BEATS OF LOVE 

74. 12 Tribes (Chicago Funk Dub Mix) by Boo Williams

IN ALL earnestness I believed the scene was going to transcend into other musical dimensions at the turn of the millennium, but was slowly waking up to the fact that nothing would sound as futuristic as Basic Channel, UR, Carl Craig, 430 West, or, Red Planet records, ever again.  

Despite what forums discuss or fanzine writers tell us, we're basically dancing on the embers of what was a late 20th century phenomenon. Nightclubs are not and never have been utopia. Despite a combination of the right drugs and the right people in certain spaces, giving us that impression.

Another late 20th century phenomenon, the rise of the hippie entrepreneur, brought about a seismic shift in the music industry that has seen the artist become little more than a commodity. Draped in logos and other visual signifiers, the music is easily lost. It's why we like the U.S. underground dance scene so much despite the duplicity and greed. It has anti-corporate stamped into its DNA and is in the main light years ahead in terms of its fluidity, rhythm, and funky, soulful experimentation. The prevalent features of its musical expression. 

Fortunately for us, transient bliss, the byproduct of truly feeling these amazingly vibrant sounding records, is a condensed, momentary utopia. Whilst nothing sounds as futuristic, our greatest pleasure is often still that transient bliss that can only ever be attained by truly feeling the music.  

This track personifies the distinctive sound of second generation Chicago house master Boo Williams. His Frankie sample is also reminiscent of another great Guidance cut Freaky (Chaos) by the genius that is Larry Heard, but this track drives harder and has more musical interplay within its changing tempo. I thought his work on Relief was top banana, but this is driving me even crazier. It's great. 

It’s a stark reminder that while the future promised may have stalled in the year 2000, the present moment belongs entirely to tracks like this. We don't need a utopian future when the embers of the past still burn this hot. In fact, dancing on embers has never felt so good. Transient bliss, indeed. 

  

 

BEATS OF LOVE 

73. The Banger Dictionary compiled by Finn McCorry

I FIRST met Annabel back in 2018, when she and Adam looked after me so brilliantly. Sadly, my arrival home came with a sharp ultimatum from the missus: either stay out indefinitely, or stay married. I haven’t had a "lost weekend" since.

Beyond being an ace DJ, Annabel co-owns 20k and a Dead Sheep, my absolute go-to online zine store. They regularly ship me copies of Dance Policy and Faith, even throwing in old E-Bloc pamphlets and acid smiley inserts I’d long since lost. These zines have become my main portals back into a culture that shaped my life. The writing is always sharp and illuminating, particularly a powerful, passionate piece by Kareina Daswani in the latest Dance Policy.

Reading it prompted me to dig out some immersive, sultry, dark techno and lose myself in the music as dusk fell. It strikes me how the digital age has rewound us. While we aren't fighting a physical war, we are a far cry from the post-war era that focused on building a better Britain with collective well-being at its heart. Today, our culture is about cutting costs, dehumanizing people, and dumbing everything down. The political class sounds uncannily like Arthur Daley, using seedy sales pitches to fight vacuous conflicts, defending insane greed, and selling us absolute rubbish.

Thank God, then, for zine sellers who inject truth and heart back into the marketplace. And thank God for Finn McCorry’s massive contribution to the literary canon: a tactile, A5 dictionary of synonyms for "banger" to elevate our dance music banter. It’s the kind of booklet you never knew you needed until it’s cradled in your hand. Unsurprisingly, the word sultry didn't make the cut.

https://20kandadeadsheep.com/products/the-banger-dictionary

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BEATS OF LOVE

72. San Francisco Night (Instrumental) by Chris

WAS WALKING to work the other day and unfathomably the synth line to Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red came into my head and then I pictured my mother and father dancing together in sync to it. 

I say unfathomably coz if my mother was still alive, and I asked her about whether she ever danced to it she'd scrunch her face up and reply 'don't be absurd.' I can only imagine that I was bunking off school a lot at the time of its release and it got lots of telly play so unwittingly found a way deep into my subconscious. 

