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.