HALF TERM REPORT

MASSIV HATS off to Jason Boardman (again) for having the guts to start a label and another top drawer one, at that.

2 total gems in one mailer and I need never play my mighty J-Walk Mellotronique cassette again. Its mid 90s whacked out compilation cover affectations don't quite fit the unhurried reggae vibe and soulful summer stabs of the music and have been replaced by super sunnier fresh artwork that do. Dylan Woodall take a bow. If anything is going to wean me off my recent roots fix, it's revisiting this.  

I was more than a little gutted I missed out on the Tungusku promo but 'them's the breaks.' Before I Die is buy on sight. And memo to self 'check its social media pages more often.' 

A Torn Sail live CD is obviously a work of wonder and something I thought I'd actually dreamt up while I waited for it to arrive. It's reassuring to know there are enough devotees to make good shit like this actually happen. And enhance it. Cheers BJ Smith for making Coastal and Treasure sound both subliminal and important. They are. However, Mud People is even better still. Whether this CD is showcasing these less restrained new cuts or Jim's sparky inclusion is inconsequential. Just be highly thankful for it.   

Matt Timms has turned me onto my dream pop fix for the summer. Acopia's Chances is a spell-blindingly addictive listen. And looks superb too. Like all the best groups, this trio place you firmly in their world. A world of redemptive pleasures and pains. A world I'm more than a little at home in. Sheer bliss. 

Staying down under some wild reissues have landed. The stunning Efficient Space label has presented us with Hydroplane's Busy is Good  LP. A more experimental dream pop sound that cradles MBV and VU's light touch moments into  something truly ethereal and feather-light yet at the same time mesmerising. A definite grower. Strangelove, not to be outdone, released Mindgames, Sjunne Ferger's masterpiece. Check Candlelight for some of the most meditative and transcendental new wave to ever surface. 

Om's incredibly dubby Older Brother From The Rock also got a timely reissue on the quality Sound Metaphors label and closer Brother That (Om Beats) is sending me off to head-nod heaven. 

One of Moonboots rarest finds Wilderness America: A Celebration Of The Land also saw light of day. Austrian label Ebalunga!!!'s 4. 7th Anniversary Edition doesn't disappoint. Choice cut Metropolis features luminaries from the gospel and jazz world; Walter Hawkins, Harvey Mason, Mike Melvoin, and Lee Ritnour. Yet their folk-funk resistance keeps getting ignored and admired in an unequal measure throughout the ages. Admire it, it's a record of rare beauty.

Harry Harrison's riveting read Dreaming in Yellow: The Story of the DiY Sound System triggers me to crave nostalgia but also makes some generalisations that sit uneasily. I vividly recall Glastonbury 1990 and the excitement of finding anything resembling house music playing whilst getting ripped off continuously. I finally got high after a traveller type fell off his bike and sold me some litmus paper. I was definitely more Venus nightclub than Derbyshire quarry, but hardly a fashionista. Clubland was elitist for sure, but the freedom of ritualistic dancing under the starry night and hazy daylight in a time escaping trance became as limiting as real life itself.  

Unlike Harry, I failed to communicate with God when accidentally sampling Ketamine and was instead stuck on a bus for endless hours. Slender wires connected to both my left eye and the bus's front window put me in a state of constant friction by the toing and froing of passengers. Causing me to inner scream in a private anguish. 

Gordon King's signed copy of When Does the Mind-Bending Start? is in the post. Also, an apt title for my skirmish with Ketamine but thankfully definitely something to look forward to. 

BEATS OF LOVE

60. Little Lies by Fleetwood Mac

TO PREPARE for the first visit from the missus’s nephew and his lovely family since their move to Abu Dhabi, I meticulously painted the house and safely tucked away my vinyl collection. 

Things started beautifully. Despite my brutal 3:00 am work schedule, the arrival was a success: the young boys loved my vintage Tonka toy, got lost in their video games, and I even caught the Open highlights before cheerfully sending them off to bed.

 

The trouble began the following evening. Still running on those ungodly 3:00 am starts, I entertained the boys on "auto-pilot" rather than sleep. After a walk in the blistering heat, I prepped our suntrap of a back garden to serve up restaurant-quality fish and chips. Unfortunately, the heat proved too much for our guests. We retreated to our tiny living room, where the atmosphere instantly turned awkward.

Thinking fast, the missus suggested sweeping the front driveway, moving the wheelie bins, and dining in the shade. It worked. Despite being utterly exhausted, I was pouring drinks and keeping the conversation flowing. Sensing a triumph, my wife, keen to seal our hosting reputation, invited two more guests, meaning the cooking continued.

