BEATS OF LOVE

3. Phobia (Paranoid  Mix) by Flowered Up

ONE OF the nuttiest gigs I ever attended was Flowered Up at Royton's Assembly Hall. It was a Sunday evening and about midway through Soul Family Sensation's subdued support set, and, after smoking lots of pot, my good mate Stu lost consciousness and just collapsed on the floor. So much for his school night.  

The FYC (Oldham's very own footy firm) were out in force and by the end of Flowered Up's lively set were invading the stage and going bananas. My good mate Stu was still comatose. Finally, as the wonderful Weatherall mix of Higher than the Sun boomed out of the speakers, ending the night, he arose then began cheerily dancing before successfully chatting up a sixth former, who he quickly led to the taxi-rank at breakneck speed. 

In my naivety, I thought that every Sunday was going to be full of similar shenanigans. Not long after, they instead became scrabble nights with my kid sister. I caught up with the FYC years later in the same place where they shouted 'no surrender' throughout an evening with Howard Marks. (For a far better band anecdote buy Believe in Magic.) 

With a band you love whose records aren't great, and whose talent is limited, you need remixes and luckily they had them in spades. The overplayed Weatherall Weekender mixes are arguably the best, but my favourite is this earlier one from 1990. Producer Marc Angelo is glamour model Linda Lusardi's brother and a dub specialist. I was more impressed by the former fact.

It plays like a crossover between Lee Perry and Candy Flip's worst studio efforts, and is all the better for it. The loopy piano-line is given a starring role and sounds much more at home on this mix than the A-side. What was annoying about Oakenfold was his bad marriage of baggy songs and loopy piano-lines, which were ripped off by all and sundry. They only ever worked for him with U2 coz they could carry any tune along, I guess. Stripping away the naff baggy song then, with just the loopy piano-line and dubby effects, works a treat. Many producers with far bigger budgets than Heavenly and far better musicians to work with fail the remix test miserably. 

If you're only going to rescue one record from the bargain crate, make it this one.  

   

 BEATS OF LOVE 

2. Smile by Microworld

FOR MY money, Andras Fox is one of the most important producer/ DJ's out there right now, so when he included Philip McGarva's first output in 6 years under the Microworld moniker in his 2016 mix, I was truly transfixed. Grey Melody is awash with warm synths but also frenetic enough to make you move and smile. 

When I heard Andras DJ, I expected to hear similar trance inducing rhythms like this but was disappointed by the tempo of the records in his set. Fast was great at first as it contrasted with Jim's tunes in a very non-linear way, but then it became ceaseless and I was bloody relieved when it finally stopped. 

I recall the only time Weatherall and Tenniswood were disappointing by being equally annoying on their lap-tops at Tim's shindig when they played way too fast and killed the vibe completely. Big name acts who feel the need to experiment on small-time promoter's nights are another bug-bear of mine. Yes, another. Subsequently, my relationship with Andras has been on/off ever since because of these experiments with tempo, but my relationship with Microworld, thanks to him, has been going very steady.   

The Transmat debut is a record Moonboots would've given me to listen to had I still been going to E-Bloc twice a week in 1999, but, as I wasn't, he didn't. Nevertheless, finally bought 17 years after its release, I was expecting to listen with a forgiving ear, but was pleasantly surprised. It still sounds fresh. Larry Heard nuts know that the B-side is the place to head despite the A-side being way more popular.  

More dream-house than techno, more Devonport than Detroit, and, floaty, not lightweight, it really hits its spot relentlessly. The pads gather pace but never sound abrasive, warmly charging the tune tremendously, burning up any dancefloor or bungalow. 

Basically, it's a blissfully emotive piece of late 20th century electronic music and every home should have a copy. 

 BEATS OF LOVE

 

1.  The Montana Freight Train Mix by Carl A. Finlow, Ralph Lawson & Domenic Capello

I'VE ONLY once met Antony Daly twice on the same weekend. Firstly, as a swivel-headed, happy loon, unable to speak during Nado's 20th celebrations, and then, the night after, as something unable to find its own mouth to even say 'Hi.' I'm guessing he had the sense to put his head down between time as he was still chatty. I always make an appalling first impression. Anyway, he owns and runs the ever more impressive 586 Records and occasionally sells me fantastic records like this.  

I only met Ralph Lawson once too, sociably speaking,  and found him wholly affable, which, back in the mid-nineties, wasn't all that impressive. I found his rhythmic, no-nonsense music wholly affable too, which back in the mid-nineties wasn't all that impressive either. Once again I'm wrong as I now find myself accidently buying his output more and more. 

I recently wrote a long-winded blog piece about clubbing in Sankeys Soap, recalling that, for me at least, Domenic Capello marked the nadir. Someone, I thought, synonymous with bland and formulaic, but, because I'm so often wrong about everything, I decided to google him and came across this slow burning masterpiece. Everything but bland and formulaic, predictably. 

It sounds good here, but on a proper deck with the volume on it really takes you to the special place, and just gets better and better. Not a second is wasted. For me, it's all about this epic A side which naturally locks into an insistent groove before heading off into the deep ... 

... warm pads then wobble about deliciously with aquatic washes that really do sound magical and thankfully last an age. It really ends on a high too. Rather than just reverting back to the main groove, it saves the best till last with teasing stabs that put a silly great grin on your face, not unlike the one on mine when I first met Antony. Very clever, yet seemingly simple devices stand this out from the crowd. It's genius is in holding back, which gives it more space and natural energy. They've learned lessons from their livelier first collaboration and delivered an absolute peach second the time around. 

