BEATS OF LOVE 

108. Father Stephen Doyle

MY LOCAL parish priest deserves my warmest well wishes and thanks as he sadly retires his post from ill-health. Despite the bad apples and the church's systemic failure to toss them out, the vast majority of priests still do a great service for their community. 

I first fell under Father Stephen's spell when he regaled his congregation with a warm sermon about his calling. He was young, like myself when his father died, and the dark episode convinced him to walk into the light towards the priesthood. I had some instant respect for him because of this strength of faith. All I could do was fumble around in the darkness. 

His candour and wit always temper a stiff-necked conservatism. I was privy to a lighter side of this character whilst being instructed for our wedding, when he regularly had me and the missus in teary fits of laughter. And a deep pragmaticism discussing our tribulations with the home office when I found strength through his guidance. When the health service was reluctant to assist. Later, whilst the missus was converting to the faith and in regular consultation with him, she always came home smiling despite being given a massiv, great big book to read. And that is the important thing. Despite his staunch conservatism, he still spreads joy. 

He even injected his dry wit into my mother's funeral prep when I was skirting around the houses, refusing to tell him that in all truth she was probably agnostic. His eyebrows raised playfully when he thought the word liberal was a bit of an understatement for her. Then the look of sheer relief when I told him she'd had the last rites. He loves music and sat disapprovingly as I was culling hymns from the folk mass for our wedding that I used to enjoy back in the early eighties. Unsurprisingly, during the pandemic and without his musicians, the church was full of Gregorian chanting. It was brill and so utterly Father Stephen. 

I will miss his high mass, even with the incense peppering my eyes, because it always felt like entering a sacred, timeless space. His theological sermons, which skilfully balanced cautionary warnings with brilliant stand-up comedy, did more than just entertain me; they challenged my thinking and re-shaped how I view faith. Even his long, unfashionable Eucharistic prayers became anchors of deep reflection in my week. I will miss them deeply because, in a changing world, they probably won't come back, but the impact of those moments will stay with me forever.

BEATS OF LOVE 

107. Thousands Are Sailing by The Pogues

CANCER AND my OU studies hit simultaneously, splitting my life into a clear before and after.

Before that, my identity was clear-cut: a far-left Roman Catholic, but thoroughly English. Case in point: choosing to watch Frank Sidebottom instead of The Pogues at Reading in 1989. While I knew I had Irish and Welsh roots, they felt entirely foreign. That changed with my studies, which have completely resurrected my distant past and rewritten my present.

My grandmother and her Irish mother and my aunt (taken into the home after her mother died) all lived with my grandfather. A Heyside native, surrounded by family. During the Depression, they all had to make the walk from Shaw to Chadderton for their state handouts. Two of her brothers died. Two of the seventy-six million who perished in those two wars. She, like me, was a cancer survivor. Yet, retaining dignity and containing sorrow, she remained a pivotal part of the church community.

Despite being highly intelligent, my grandmother was thrown into the mill at fifteen. It partly explains why her children were so keen to iron out their Irish and Welsh ancestry and progress up the social ladder. Selflessly, she propelled them forward. Remaining the beating heart of my mother's life, she missed her son dearly when he relocated. When she had a big jackpot win, she gave half back to the church and split the remaining half amongst her two children. Keeping nothing for herself. I can only imagine what a great example had been set for her. Even in death, kicking against the hospital bed posts with the pain of kidney failure, she was defying the odds.

This mighty song understands transformation through hardship. Sung with warm grit and deep kinship to Philip Chevron’s poetic lyrics, it speaks to me through this remarkable woman, the daughter of those we casually call refugees.

 BEATS OF LOVE 

106. Danger Dub by Panda Bear / Sonic Boom

I DEEPLY regret letting my dark moods and false ideas about authenticity drive me to be numb during my free time. It took my focus away from my true passion: my love for music.

Many albums I listen to feel incomplete or overworked. I see the problem, but I cannot fix it. Luckily, Adrian Sherwood is producing this record, and he fixes it. Giving it space to breathe. 

I have struggled to connect with Animal Collective records ever since the masterpiece that was Sung Tongs. That album balanced troubled Brian Wilson-style harmonies with genuinely thrilling experimentation. By the time they toured Feels, however, those same vocal arrangements just started grating on me.

