BEATS OF LOVE 

138. The Drift by deary 

 

THAT CAPITALISM survived communism is no surprise. It's less theoretical and lends itself to corruption. Communism was a big ask and a big threat, which is why we had a social democratic society. 

Meaning there was less nepotism and cronyism and more education and opportunity. Now, with the end of the cold war, there is a complete inattention to the plight of everyday folk as unimaginative politicians inflate their own egos and get obsessed with one another. 

It's why Starmer can go from socialism to something that could be mistaken for the Sunak era in a few short months. It's why populism, the last throw of the dice in any democracy, is so popular. Its ideas, values and tenets are malleable. Another unspoken truth is that everyday folk are a bit like politicians. Creating a low-cost world with mass consumerism, meaning that they can also unimaginatively inflate their own egos and get obsessed with one another. 

Despite still having slavery in its DNA, this unchecked capitalism has now become the new religion. Reagan, by exhausting Russias wealth pool, created an oligarchy. And not just in Russia. A politician's role is now to serve that whilst trying to serve the low-cost world we create. Meaning that only the very richest feel any gains. Something similar occurred during the late Roman Empire. When its ideas, language, and culture took hold elsewhere while it became obsessed with lying and deceiving the everyday folk in its care. 

It's why another part of the world with more imagination and integrity holds the key to moving humanity forward. One not so lost and confused in its own self.  

BEATS OF LOVE

137. Bigger & Closer (Not Smaller & Further Away) by David Hockney 

IT WAS with trepidation that I entered the Aviva studio, thinking I was going to see another three-hour show. The last time I went, I saw Laurie Anderson. As compelling as elements were, it was sprawling in over indulgence and went on far too long.

My relief was palpable as I discovered two of the three hours my missus had allotted to this were actually in the bar. The last time I saw Hockney in Manchester was his photographic exhibition, that left me a little cold. I like to see the artist's hand in the work, so I was even less drawn to this. 

However, despite massive reservations, once I found my perch aloft, I became drawn in and mesmerised. Aviva for once made perfect sense as its vast space became awash with a vibrancy that was both colourful and high spirited. I couldn't help but do a bit of people spotting as my eyes scanned the dominant spaces and saw miniature people sat to attention, laid back with their phones, lent against walls, sprawled out on the floor, and knelt down playfully. It very much had a festival flavour. 

Lightroom's masterstroke is having Hockney's distinctively northern voice making pithy comments to guide us through his work with a sense of great purpose. An advantage he has over Van Gogh for sure is this artistic control. Artist Chanje Kunda noted that this gave the work an African flavour by evoking oratory art traditions perfected by the elders and passed down through generations. It certainly gives the exhibition its sense of reverence that means there's no casual banter, allowing the spoken word and image to coalesce. Prompting us to ask, 'are we seeing the work through Hockney's eyes or our own?' Probably our own. That said, the method helps us reach a better level of understanding his work without scrunching our faces in brain ache. 

What came to life for me were the photographs I had dismissed. Possibly because they lend themselves to reproduction, or most likely because I now know what foregrounding time and perspective means. Hockney is a great entry point for this type of installation, as his use of colour is joyful. His big themes, water, spring, theatre; dramatic. It's a great appetizer, as I'm surely not alone in wanting to view more of his actual work now. There is a great big book near the entrance, a more comprehensive catalogue of his oeuvre with a £4500 price tag. I'm guessing it's still there.   

I have my reservations about future installations working as well, but the three-year effort to realize this blockbuster art show needs commending. A blockbuster  art show in Manchester. That's a first.  

BEATS OF LOVE 

136. On a Sunday by Nick Heyward

FINDING ONE'S way home after the party was always difficult and on more than one occasion, I needed neighbours to carry my body through the door. 

One particular dark episode, I was Sunday strolling home, away from my good mate Bob's party where I'd just made the best of playing his records and was singing Candi Staton to myself when I bumped into my workmate Tim. A guy who'd just literally just gambled his house away. Convinced the national wank a lottery would save him, only it didn't. 

Inviting him back to my mother's house to share a whisky was a bad idea. To then invite the more excessive remnants of the party, Bob's pal Nick amongst them, an even badder one. Finally, returning home on the Monday, I had my copy of this, the single I'd bought off Tim more out of pity as I already had one and a David Holmes single bought from Vinyl Exchange. On the face, just an ordinary Monday.

All I recall after my ill-fated stroll home, though, is one guy leaving and returning with strips of what he said was his granny's medication. The particular strip I bought only finished on Tuesday at work and lead to me collapsing, needing a stomach pump. On my hospital departure, I recognized some faces congregating outside and learned that Nick had died. 

My time with Nick was sketchy, to say the least. We'd been totally out of it and on every other occasion it would've been a laughing matter. We parted ways upon my angry mother's return home on the Monday afternoon like naughty schoolboys, yet before Tuesday teatime he had died. Everyone, except those closest to him, was happy to buy into this myth of me leading him astray. I'm naturally prone to guilt, but eventually forgave myself, as being blamed is my burden to carry. 

I guess it's only natural to preserve the best possible version of somebody when consigning them to memory. Tim, too, has sadly died, but not before finding family joy. I just hope he and Nick have found their way home.

BEATS OF LOVE 

135. Ultra Violet by Mark E

I HARK back to the hours, sat on cold floors listening to blokes (always blokes) mixing after hours. Mixing similar bpm's and similar records. Then, whenever the chance arose, I'd spin 60s tunes, which pissed people off. Shirley Bassey's Something excepted. 

Unless Fiona, Emma or Joanne beat me to it and they'd always spin something truly memorable. Then something else that sounded brilliant, but they'd be dancing and not mixing. I was much more curious to see what they were playing, and, as they turned me onto, There's a Riot..., Stepping Razor, Forever Manna, Rune Lindbaek and Larry Heard's brilliant mid-nineties stuff, I realized they were effortlessly cool.  

When rehearsing for our joint DJ debut, I recall Jeff listening to my records and finding the dramatic point in which to cue on another record and realized he was actually doing it properly. I just danced then changed the record or if I was DJ'ing, fade out the sound on one deck before cross fading. I sort of assumed that so long as the record was good and the drama was in focus, I'd keep the floor and I was sometimes right. I took my influence from my unsung heroes, who were actually poets and journalists. These women trod a path to make it easier for the next generation to find a collective voice. 

I'm pretty sure if we had a time machine and could play today's music at yesteryear's afters, there'd be loads of beige beatport DJ wannabes mixing away and then breaking the rare silence, Fiona would stagger across the room and drop this onto the deck. Enough said.