I grew up on a steady diet of chart music, eventually hitting a rebellious phase where I rejected pop entirely, until Luvdup started weaving transcendent moments into their sets. Digging for these unexpected crowd-pleasers soon became the norm, with the likes of Moonboots and Balearic Mike the most renowned exponents. Sean Rowley famously branded it as Guilty Pleasures, but the pinnacle of this trend belonged to Jim, who created the ultimate moment the night he dropped Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer.

Inspired, I set out to engineer my own iconic pop moment using Lady in Red. My logic was simple: a song couldn't occupy that much real estate in my subconscious if it was entirely devoid of merit. The standard seven-inch version was out of the question; after all, Steve Coogan’s Alan Partridge wasn't entirely wrong when he famously dubbed it the anthem of "stupid people dancing at weddings."

Since there were no official dubs, instrumentals, or extended remixes to salvage it, I turned to the world of cover versions. The Shadows showed promise but were ultimately too guitar-heavy, as were the flamenco interpretations. Lovers Rock and reggae versions offered a slight shift in vibe but still drowned in the original's saccharine sweetness. James Last offered the best of a bad bunch of up-tempo orchestral covers, but it still fell flat. By the time I waded through dreary panpipe renditions, I finally threw in the towel and accepted the brutal truth: the song is just irredeemably bad.

I’m sure the moment I publish this, someone will magically unearth some elusive Mediterranean dub mix to prove me wrong. Until then, this Chris will more than do.

Pure heat and a longtime want finally reissued by the ever dependable Edition Hawara label. Austria's finest tastefully lose the confederate flag from the original sleeve whilst pressing it loud and clear. I prefer this instrumental with its gloriously spangled synth lines that appear looser and really shine through on what is the finest winter warmer at hand. 

Hopefully next week when I walk to work these loose synth lines will come into my head. Giving me some much needed spring in my step.      

      

  

BEATS OF LOVE 

71. Time Has Told Me by Nick Drake

THIS YEAR has taught me an awful lot and profoundly strengthened my faith.

Walking away from family and a close friend is private. While outside opinions will inevitably twist and distort the truth, I choose to leave the rights and wrongs to a higher power.

I know the emotional fallout of this year will linger, but I take massive comfort in the relationships that survived and healed. The Missus' sharp, perceptive observations were a beacon, drawing those who remain closer together through a shared understanding of what has been happening for years. Time will tell my side of the story.

This internal struggle is why Nick Drake’s music resonates so deeply with me now. Written when he was just 21, his songs showcase an odd maturity and a beautiful disdain for convention. His lyrics wrap themselves around my experience, proving that we can find solace by embracing both the beauty of solitude and the imperfections of companionship.

Faith in the future is all we have. I am deeply grateful for the magic of his music, a troubled soul turned wise sage, which continues to teach me how to heal and nudges me toward tomorrow.  

BEATS OF LOVE

70. Cold Blooded Love by Thee Hypnotics

READING GEORGE Orwell's Diaries has been illuminating. 

Other than more cleanliness, the conditions that define today's society are pretty much unchanged. The false dominant narratives propagated by the right wing press still cut through, and wage slavery is still the norm. What surprises is the man behind the persona. A man who passionately loves gardening. A man we wouldn't know existed had he lived to write his autobiography and burn his diaries. 

He despised the artificiality of mass consumerism, yet carefully cultivated a public image to market himself, a paradox that is nearly impossible to escape. We all do it, particularly musicians and those of us shaped by them. Thee Hypnotics were a formidable live rock act whom I saw twice, but their obsession with Iggy Pop and the MC5 ultimately reduced their image to something derivative and dated. In 1991, legendary producer John Leckie, still weathering the fallout from working on Lawrence's magnum opus, produced their second studio album. I was entirely unaware of this. Reflecting on the period, frontman Jim Jones told Shindig :

"In the past, I’d said to people, ‘You know that BIG Phil Spector reverb… well….’ and they’d give you a tiny bit. When I said this to John he swamped the album in it…. woahhhh. He’s a proper producer.”