I felt the same resistance toward the Panda Bear and Sonic Boom collaboration, Reset. On paper, their equal partnership promised so much, but the final product felt too constrained by its own pursuit of perfection. It is a frustrating listen: tracks like Danger are packed with brilliant hooks and clever 1950s vocal samples, yet the overall result ends up sounding a bit too artificial and saccharine.

Thankfully, Sherwood reinterprets the project and, whilst retaining the vocals, he isn't afraid to chop them up and create something looser, less constrained by concept and, on this track, especially upbeat. I'm in skank heaven coz those brilliant hooky moments are captured, but thankfully, with less coherence and fresher sounding instrumentation. It repudiates the notion that a new psychedelia has to sound futuristic. It simply doesn't, it just needs to be creatively exciting. 

I also regret that such an optimistic vibrancy wasn't around decades ago. Perhaps my moods wouldn't have been so dark.   

BEATS OF LOVE 

105. Love & Hate in a Different Time (Greg Wilson & Che mix) by Gabriels

WHEN I was younger, every other weekend threw up some dark art shit. Now, with the wisdom that comes with age on my side, it has become a bi-annual event, throwing everything momentarily up in the air. The horror is not knowing how it's going to land.

Last year it was traversing the line between being with folk that liked me whilst being in the same company as folk who hated my guts. I ended up with the folk who hated my guts, and then the dark art shit happened.

This year I thought 'great, finally, no weird dark art shit' but then my kitchen roof began dripping water. Less than a week later, I now know how sophisticated, calculating, and facilitated by Google rogue traders have become as I've shelled out a small fortune to have even more damage done to my old roof. Google not only guarantees their labour but points folk toward articles that call it an emergency. Inviting panic and poor judgement. 

The day after I felt violated and stupid and guilty coz that money could've put some big smiles on my missus face. I have acted on the advice of the CAB more as a tick-box exercise coz already the bankrupt business site credentials used to procure my custom are already down with another up and running. I suppose there's no end to bankrupt business web pages online. Would I have paid this stupidity tax to not instead scare myself in front of daytime telly so I could do things I enjoy? Definitely. I would, however, have rather paid it weekly rather than in one inconvenient, untimely lump sum. I can spare folk daytime telly hell by saying the words Trustpilot and Martin Lewis. 

That this rogue trader passed me the parcel that contained this beauty means I can almost forgive him. Almost being the operative word. 

BEATS OF LOVE

104. The Refuge  

SO I finally took the missus to this much loved behemoth after falling for the charms of the Midland and more local restaurants since quitting the tabs. 

I felt bemused when Roberto ordered a meal in the Woodstock way back in the mid-nineties on a Saturday afternoon during a comedown session. I thought everyone was still out partying. To say I'm late to the party is an understatement, but I've become a bit of a foodie myself. Meaning I can be both critical of the missus' cooking or full of praise coz being experimented on is unpredictable. She likes to 'try things out,' so dining out is nearly always safer despite the missus getting better all the time.  

It was that madly busy time when tea-time drinkers were finishing and evening revellers started out when we arrived. Abigail, whom I didn't notice with her tidied up hair and glasses, was hammering out classics like Rufus & Chaka Khan's Ain't Nobody (Hallucinogenic Version) and I was worrying about ambience in the dining room, which was just round the corner. We had a table booked. 

The bar staff were mega-friendly and informed me of the city's current rentals. It priced me out in the late nineties and am now more than happy to commute by tram after hearing these mad charges. By the time our table was ready, the music's tempo had slowed significantly. There is an art to bar DJing that I didn't comprehend, which also explained why the speakers were in the centre of the main space. 

Everything is on a massive scale. The ridiculously high atrium ceiling, the vast, expansive walkways and the huge pillars. Then the menu presents us with these disarmingly small shared dishes. Locally sourced highlights of which were the Pollen Bakery's sourdough bread that blended brilliantly with the Padrón peppers. Having never been to Spain, something instead reminded of the rustic, intimate charms of Tuscany. Our choices diverged with the main, but came together when we both shared broccoli, ssamjang, and kimchi. Like everything Nigerian, the Kimchi gets cooked longer when the missus prepares it, so its more flavoursome Korean taste pleasantly surprised me. She only conceded it smelt nicer. 