I was burnt out by 1996 and was playing back too many conversations in my head to know a banging tune; I guess. Buy this bomb on sight if you don't already own it whist it's affordable.    

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO 

10. THE FINE LINE BETWEEN ART AND FUCKING THINGS UP COMPLETELY

PART 1

AS I unceremoniously removed myself from my dream site in West Didsbury and into Jeff's back bedroom in a pre-riot unravaged Clarksfield, I still had an inflated ego and a pretty decent contact book but I just wanted to lie low and save up for a house deposit. However, just prior to moving in, I had my last 3 day bender, and I woke up utterly mind shot by a cassette given to me by Pete, inscribed simply with the words Casino Records, and Doves. That's what happened to me. I woke up next to records and cassettes but seldom women. It must've been played a couple of hundred times before I finally decided to get up for work at the tail end of the following week.

I was still naïve enough to think music could change society, or at least my own circumstances, and pushed this cassette onto people like a man possessed. My late brother-in-law loved it, which was encouraging. Jeff had his own blinding obsessions, of which Gabrielle's Wish were the most enduring, Chameleons, excepted. It became known to us that they were in the same studio, and Pete, the common denominator, was someone we could approach to put on a show. 

Other than the fact I was saving for a deposit, I was also given an ultimatum; either I stopped the amphetamines that made me so unpredictable in work, or going into business with Jeff and our venture, The Job Club, was off. So began a blurry 8 months of mixing lager with prescription drugs. 

Soon his house was full of drapery and lighting equipment and we had a meeting with Jon-Da-Silva and their manager, the maverick Rob Gretton at the Witchwood. Incomprehensibly, prior to the meeting, after just buying a Standells LP, from Echo records, I went into The Abbey to steady the nerves where I met Taff and for the one and only time since school Cozzy, the top-boy in my year. He no doubt thought I was still a fantasist when I said I was off to meet Rob Gretton. 

Pretty soon after 5 pints of strong lager had found their way down my neck, I was half-cut and on a bus to Ashton talking up our new record-label with Hip-Hop and Street Soul at its core, and dismissing New Order completely. Jeff was fighting a losing battle and should have gone alone but despite me being there fucking things up, we were still given a Gab's Wish gig to test our muscle and prove ourselves.    

Jeff was great with the practicalities, having managed an actual band, Lincoln, and I was good for odd ideas, like having a strobe facing the audience to make it hard for them to see. We worked a DJ set together that actually played well, and we both stayed in prior to the show. Jeff no doubt baby-sitting. Needless to say, the night was a fucking triumph with Gretton even patting me on the back, and with me and Jeff dancing uncontrollably in a way we had years earlier in private when the Rockingbirds were blaring out of his stereo.

Unfathomably, I had handed his mad ex a flyer and predictably she found her way to the show and then his house. Predictably, I gave away a strip of Prozac to oversee a party that went on for another 10 hours without both the host or his missus. Predictably, the writing was on the wall. 

 

PART 2

I HAD ceased venturing to Mancunia to see established bands and was instead just milling around what quickly turned into a revolving door of the same local acts and sixth formers. They were duly bored to death of hearing about the Doves by the end of April. A month before their secret show, that was finally granted us after a hundred or so calls to Dave Rofe. My record box hadn't been tempered by any divisions, so sounded somewhat disjointed as I tried to stay loyal to both the sixties underground garage scene and to dubby-techno pioneers. 

The energy and enthusiasm with my new work-spar was now strained and instead of baby-sitting me and corroborating on our ideas, I was instead given a free rein with disastrous consequences. 

However, not before seeing glossy professional posters advertising the Sea EP with our name emblazoned on it, which was a proper buzz. Hearing the local radio announce the show made it suddenly, frighteningly, real. 

Then, on the eve of the show, Gretton died suddenly. A crisis meeting was held in a Tib Street cafe when it was unfortunately decided the bloody show would go on. We spent the daytime erecting a wooden stage, the transportation of which nearly killed a pedestrian, and then we lined up a relaxing mellow night of guest DJing, only I turned up with moody-techno records.  

I still recall hammering out a Huggy favourite of mine full-blast, Hoth, to a busy bar for the second time, coz no one was in earlier, and dancing manically to it, so I must have by then been pissed. Later I retired with some friends from Royton for a lively lock-in, and then later still road tested a massage parlour that was across the road from the venue. 

I wasn't too happy dismantling our stage with a bear-head at the Doves' request the next afternoon. I wasn't too happy either at not being able to practice my DJing coz the FA cup final was on and was less happy still when by tea-time I was pissed again. Rather than go home for a lie down, which Jeff's missus was begging me to do, I instead sent her to get my Librium (my ill-fated Prozac replacement) and carried on drinking pints of Stella. 

Needless to say, the show was a fucking triumph, despite me being there, going through various dark psychotic changes that left me scared of my own records, scared of my friends, and, the final indignation, being unable to control my own bladder. I don't recall what actually went into my system that night or anything sequential, but I do recall hiding under a table at one point. 

Quite how I connected with Andy Votel and Jane Weaver because of this show will forever remain a mystery. I even changed my trousers and took my share of what little money we made off to the massage parlour, where I hugged a bewildered-looking lady in her 40s. Who later cried buckets with me after I regaled my sorry tale. 

Life would never quite hold the same possibilities again, and I understandably became reclusive.