Forgiving bands a retro or naff public image and instead evaluating the music as a separate entity gets to the essence of what Balearic Beat is all about. Leaving no stone unturned to unearth woozy music with warmth. Music a bit like this. 

Ignore the title and get lost in the earthy organ, then let those seductive slide guitar motifs work their magic. There's even a female backing singer low down in the narcotic mix too. It feels pretty epic, but in truth isn't all that long, and marks a quantum leap for a band totally unrelated to the word lounging. 

Ultimately, Orwell and Thee Hypnotics shared the same dilemma: navigating the gap between public image and private truth. While society remains as shackled by fake narratives and wage slavery as it was in the 1930s, this track offers the ultimate escape hatch. By ignoring the band's retro posturing and letting the music exist as its own entity, you find the exact warmth and depth the Balearic spirit searches for. It is a magnificent, narcotic way to kill time in the 21st century.

  

BEATS OF LOVE 

69. The Hacienda: The Club That Shook Britain documentary

MY FATHER passed away suddenly less than a fortnight into my first ever job. Exploiting my naivety, the staff-trainer adopted the role of boss and made my confusing life even more confusing by ordering me about and making unreasonable demands. Even scolding me for crying a couple of days after my father died. It took me an age to fathom that he wasn't actually my boss and to move on from my ordeal.

However, the reason this guy still sticks in my craw is that back in late 1987 he taped house music off the radio and then in 88 drove his car to go clubbing at the Hacienda. The apex of its mythical heyday. Whilst all the while raving about Debbie Gibson. As if I was ever going to go clubbing there...

(I did eventually, but I didn't like it much.)

Architectural Review 1982

These latest talking heads promised much, as Kath and Soo are great. John Robb was always lurching about town and is normally a reliable raconteur, but he's obsessed with making punk the main driving force of this story. Nobody's expecting a Free Trade Hall BBC documentary soon.

Other than Mike Pickering, who let go of his ego to reminisce, the other pop stars took up far too much time over emphasizing their part in its backstory. The following sentence covers it; Factory owners and cult band New Order attempted to recreate NY's Funhouse in the rainy city by introducing diverse nights and acts in their club-space, that often looked even more massive and impressive when it was less than half full, which it often was.

Sure, it started in a gym in London, but the Ibiza inspired acid house phenomenon properly took off here. As Soo rightly states, its historical significance was only far-reaching because the pioneering Hot night and E helped change clubbing attitudes in the UK forever. Once the shenanigans were first exposed in the media, people all over the country suddenly wanted to dance and hug one another. Dance alone, dance with friends, dance with family, or, as was often the case, with new friends. Few of us could stretch to 25 quid for an actual E, but by simply being in Manchester, we became less predatory and more relaxed with one another. And, more inclined to dance under the influence of far cheaper drugs.

Peter Walsh

It truly had a trickle down effect and people at its epicentre like Jon Dasilva remained warm and humorous, influencing the next generation whilst even finding time to entertain folk like myself.

Everyone I got to know in the nineties through clubbing had some link back to the Hacienda. Evoking my move to a new school when, upon my arrival, the class was told a pupil's sister had sadly died. There was something bonding between these folk, so I could never begin to fully understand. Whilst I like to blame the guy from work for missing out, the truth is it was quickly over-hyped with a trendy reputation, so took flak in the music press. Being an impressionable teen, I was always unlikely to go.

I still blame him for holding back my fully fledged house music initiation, though.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m001dsm0/the-hacienda-the-club-that-shook-britain

BEATS OF LOVE 

68. A Puppet by The Mod 4

TEENAGE ALL-GIRL band The Mod 4’s career highlight came in early 1969 on the telly variety show Happening, hosted by Paul Revere and the Raiders. 

That they were beaten by pre-teenagers called Paula & The Pipsqueaks epitomizes the tragi-comic elements of pop failure that make it so fascinating. That Swiss graphic designer and record collector Ivan Liechti has unearthed a double LP's worth of similar warmly ambitious treasure for Oz label Efficient Space with a forward penned by my former guru Sonic Boom is definitely a Christmas come early. 