Everything we ate was a taste sensation and, unlike a tapas or sushi restaurant, these exciting hits were global. It was only fitting that we ended the night in Diggle, tucking in to Grandpa Greene’s raspberry flavoured ice cream. Abigail was still in her own musical world as we left.  

Next time, we’ll likely book the equally impressive Kimpton Clocktower. We’ll pass on the music concierge, though. Has nobody seen Shoreditch Twat? It’s comedy gold for a reason. Regardless, we’ll definitely be back.

BEATS OF LOVE 

103. Moloko Island LP by Mike Salta & Mortale

FROM 1964 until 2006, there was a consensus about what constituted the charts. Linked to its flagship Thursday night show TOTP, it was every British pop star's dream to get into the BBC top 40 to stand a chance of appearing in it. For that reason, the Sunday evening countdown was exciting. 

The show fizzled out after a decade-long decline since moving to Fridays in 1996. The chart itself became meaningless. Pop stars are now ubiquitous and can express themselves on social media all year round. Amassing likes for posting pictures of their dinner loses a lot of the mystique that made them so fascinating in the past. 

That said, it liberates the fan from caring about such superfluous detail and invites a deeper listening experience. TOTP could make or break careers. I was quite taken with Babylon Zoo until I saw a po-faced TOTP performance then distanced myself from it completely. You could banter about it whilst being conscious of the indie charts because it was an axis point. Like talking about the footy scores. Now I am resigned to blogging coz nobody in my real world actually cares about the things that fascinate me. Like reading Sonic Life by Thurston Moore.

Or deciding that this LP is a masterpiece. The tracks are great heard individually, but make much more sense together. The cover is super too and complements the music brilliantly. I can't differentiate between standout tracks coz the quality is so high. It plays coherently and really suppresses its disco, funk, and Tropicália influence to infuse something calmer and more soothing. Whilst maintaining those highly distinct flavours. No mean feat.  

All you need to know in this world of insignificant charts is this whole LP is this week's number one. And next weeks. 

https://musicfordreams-mikesalta.bandcamp.com/album/moloko-island

BEATS OF LOVE 

102. Now and Then by The Beatles

MARRIAGE IS hard, especially interracial. Seemingly innocuous words linger for months, building a storehouse of resentments. We pretend all is well, for admission would require trust in others, those who might not be what they should be.

It is in this wilting state of hurt and mistrust of others that I listen to this re-polished Lennon demo from 1977. The ultimate marriage breakup of a band finding the technology to enhance something rough and real, transforming it into something soaring and beautiful. Whilst losing a little tenderness. 

Yet, by the third listen, you inevitably wonder how John and George would react. What innocent phrases would trigger old tensions and fuel their already deep-seated resentments? They certainly would react, as the track feels far too syrupy and completely lacks the sparse, magical quality of a true Beatles record.

Their marriage was well and truly over. John was defiant on earth and is probably fighting ELO fans who are in Beatle heaven listening to it.   

That said, it is still the best footnote of a single 2023 offers. I really hope and pray that my marriage begins to re-bloom in its afterglow. 

BEATS OF LOVE

101. Paused in Cosmic Reflection by The Chemical Brothers with Robin Turner

I BOUGHT this coffee-table book without owning a coffee table. No regrets. Jim and Emma beautifully unpack the legendary pieces of Manchester folklore, and their perspective does not disappoint.

I'd always been a bit of a fanboy and I only attempted to integrate into the more elitist Balearic clubs when I became obsessed with Justin's remix of Sea of Beats. Ariel were brilliant and possibly too hip for their own good. Their death knell was rejecting Tom's groundbreaking Song to the Siren. It instead became the Dust Brothers' debut single and rightly gets analszed at length. Moonboots turned me onto it and it blew the roof off the Boardwalk when Weatherall played it. 

I surrendered to them DJing inclusively in and around Manchester countless times and even travelled as far as London. Before it went suddenly from music to spectacle, from jovial banter to a studied, cool conversation. I think they were aware of their trajectory even if I wasn't, as a protective ring formed around them. 

