BEATS OF LOVE

79. Every Cloud (Coastlines remix) by Simon Peter 

THERE IS a strange irony in how people attach themselves to "the tops"; that high ground where locals convince themselves they’re in Saddleworth, when they are, in fact, in Oldham just like me.

As a young girl, my mother used to walk these hills with my grandfather, in an ill-fitting trench coat. Yet, as the years passed, she grew disenchanted with the memory. Perhaps she saw me echoing him, inheriting his complete lack of ambition. 

In those days, I’d push my beloved Raleigh Fourteen up the incline toward Bishops Park, obsessively playing pitch-and-putt. Back then, I needed a prize; now, the walk itself is the reward.

My mother and uncle’s ashes rest near the monument there. Other trails may be objectively grander, but nowhere else does the earth speak to me so clearly as I try to untangle my family's ghosts.

It makes the perfect backdrop for this phenomenal four-track release. Every Cloud is a gentle, acoustic meander, elevated by Katie English’s flute, an undulating swell so light and effortless it breathes pure warmth and colour into the air. There must be something in the water at Flower Sound Studio.

But it’s this rework by the ever-reliable Coastlines that takes it to another level, weaving in steel pan and Spanish guitar. It is a masterclass in understated perfection, the ultimate soundtrack for zoning out after a freezing hill walk. As the piano ascends, I’m left in a state of absolute, eyes-closed bliss. If daily life felt this good every time the postman delivered a parcel, I’d face the end contentedly, long before they lower me into the cold ground of Moston Cemetery, into the family plot nobody else wanted.

BEATS OF LOVE 

78. History by The Verve

MUSIC IS love. 

On the day my dentist accidentally drilled a small hole in my tongue, I smiled and paid for the treatment without a quibble. Perhaps I could hear my mother's voice telling me not to be soft. More likely, I simply wanted to walk back to the tram stop, singing a timeless classic to myself, rather than replaying some trivial drama.

I liked "Mad Richard" before his competitive battle with the Gallaghers. After The Verve's support slots preceded Oasis's stratospheric success, Ashcroft seemed intent on becoming a more highly lauded frontman and songwriter, driven coz he already knew he was infinitely better. I guess he envied their lifestyle.

Suddenly, the cosmic unpredictability that made the band sound so fresh and exciting gave way to concept and planning. I wasn't remotely interested in chart positions or record sales; I assumed folk who were had little soul. Coz the first singles lifted off A Northern Soul felt deeply disappointing and soulless, I switched off. Then, they broke up.

I sat with a small pile of their records. Then, for no apparent reason, I played this track on YouTube. It has since turned into a bit of an obsession while the physical records remain untouched.

The band creates a baroque-styled, psychedelic masterpiece. It heralds a style of balladeering that the masses soon latched onto, but it does so with an outpouring of genuine soul, the very thing that had gone missing. I'm guessing the entire world already knows this song except me.

Forget William Blake; instead, surrender to the emotive delivery of these words. Ashcroft could read out his shopping list, but set inside those haunting violins with the band cradling the song so beautifully, his pain would still be transparent.

That is why music is love. It allows us to experience raw emotion on a deeply personal level. It is the reason I am swallowing a salt-water solution right now and refusing to complain. I just want one more uninterrupted listen.  

 

BEATS OF LOVE 

77. A-Side: Are Your Dreams at Night 1985 Sizes Too Big? by Graham Holliday

ACCORDING TO its blurb, the publisher behind The Grass is Green in the Fields for You shuns self-opinionated hyperbole in favour of collaboration, community, and conversation. Any book casting the Jazz Butcher himself, Pat Fish, as a catalyst for change is an absolute must-read.

Yet despite the publisher's communal intentions, author Graham Holliday relies on eyewitness accounts of an iconic, backroom Spacemen 3 gig to validate his own memories. In doing so, his blog-turned-book morphed into something far bigger than a mere concert recap.

Watching small gigs is in the main voyeuristic and only rarely a communal experience, but when it is it transcends the stadium experience coz, the acts themselves become as encompassed in it. There are no barriers, as this book testifies.

Jason has become the minor rock star he was on his way to being when I first fell under their spell. These lucky attendees saw something different. He had stood up for a start and was too young to look anything other than normal. Prompting Fish to write 'Here come your girlfriend's little brother's mates.'

The gushing praise for the band is great to read but unsurprising. That a tape is actually out there of them being booed is revelatory. Will Carruthers bitterly funny, exaggerated, and self-opinionated anecdotes sort of bring everything into better focus when counter balanced with the book's enthusiastic fanboy accounts. Holliday nails it when describing the stark divisions inside the Spacemen 3 affiliated Reverberation club. 