By the time the Beatles publicly turned their back on LSD, the damage had already been done; scientific zealotry had taken hold, Brian Wilson had lost his mind, and, introspective, more imaginative, soul searching, pop songs were big business. It's no surprise that bands immersed in LSD actually sound worse than the more youthful ones influenced by them. Billy Nicholls, being the exception. Slight misunderstandings make these teenage songs sound less velvety, saccharine, and insincere. 

The Mod 4 had money and in Nellie Hastings a songwriter who had read and listened just enough to craft a song more creatively and imaginatively than the folk she was in part imitating. Big dreams have never sounded so fragile, and the transparency of thought is its biggest charm. 

I had my own big dreams too this year, but, with the sheer quality of compilation albums coming at me, I'm happily mired in a listening mode for the foreseeable. Acting on them will just have to wait. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

67. Give It Up (Benedek remix) by RTSAK

MUCH TO love about this twelve. For a start, the sleeve feels really luxurious. 

Red hot production but less louche and sultry, Antoine, no longer strolls sockless through the cosmos. He instead dances on the daft punk coffee table to a spangled 80s rhythm. Albeit, rather coolly, placing a greater emphasis on Batiste's guitar parts and adding a pop sensibility. But still fastening himself to a load of vintage analog equipment. 

Raphaël Top-Secret brilliantly kick starts his label cachette in collaboration, adding some refreshing earth beneath his work-spars astral leanings. Consequently, creating a vibrancy that gives it more than a sprinkling of funk. The musical equivalent of offering it a smile with a loving tumbler of Mezcal.   

However, it's this remix that does it for me. Benedek created the lockdown classic Mr Goods on L.I.E.S., perfecting the future-retro grooves that folk my age find really appealing. Nodding to the raw beats of yesteryear but with a pulse that places it firmly in the now.

The funk has added elasticity, changing this neo-soul wobbler's pace, sending it flurrying, tumbler in hand, onto discerning dancefloors. I'm properly hooked.

BEATS OF LOVE

66. Hotel California (Orbitally Ambient Mix) by Jam on the Mutha 

LEE AND Mark both liked boozing, but that's where the similarity ends. 

When I first met Lee, we'd drive to remote areas and dance topless to S'Express on his car bonnet. Or punch the air in surrender to Erasure in the rougher boozers in Shaw. Like me, he was a bit of a clown. He became a postie and went from being dead chatty to totally remote over the course of a few short years. I was too young to realize unsociable working hours aren't for everyone. 

He was humiliated by the regulars who stripped him naked and threw him out of the local boozers window after his behaviour had got more bizarre, as he sadly lost his faculty to communicate. It was sad to see Lee's demise, and I later felt tremendous shame that I was too apathetic to at least attempt to force some conversation out of him. I could see clearly he was worse than unhappy. 

By 1994 I could see myself spiralling and becoming more like him, who, by this point, was sadly no longer with us. After a failed attempt at self-poisoning, I moved away. Best thing I did until I met the missus.     

I first recall seeing Mark through a police car window. I was being driven off, and he was intrigued as teenagers are. A year later, he was taking LSD with us on the local playing field. I was aware of his young age and despite going through the massive fits of laughter stage; I felt a responsibility to be there for him as the more intense stage kicked in, which it already had with me. We must've walked around that field two hundred times, and Mark never once stopped laughing. 

He still hadn't stopped laughing throughout the nineties. Or, after a trip to Ibiza, where my mate thought it would be a good idea to knock back brandy and coke in the departure lounge with him. Mark returned home in hysterics as my mate languished in a Spanish cell for two days. 

I recall being round another mate's house and Mark putting Hotel California on. A permanent pub jukebox record, but it made sense to me during a particularly scrambled session. Obviously, I prefer this Orb version, which he would say is shit. Mark, with the same wicked twinkle in his eye as his dad Terry, was definitely more of a ladies' man. 