Tom’s honest and illuminating insights are eye-opening. For years, I traded my time for warehouse shifts. Reading his words, I deeply admire how he protected his time to pursue lasting passions. He maintained absolute grace and integrity while co-masterminding a shared, unspoken musical abandon. That warehouse is rubble now.

Ed always had an easier charm but comes across as deep and analytical, which again surprises. I should've guessed he was mixing in Acid Jazz circles coz he wore really nice hats. Jonno recognises the key to their success when he cites them as being at the epicentre of clubs I was in. I was too self-obsessed to notice their gravitational pull, or too lost in Justin's music. What is apparent is how phenomenal they look in these pictures. 

I recall wincing when they said in an early Face interview that they wanted to inhabit their own world like the Beastie Boys. It's still a naff thing to say, but as this book testifies repeatedly, that's exactly what they've achieved. And it feels surprisingly good to be let into it. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

100. Passion by Taffy 

THE PROBLEM with having a lot of vinyl is you lose track of it. When Sam Don dropped his latest compiled offering for Athens of the North, I was in forgiving mode. 

His last one encountered a licensing issue, so got re-released with a brilliant record he sold me ages ago. Byron Walker & Sandra Edwards pumping lovers cover of Don't Look Any Further. That's the problem with rare records. The ones you haven't got are easy to justify buying when they turn up on comps, but the ones you already have, you privately wince to see them popularised. 

When I heard the sound-clips for his UK Street Soul comp Just A Touch, I felt lucky to have owned a few already and deceived myself into thinking I also owned this. After a few weeks, I decided I wanted to spin it but couldn't locate it. Excited days later, I then finally found the white label I thought it was and put it on the turntable. It started at pace so I turned it over only to find it still at pace, which shouldn't be happening. I then changed the speed just to realise there was no Balearic soul at all dripping out of the speakers, just a faster paced stepper. 

The only Taffy record in my shelves was a mid eighties Italo-Disco number that plays like a pop of guilty pleasure. Massiv synths and vocals. I'm still not convinced that this understated masterpiece is the same person singing. To now have it on the turntable is special coz it's an incredible tune. No wonder the prolific sun-kissed DJ David Pickering has given its sultry throbs an airing.  

Course I'm in forgiving mode coz Sam has once again hit proper digging pay-dirt. I'm embarrassed to realise I thought I owned a record this good, but didn't. Cloth ears strikes again.   

 

BEATS OF LOVE 

99. The Love Revolution (Justin Robertson's Scream Team Remix) by Yargo

MY PARENTS had an off-license in Middleton in the late seventies. I'd be about eight and playing footy around the back of a neighbouring chippy when 'woof,' I somehow skied the ball and smashed an upstairs window. I sort of froze with the undamaged ball in my hands whilst everyone else disappeared sharpish. And said that it was me that smashed their window, when the owners bolted towards me. 

The bottom line was I owed them about thirty quid, and my parents suggested I knock on doors and offer my services. (A seemingly more innocent age.)

Whilst everyone else was playing out and enjoying their hols, I was digging up weeds for buttons. I even had the stupid idea of knocking on the local nunnery. Then spent a full morning being put to use gardening just to be given chocolate biscuits. Therein lay the problem. I hadn't pitched my services properly. I think in the end I handed my parents a tenner and the problem from that point on simply disappeared coz when I woke up next morning an envelope was beside the bed with thirty quid in. 

A pleasant twist of fate; the people I’d worked for turned incredibly friendly, especially the nuns. My envelope even the bowled over the chippy owner. It was my first taste of respect, and I loved it.

Yet, abandoning my helpless eight-year-old self felt inevitable. Just as it was inevitable that this magnificent anthem would find me years later. Its message of solidarity and positivity altered my life's course, happily guiding me right back to that same child.

BEATS OF LOVE 

98. Headache by Grouper

RUNNING THROUGH the farmhouses on Red Hill with my mate's older brother, giving chase was exhilarating and once off the path and running across open field, I could easily picture my dead body, left, concealed beneath the long, reedy blades of grass. 

