaced online decades later, they actually surpassed the crazy high expectations. Tears in the Rain slowed down, sounds sublime. The band hated their recorded output. However, despite their harsh criticism, it's still much loved. Their only album's closer, this effortlessly poetic epic helps give the band verisimilitude. Making it more resonant with age. It's the music that The Verve strove to eclipse. 

A diversion towards the experimentation and space found on the twelves, it actually states with a wholly arresting conviction that the change is cast. The change being this direct but more soulful form of expression and not the vastly inferior band Power formed in frustration at Mavers overworking the demos. Essentially, keeping him to the same songbook since 1986. The conundrum now is which version to share. Since Mavers hated the final version, other sessions and alternate takes have since surfaced. 

For today, at least, I'm going with the one that has served me longest. The one Mavers hates the most. It's still one of the best songs ever recorded.