'Territorial regulations applied: how old you were, how you dressed, what school you went to, (or had gone to), what music you liked, who your friends were, where you lived, how you lived, maybe even how you talked, if you smoked, if you drank, or if you took drugs.'

They could apply to most clubs in the mid to late eighties. And most likely today.

Ultimately, the project is written, edited, and spearheaded by Holliday, and honestly, thank goodness for that, irrespective of the publishers' original plans. He even went so far as to include a list of what he listened to throughout the creative process. I am actually checking out some of those tracks right now.

That, to me, has been the real highlight, discovering seldom heard peripheral acts

and finding some fresh raw garage treasure in the process. And then playing Spacemen 3 records ridiculously loudly, of course.

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

19. A Mountain of One : People with love

PART ONE 

WHAT I love about getting old is reassessing a good deal of stuff and concluding that there is always some overlooked magic.

When a band fuse effects from the greats like early R.E.M. and Natural Life, yet still find a melting point to create songs that come to sound like their very own, then that band deserves high praise. Or an elongated blog piece like this. 

A Mountain of One unsurprisingly found their way onto my turntable with their very first EP. The highlight for me was the opener Ride that more than showcases their stylistic leanings. Sounding both barren and weighty, it was unashamedly AOR in an age of po-faced coolness and locks into a great groove. Like a breezier Beta Band on a good day. To get Martina Topley Bird on board, then waste her with a pointless cover of Ginny's classic Can't Be Serious was a bug-bear. I'm still not sold. 

Their second EP contains two absolute gems. Innocent Reprise actually improves a competent tune and illustrates their studio prowess. It has aged magnificently. Better still, People Without Love is a thought-provoking call-and-response anthem that treads a similar terrain to the Sandals. It shares the same energy and still sounds relevant. Rhyming couplets like these empower, whereas so much music underarm serves and weakens folk. Probably the only good thing about covid, the underarm serve masterclass, is that it brought them back together.   

Normally when a band reforms, it's for some banal reason like money, but A Mountain of One has knocked it out of the park with Stars Planets Dust Me. Their finest to date, it simply had to exist. Hard to believe it's being given away in the Rough Trade knockdowns. Folk are clearly mad not to buy it. As per usual, it has a mighty impressive roll-call of assists, Dip in the Pool being the most successful, with the mesmerising, shimmering closer Soft Landing. 

Transcending labels like synth pop, nu-disco, and Balearic, the duo retain the weight of their previous work but reach a higher altitude and consistency. Star is pop brilliance, but my personal favourite is Our Love Must Grow, which has a unique skank all of its own. Only Dennis Bovell creates something even more magical to improve the songs opener Custards Last Stand. So magical it's possibly my best buy of 2022. As per usual, A Mountain of One realise their own vision better than anyone when working the remaining songs. In fact, other than Dennis Bovell, only Swedish band Studio have been able to add something of lasting value to their music. Their version of Brown Piano deserves a blog piece all of its own. Until last year, my A Mountain of One journey ended with it.   

PART 2

IT'S PERHAPS inevitable that after releasing Institute of Joy a full decade would have to elapse to hear anything else.  

Institute of Joy had a scale of ambition that was only half realised and its mixed reviews put me off. However, for the cost of a tenner, I now have in my possession the CD with an Inspirations mix CDR, a mint copy of the vinyl EP, and a Bones picture disc. I buy a few CDs nowadays and the CDR plays ridiculously well too.  

Mo is the perfect collaborator and foil for Zeb, giving him the confidence to settle into a groove. Their explorations usually deliver the perfect blend of epic mountain top music and hypnotic space-dust. Infusing just the right amount of soul and gospel to ensure the tracks fall well short of pastiche. The album's sonic architecture is as rich as it is expressive. The Verve's sprawling, jazz infused hymns influence the mood this album creates. So many bands get linked with Pink Floyd, with most lacking any brevity to justify serious comparison. Not so A Mountain of One. They understand depth and space and have assembled a cast of talent to back up such comparison. 

Bones once reminded me of Coldplay, but now I can appreciate its rolling percussion that loosens it, and then find that all important groove. Zeb's voice soars with a textural warmth that sets it apart. Sometimes my in-built prejudices stopped me from listening properly, I guess. Fool. Like a lot of their tunes, Hail Pleasure appears happy bathed in a proggy swamp before shaking itself free with a psychedelic abandon. It's a spiritual lift for these gloomy times we live in. Even their darkest brew, a heady version of Leonard Cohen's Who By Fire, pummels the depths whilst maintaining a lightness of touch that makes the song their own. Forget PJ Harvey. 

   

Their almighty canon of work is destined for mutant radio stations to pick up in the future, somewhere.  For sure.