By the time I was eventually caught, all he delivered were a few weak kicks at my scrunched up body. I thought there and then that living in my imagination was more fun than anything reality could offer.

It was just as well. By the time my orthodontist, Mr Bogues, finished his assessment, my evenings were spent sitting patiently with a red, greyhound-style brace clamped around my face, waiting for my teeth to straighten. Barred from entering normal mid-adolescence, I retreated into a world of records, playing them every Sunday night on my imaginary radio show.

By the time he showed me his success with the before and after moulds, my hooter had sprouted both across and out of my face. A face now riddled with at least four red boils at any one time. No wonder I continued with my imaginary radio show and, in essence, still do. Escapism has never left me.

'So', asks nobody at all, 'what is the best record you've bought this week?' This haunting beauty, I reply. A record I should've bought in 2016 but didn't. Thankfully repressed in time for the duvet months. Enjoy. 

     

BEATS OF LOVE 

97. Supa Kool by Mr Fingers

AGEING CAN be great. If you do it properly, by taking a leaf out of Saint Anthony of Padua's book. Who stated wisely:

 'Consider every day that you are then for the first time beginning; and always act with the same fervour as on the first day you began.' 

The tragedy of aging is often a mental ossification, where stubborn dogmas supplant active living and invite despair. The resulting gloom on many elderly faces reflects the heavy, subconscious burden of pretending to know everything.

Propaganda is nothing but a calculated lie and, thanks to social media, it pretty much dictates what riles us. Whether we're buying fake news or opposing it. We've witnessed a complete clusterfuck of Conservative policies and are still sloshing about in a state of false consciousness. Unable to recognise the face of our oppressor. Thankfully, I've now switched off and decided humans don't evolve. What I probably thought aged five.  

When I was living with my kid sister, our housemate was properly middle-class. She had a part-time job that paid more than my full-time job and an allowance on top. I never used the phone, but spoke to my mother when my sister was on the phone. Anyway, we get this bill and our housemate said she didn't recognise some pretty pricey numbers and wanted it split between us.

My sister, being softer natured than me, said she'd oblige, but I snuck into her room and rifled through her things until I found a pad with these numbers. When I confronted her, she soon-after packed off and left saying she didn't feel secure in my company. Her posh family looked at me like I was a thief. It then formed my belief that people with money and easy access to lawyers are not to be trusted. A belief that I still hold today. 

But I know I must let go of such rigid ideas about politics and class to truly live with the fervour of a fresh new beginning. In the meantime, I almost convince myself that I'm beginning already by surrendering to this beauty and losing myself in time and space. 

BEATS OF LOVE

96. Scorpio Rising (The Scientist Mix) by Death in Vegas with Liam Gallagher

WOKE UP up feeling lost at sea. Then had to sweep a Massiv dead pigeon into a bin bag and felt even worse.

That sudden chill when you know you've got two dozen working weeks ahead and you already feel totally knackered after just one. The regret you feel at frittering away all your holidays in a summer that's pouring with rain. Then you bang on this and everything brightens up.

Life in technicolour even. And the sun even comes out giving me a whole day of clear blue sky. If ever Noel's trite Status Quo styling is used to sound gratingly like The Beatles, it's here. The original version sounds too self-consciously aware of this and so creeps about like a non-poisonous snake. The genius that is The Scientist strips away a lot of those superfluous psychedelics and decides that adding keys and vibraphone with toasting over Liam's Lennonesque drawling works best. And it does. General Jah Mikey steals the show, demonstrating that sometimes suspect ideas work really well.

You could roll a big one, or you could do what I do and find your escape in the garden, reaching for the trowels while lost in its reggae skank. Music has always been my lifeline. It is no longer just a hobby; it's the final barrier between me and absolute chaos, recharging my soul the moment Massiv dead pigeons test my patience.

BEATS OF LOVE

95. Something in the Air by Me

The grazing sheep, the divisive red-stone brick
Of a mill-town anger—or is it just innovation stifling the air?
Why commonwealth cousins sailed across a body-filled ocean
Owing to the starkest decisions, and ripping, and killing—

Yet as they landed, the mad sixties swung,
With such wild force, curlers flew like chaff.
And our flush cotton kingdom plunged and died.