When the Queen died, I saw him for what would be the last time. Predictably laughing until King Charles spoke on the telly and he became furious that the guys playing pool were, well, playing pool. He eyeballed me, half expecting me to break the silence he had now orchestrated, but out of respect for him, I kept quiet. I'm now glad I did. Lee didn't get the outpouring of social-media love Mark has rightly received. He would have in today's age. That love still needs to translate into a better understanding of one another.

God bless you, Lee and Mark. Your lights shine bright. 

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

18. Candy Flip: A breakfast dream was empty, and no-one took the blame 

PART 1

MY SPECIAL TOTP moments began in 1979 with Wings whose Christmas idyll played on my Grandparents' black and white telly whilst I was getting a bit bored in their company. It was both tantalizingly close and somewhat remote. And mysteriously exciting. That same formula of baffling proximity endured throughout the 80s but in colour, which made TOTP even more captivating. We all know the video hits. 

Watching an eclectic array of acts that often regularly toured on Snub TV brought everything into closer proximity, but killed a lot of mystique. The TOTP acts still seemed remote until the Roses and Mondays swaggered onto the show in 1989. These were bands that were regularly playing the International and Hacienda and not always packing them in. Bands that began fusing their attitude with an acid smiley and daisy age sensibility. It spawned a Face cover that celebrated E and really felt like a moment.   

By early 1990, house influence was ubiquitous and an unadulterated indie-dance sound crossed over into the charts. In my final year of comprehensive education in 1986, I was totally obsessed with the Beatles, so when Candy Flip's Strawberry Fields Forever began to get club play, I was buzzing. Germany's June edition of Pop Rocky magazine labelled them, without irony, 'The Beatles on Acid.' Brilliant. Primal Scream's Loaded also aired on the same TOTP when it finally charted and it felt like another important moment. 

PART 2

CANDY FLIP that same month were on the cover of Smash Hits with their cheeky name, (slang for mixing E with LSD), and played live at the legendary Konspiracy.

I was there flapping without the candy on a wonky stool most of the night. Whereas the Scream welcomed drug references Candy Flip with their unfortunate name and freshly acquired pop aspirations, began distancing themselves from the Hacienda and began talking up the Pet Shop Boys instead.

The fey aspects of C86 inherent in Candy Flip's poppy moments also carried over into the Beloved's later synth pop duo incarnation. The Beloved were more successfully wedded to an acid smiley and daisy age sensibility, but didn't chart as highly. They knew the music business inside out whereas Candy Flip dressed like fashion victims and appealed to a younger audience so started saying naff things like 'acid house might as well have been called banana house.' With an unkind UK music press quickly savaging them their quality tunes got lost in the laughter. 

A crying shame they weren't taken more seriously coz the flip side of their biggest hit, Aqua Libra, is a stunning slice of mellow piano laden goodness. Evolution on their ill-fated debut twelve still takes me to bleep heaven, throbbing in all the right places, and still sells for under a tenner. Buy it. 

Rhythm of Life is also a cheeky little play on Derrick May's masterpiece, which actually sounds cool softening those irrepressibly sexy stabs. Almost as cool as putting JB's funky drummer sample on a Beatles track. The Most Excellent mix of Redhills Road teases in the vocal, then lets it soar. Justin Robertson's remixes were prone to teasing out the vocals, which is testament to its strength.  

They deservedly got the chance to make a studio album and really embraced it. Madstock...The Continuing Adventures Of Bubblecar Fish stands up well and still plays coherently, demonstrating a fine production ear. They comprehended that they were now the weirdest boy band ever but were still subsumed in the same mellow baggy groove that made their big hit such a club moment. Pop songs that sound a bit dull and cheesy fed through videos of Danny Spencer's constant smiles actually come alive and demand much more attention in the context of this LP. Like the opposite of TOTP.   