That is when the wheels came off. By 8:00 pm, a sudden, fierce breeze kicked up. I walked into the living room to find horror: my pristine, colour-coordinated 7-inch records had blown off the Kallax shelves and scattered everywhere, looking exactly like potential children's toys. Delirious with fatigue, I snapped. The boys had graduated from sliding my Tonka toy to hammering it against the floor, so I sharply confiscated it while desperately trying to shelve the records. 

Immediately, another gust blew an even larger pile onto the floor. More vinyl was on the ground than on the shelves, including a highly valuable rarity. Panicking, I completely forgot about my guests and began scrambling on the floor. I slammed the back door shut, finally bringing a hush to the room, and spotted the missing prized record safely wedged under the sofa.

Relief washed over me, but the damage was done. My frantic meltdown had broken the evening. Everyone began making excuses and left, including our mortified visitors, who hastily checked into a hotel. Not wanting to trigger the missus further, I just replayed this comforting song in my head and sheepishly sloped off to bed.

Naturally, my body clock woke me up at 1:45 am. Lying there under the wafting air conditioning, I had plenty of time to think. I’d successfully protected my vinyl, but I’d utterly wrecked the visit. If anyone knows how to salvage a marriage and an international family relationship before sunrise, I’m all ears.

BEATS OF LOVE 

59. Rough Road by Telford Nelson 

LIKE MANY suburban reprobates in 80s Britain, the band Culture marked my initiation into the satisfying warmth of roots reggae via listening to Peel.

Joseph Hill's sweet voice and their wondrous harmonies on creations such as Holy Mount Zion and I'm All Alone in the Wilderness have since lullabied me to sleep after many marathon sessions. 

Nowadays, with marathon sessions a thing of the past, I can fully appreciate these harmonies far more as I capture a truer sense of the deep spirituality at the heart of roots reggae. That sounds not unlike a musical bible when played well.  

Telford Nelson was a latecomer to the Culture stable and his input passed me by, but this solo effort is simply magnificent. This track was voiced for producer and long-time friend Sonny Thomas in 1990. Its sparse Digi-rhythm is more in the vein of Latin Quarter's wonderful cod-reggae than of the classic ensemble mould. But every single note well and truly hits the spot.  

On a warm sunny evening after a long shift of work when the temptation to pop open the fizz at Boris Johnson's predictable departure is strong, I instead steady myself and put this song on the stereo. And let its sun-kissed majesty interplay with the clear night sky. As a result, I now feel less pensive, much calmer, clearer headed, and more hopeful about many things than I would be by necking back the fizz.  

I'm saving that bottle for a different relief, specifically for when we finally find the collective strength to vote the Tories out for good. Until then, Nelson’s harmonies are the perfect remedy.

BEATS OF LOVE

58. Dub the Right Way by King Tubby & Soul Syndicate

BEEN IN a dub-reggae wormhole all week, which is no bad thing at all. 

Reading King Tubby's biography by Thibault Erengardt was hard wearing as much of it could've been succinctly labelled 'credits are still a contested field.' And condensed onto a solitary line.

Why you'd proceed with a biography when everyone who was anyone has told you to jog on is a mystery. That said, without Tubby's studio in 18 Dromilly Avenue and his sonic architecture, a lot of these egotists now arguing or demanding royalties would sound second rate.

Blood and Fire records were second only to Steve Yates in satisfying my mid-90s dub-reggae cravings and revisiting the highlights of their impressive catalogue whilst keeping one eye on the tennis has been a blast. Yabby U's and the Scientist comps are noteworthy, but this tune has had the most repeat plays. 

That the Scientist is claiming it as his own whilst rubbishing the Blood and Fire imprint is symptomatic of the contested field I alluded to earlier. That I can hear a bit of him in this tune is also problematising, as it actually gives some weight to his claim. 

With hindsight, Betram Brown's Freedom Sounds label could barely afford a semi-retired Tubby but released some sublime roots. Roots by acts like the Soul Syndicate who Tubby's studio unquestionably turned inside out by teasing Rod Taylor's sweet voice in an out of their deeply hypnotic mix to reinvent them as dub practitioners par excellence. 

In the mid-90s, Tubby was the main selling angle and everyone seemed happy being affiliated with him, but nowadays his assistants are rightly lauded in their own right, so have more to gain than lose by setting the record straight. Or lying. 

Whatever, I'm just thankful that dub-reggae was created as it properly chills me out. Amen.