Now, rival factions from the terraces
Stand bound in quiet, micro-veiled assault,
Before they vanish in the millennial smog.

All eyes turn to the scapegoats of the screen,
Whom they once baited on the public air,
Now answering back with that same carmine rage—
Like the inflamed suffragette hardening her stance,
To shield the bedrock of a basic right.

BEATS OF LOVE 

94. Honey Sanba by Katsuyuki ItakuraTrio

AS AN ex smoker I'm constantly plagued by smoking dreams where I'm puffing away in a state of contentment, only to wake up in a guilty cold sweat. Before thankfully realising that was another life. 

A life of unfathomably long bus commutes to get me to work and back. It's little wonder I subconsciously recall the often torn brown and orange stitching on the upstairs seats where I puffed away far more than the nightlife that first drew me into the metropolis. 

For four years, my kid sister encouraged me to try a new life there, but the fear of being too broke to buy records stopped me. I finally went to live in my mate's back bedroom. My job was intact and now much nearer to home. 

When I was being made redundant (22 years after I'd hoped), it seemed like all that record buying would permit me the chance to own a little vinyl cafe. When the redundancy finally happened, covid was happening and then when it wasn't, the cost-of-living crisis happened. I figured only a reckless dreamer would pursue such a risky endeavour. Not me then. 

A life of unfathomably tough 3am starts keeps me in my current job, but I still count all my many blessings. Like buying brilliant records like this. A solid, physical anchor in a life no longer built on smoke.

BEATS OF LOVE 

93. Hold Me Now (Extended) by Thompson Twins

I WORE my late father’s wedding ring until 2010, when a swollen finger meant it had to be cut off. 

I gave it to my ex to hold onto while I planned to reshape it into my own wedding band. She pawned it. Though that betrayal should have been the end, I didn't find the strength to leave until I had a profound conversation with my mother’s partner. It remains deeply poignant to me that these two men, my father through his legacy, and my mother’s partner through his support, instrumentally shaped the decision that allowed me to finally move on.

I cannot multitask. If I had to balance everything, SFH would have ended. Its ten-year survival, with only one bad day of online abuse, is entirely thanks to the missus. She accepts my slow pace but is now holding me to my promise to sell records again. I used post-Brexit complications as an excuse to stop. Once that's sorted, we even plan to host occasional club nights.  

Detached from my story, I sometimes look at my life from a distance, needing a reminder of my history. I remember the dark-haired version of me, cradled through anxiety by my mother and kid sister. That grace never faded, outlasting my youth and surviving my mother’s death. Now, backed by my missus’s fierce and unflinching faith, I should be invincible. While men guided me through my opening chapter, it is the women who authored my future. 

Here is to the women in my life, to this fresh new chapter. Let loving start.

 

BEATS OF LOVE

92. Slam Dunk Funk by Future Perfect

 LAST NIGHT in the late summer evening sun, the magic happened. 

Without headphones and in the main just picking up records in serendipitous fashion, I got in the zone and built things up brilliantly. I should be coz I've been doing it for nearly 40 years. There were many satisfying moments, but picking this up and playing it after roughly two-thirds of Herbert's People That Make the Music was blissful and kept me dancing.  

Yes, dancing. I'm all for a mix that locks two tracks together and takes the dancefloor somewhere surprising, but I'm not that keen on the seamless join, at least not if the DJ is locked in their headphones for about two whole minutes to perform it. They could be dancing and enjoying themselves while still keeping their dancefloor happy. Or in my case, my conservatory plants.

This record, dating back to 1995, had been totally forgotten, and I fully anticipated it spoiling the magical mood I had created. But for reasons outside my understanding, I played it anyway and was supisingly enriched. I love its extrasensory layers. It's subtler and sparser than I imagined it would be, and, in that moment, without the aid of mixing or filtering it, it totally slayed me and my houseplants.

I once bought into the DJ as shaman and the ritualistic reverie of their followers. Now, aging alongside my houseplants, I see the limits of that myth. I finally understand why my neighbour mowed his lawn instead of appreciating my hand-claps and musical alchemy. The bastard!