 

Highlight, the aforementioned Redhills Road, illustrates that they were every bit as odd as Shaun Ryder, whose inane lyrics in stark contrast were lauded by the music press. Odd, but from Stoke and not Salford. So not seen as authentic. They could also concoct a more coherent and convincing form of soft psychedelic dance than the Mondays. 

I also reminisce about Oasis and how fucking over-rated their TOTP performances were, and their authenticity was, with its aggression and simplicity. And I bemoan how LSD sort of fizzled out of the scene, taking Candy Flip with it.  

BEATS OF LOVE

65. Shout (Extended Remixed Version) by Tears For Fears

CUTTING WELFARE during an economic crisis to cost tax cuts for the very richest in society.

Mis-recognizing your own little backward looking country for a superpower and then peddling all that trickle down bullshit. Slashing workers' rights to create even more profit to stash away in overseas tax avoidance schemes. Slating communism but quite liking the idea of forcing most people onto a minimum wage. Sorry, living wage.

U-Turning on animal welfare reform, clean air, sewage cover, and water quality, to concentrate solely on making money. Laws and rights are so fucking yesterday. Unsurprisingly, windfall taxing us to create a windfall for your mates. Growing nothing except your own narcissism. Collectively, a Himalayan sized growth.

Shorting the pound for hedge funds whilst making even more people sleep in hedges. Fighting fascism in the 20th century then congratulating fascists in the 21st. Free marketeering but clean ignoring the market. Heralding in a fresh new age of austerity like it's a good thing. Despite most people's pay already falling well below inflation and signifiers of abject poverty visible just about anywhere. Well, anywhere outside the Westminster bubble.

Upholding democracy to justify the world's blood on your hands, still whilst imposing this, is the cruelest of your undemocratic experiments yet. A week is a longtime in politics. Listening to Truss's many successful multifaceted attempts to be unpopular, an eternity. The Queen got out quick after a simple handshake.

Nothing even matters anymore. Insane.

BEATS OF LOVE

64. I'll Be Gone by David Budin

IT'S NO great coincidence to finally see Paul Hillery curate a couple of belting compilation LPs, (all manner of things tend to happen in two's) 

But NTS, releasing one of its own, of not too dissimilar loner folk meandering brilliance, is a really pleasant surprise. Compiled by Bruno Halper (all manner of things tend to happen in two's) & Samuel Strang, the compilation focuses predominantly on private press releases from the US and UK's golden age. 

Lovingly mastered by Geoff Pasche at Abbey Road, it sounds absolutely tip-top. I first discovered the joys of a 45rpm LP with Lazer Guided Melodies and have loved them ever since. Bravo.

Some braver folk could take out 30 quid and dare to buy better, but not me. These sounds are deeply satisfying in a deeply soulful way. They linger and live with you for a good while and none more so than this absolute peach of a tune. That mournful flute is to die for.

It initially came out to promote the opening of the Red Lyon a coffee house in New York, but like much rediscovered mellow goodness from the age it has become modern day medicine for surviving in today's deeply troubling world. Making the DJs that discover it modern day medicine men, no less. 

I could bask in its pastoral elegance forever. Or, at least until the next truly inspiring compilation LP, lands at my door. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

63. Roseblood by Mazzy Star

MORE FOLK rightly voted for Royal Mail strikes than Liz Truss. 

Her dogmatic belief in trickle-down economics is totally wrongheaded and morally bankrupt. It's not fucking rocket science; for trickle-down economics to work, pay has to be at least equal to the cost of living.

If the war in Ukraine has hiked up inflation to 40 year highs, then company profits need to be at a 40-year low to support folk through it.

But most MPs and all the mass media boffins think this is insane, which should make folk question whether or not their antiquated form of communication is still fit for purpose. It's not by the way.

Inertia, the fallout from watching the most boring political standoff in history, has probably caused the Queen's death. Antiquated form of communication has duly become the new normal on my telly. I actually quite liked the word solemnity, but after a week of its ridiculous overuse, I'll die happily, never hearing it uttered again. Ever.

We'll probably all age dramatically watching a very thick queue of people for days on end. Well, those of us who are daft enough to not switch it off.