BEATS OF LOVE 

157. You are the Place by Shilpa Gupta 

MASSIVELY INDEBTED to my missus Factory International family. Their support following Ma's sudden death has been incredible.

I slipped out of the house for a second visit to this highly emotive multilingual sound installation. It encouraged me to lie back, immersing chill-out style to the fractured tender voices that moved nearer and further away. 

Lamenting voices singing about the personal  as stored in memory, echoing the Rochdale community in all its brilliant diversity. Gupta's clever attempts to strike discord, the ever moving lightbulbs and microphones, brilliantly show that the harmony which sits at the heart of this most vulnerable of choirs cuts through anything. Their verses get to the essence of what makes us human. Our vulnerability so often masked is what unites us and not constructs of power like flags. Celebrated in a plethora of different languages, it sounds less like a sound tapestry and more like a meaningful whole. 

I'm an honorary migrant. I feel the same shrill in my ear going past an immigration solicitor's office, and that same dread when the far right is in the news. My Nigerian family is mainly abstracted overseas, faces on the phone, where the remove during emotional crises is greater felt. Especially at this sad time. 

I laid back on the floor with small pools of tears in my eyes as I meditated on what could be and not what is. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

156. Ghost Assembly DJ set 

I EXPERIENCED social trauma at 28. A before and after, for sure. Clubs before always created a bit of stress and I always needed a livener at home beforehand, as I was no longer anonymous. I was very much the village idiot of clubland. I had a reverence for clubs and there was something ritualistic that, with hindsight, replaced the importance the church had been. 

After was a nightmare, I was trying to walk into the same clubs but on pills for my nerves. A hesitant introspection replaced a fearlessness of character, and I craved reinvention. To compound matters, the redundancy that was going to get me back to the metropolis never materialised, so I became bitter in my bungalow.

Hard to believe that I could now sit watching Wimbledon after work in the same bungalow, indifferent whether the missus wanted me to join her at MIF 25 or not. She did, so after showering and deciding my freshly cut hair looked flat, I put on my Horsebeach cap and headed out to meet her. My only consideration. 

When I got there, I did my usual pacing around and read that Abigail's Ghost Assembly was DJing as part of Dave Haslam's takeover. Despite the missus working the following morning, she agreed to stay, as I had a lot of warm fuzzy memories forming in my mind of my time in the Boardwalk and beyond. 

Abigail was entering the scene as I was exiting, but I always find her hiding in the same corners as me on the very few occasions our paths cross. I know that diffidence and have massiv respect that this set is laying bare her studio work and exposing it to folk a bit like me. The rustiest mover for sure, but her twisted hypnotic beats worked a treat. Tweaking memorable nostalgic touches like vocal stabs and harmonicas into unique and sturdy backbeats creates a lot of natural spark. De Laatste Rit is the catchiest, but there's definitely at least two more acid tinged shufflers that are equally trance inducing. Transcendence has never been so short and sweet.

I found myself completely knot kneed by Haslam's opener, the frenetically brilliant Company B's Fascinated, so called it a night. My first public dance since covid.