BEATS OF LOVE 

138. The Drift by deary 

 

CAPITALISM OUTLIVED communism because it's pragmatic, adaptable to corruption, and less demanding of human nature. Communism’s radical ambition was a threat that ultimately forced the West to adopt a stabilising social democratic model.

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 folks as the unimaginative politicians inflate their own egos and get obsessed with one another. 

It's why Starmer, the most unimaginative politician in modern times, can go from socialism to something that could be mistaken for the greyness of the Sunak era in a few short months. It's why populism, the final gambit in any democracy, is so popular. Its ideas, values and tenets are malleable. Another unspoken truth is that everyday folks 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 paying lip-service to 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 in fear of the truth.  

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. While some elements were compelling, the performance was sprawling and indulgent, going 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 viewing platform, it drew me in and I became 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 observe the people below 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 appetiser, 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 realise 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, more than once, I needed neighbours to carry my body through the door.

One particular dark episode, sunny 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, I bumped into my workmate Tim. A guy who'd 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, I returned home on the Monday with a 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. Just an ordinary Monday on the surface.

All I fully recall after my ill-fated stroll, though, is one guy leaving and returning. It leads to me collapsing on the Tuesday, needing a stomach pump. On my hospital departure, I recognised some faces congregating outside and learned that Nick had died. 

My time with Nick was very sketchy, to say the least. 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 folk 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 BPMs 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 always dying to know what they were playing. They turned me on to utterly memorable music like There's a Riot..., Stepping Razor, Forever Manna, Rune Lindbaek and Larry Heard's brilliant mid-nineties stuff and 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 realised he was actually doing it properly. I just danced then changed the record or if I was DJing, fade out the sound on one deck before cross fading. I sort of assumed that as long as the music delivered and the drama stayed in focus, I'd keep the floor and I was sometimes right. I took my influence from my three unsung heroes, who were actually poets and journalists when not partying. These brave 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 in a no-nonsense manner. Enough said.