BEATS OF LOVE 

143. Tu Amor by Mamacita

I RECALL my old pal Aidan saying to me in the mid-nineties 'we're on our own in this world.' I felt sorry for him as I was living with my kid sister and felt close to a clubbing community. 

I would never have dreamt of saying such a thing. Unsurprisingly, when my sister moved on and I knocked it all on the head,  facing massive personal hurdles, loneliness, temptations, and the feeling it was all in vain, his words came back to me. Despite praying deeply, I knew instinctively that I needed to go back to church.

It's easy to register faults with organized religion, and it still tests my faith for sure, but by going back to church, I've become much more like the person I want to be. Now, every day when I wake and every night before I sleep, I talk to God in prayer. I'm far from on my own in this world.

Seeing my aunty, a much better paradigm of a practicing catholic than me, face major surgery, not to survive but to get my sister on the property ladder, I marvelled at her courage. She'd been floundering in the hospital for weeks and could've opted for palliative care, but she still strove to do good. Driven by the company, she kept in her spirit and a tacit understanding of what it means to be at one with the world. 

With or without God, it appears we've replaced that giving generation with a taking one. One with inherent greed and a sense of entitlement at its core. Unforgiving natures have replaced mercy, selfishness has replaced selflessness, fear has replaced courage, a confusion has replaced assurance, hallucination has replaced faith, and saddest of all, a sense being on our own in this world has replaced what it means to be at one with each other. 

It needs restating 'we are not on our own in this world.' And restating again, I fear. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

142. Miles Further by Wrekin Havoc

WE WRITE a lot. Deconstructing the process that folk who deconstruct music to create fresher sounding music undergo, so we can all feel a little more enlightened. 

Well, this week was a real toughie. It was the anniversary of the death of my kid sister's husband and to compound things, my nephew, who has been home with her since, has just started a new job, so she was all alone near the Devon coast miles away from us. 

My mother's surviving partner is awaiting the memory clinic's assessment and is losing sight of us more each week and needing more of our attention. And sadly, work was especially weird. I say work because the manager that pissed me off is just programmed to operate in a hostile manner. Luckily for me, I had a couple of freshly bought records to play on repeat. 

The trancey warmth of Hey Mister Mister by Kriss, a massive want after Rob J posted it, has sent me to sound heaven. Weightless arms aloft. I'd settled for a CD version but the brilliant Sound Metaphors stable have thankfully put it out on their Thank You imprint. In the same packet was this absolute gem of a tune. Rob again with his fellow West Midland cohorts, Stuart Robinson and Richard Hall. Who've produced this epic dose of musical madness which eclipses everything I've bought this year. 

Fuck the process, and fuck enlightenment. It is simply emotional pop at its very best. Its memorable vocal refrain teases in, carried mesmerisingly on a floaty bed of synths, then a dramatic guitar lifts it up even higher, and then we have lift-off. It all feels way shorter than its nine minutes. My outstretched arms, in a musical hypnosis, are attempting to glide on the magnificence of it all. 

I really pray these special people in my life have things that can make them feel momentarily blissful that puts aside all their heavy chocolate.