BEATS OF LOVE 

26. Gennarino 'O Sioux by Tonica & Dominante

ARRIVING HOME after another empty day at work, and watching the rubber dinghies on the news, feeling overwhelmed, I picked up this beauty and started head nodding before finally dancing around my living room.

Despite it being the best thing Manu has put out (which is really saying something when you consider his label's output), and zoning out of my emotional state into a state of near delirium to the best bit of Neapolitan Funk music I've ever heard, it still felt a bit of shallow experience coz I momentarily forgot all about the rubber dinghies.

My only thought was now whether Manu was reissuing their recently reduced but still way out of my price-range masterpiece of an LP. I do hope so. Modern life conditions us to be easily distracted, and whether you're zonked out in front of the telly on a comfy sofa or tearing the cellophane off recent record buys, both of these activities are ones we should be a lot more thankful for.

It really is a privilege to be entertained and have spare time and cash, and not something we should simply take for granted. Under late capitalism, 689 million of our fellow human-beings live in abject poverty. I recall in about 1998 some wallpaper CEO rabbiting on about structural changes at work and the union holding folk back to say that they fully support the proposed changes. Some guy just got his coat and said 'fuck that' or words to that effect, and left. Everyone thought he was barmy, but in hindsight, he was the cleverest person in the place.

Off shore trillions have stolen what were once our terms and conditions and we get mad about folk in these rubber dinghies who in their desperation still look at our environment, wage slavery, and dehumanization, and think it's paradise. Makes you think what those off shore trillions have stolen from them.

God help the rich if we were to have a lightbulb moment and not for once blame the poorest people on the planet for everything we think is wrong with the world.

BEATS OF LOVE

25. Cherry Blossom Girl by Air

AFTER A spot of fanzine writing highlighted shockingly poor grammar, due to nearly two study free decades, I decided to spend my Saturday mornings adult learning. My cheery thespian tutor (a guy with a bicycle-handlebar moustache), after realizing I had soon reached an advanced standard, (on account of knowing some really clever people and reading a lot, I guess), told me to consider the OU. 

My enrolment class coincided with my referral to check a lump on my right testicle. January 12th 2004. 'That's nasty' were the specialist's words, or at least the only ones reverberating around my head. I read a feature on Jacques Brel in the free paper travelling to enrol. I learned he lived intensely and died at 36. What seemed like a ripe old age to me at the time. 

After being swiftly filleted and freed from my piss soaked hospital issue sock-bandages and right testicle, the first thing I did when I got home was play music like a lunatic. Largely to drown out the wails on the bowel cancer ward that were giving me constant nightmares. (Testicular cancer is rare and didn't have its own ward.) 

Talkie Walkie left an indelible mark on my senses after one day's play, basically. I think I knew it off by heart instantly and this track is perfect. More organic than the early material, but not in any way wishy-washy. Jean-Benoît Dunckel has never sung a finer song or sung as well. It became a life support after my op and gave me a license to feel truly magnificent despite being doubled over like Ratso Rizzo.  

I recall awaiting the biopsy results and playing the shit out of it, and thinking, 'this might not sound as good next week.'

Thankfully, it sounded even better and still does. Absolute heaven.

 

BEATS OF LOVE

24. Strange Encounter by Father John Misty

TODAY WOULD'VE been my brother-in-law's birthday, and it's the first my sister and nephew have had to endure in his absence. Beats of Love are just a bit of catharsis following his sudden death. There was so much left unsaid, and words on the subject are still extremely difficult. Despite experiencing the premature loss of my own father, I have been unable to find any significant words of consolation. This LP, the first and only LP my nephew has bought me, was ordered for my birthday in 2020, but bizarrely only arrived months later on the very day his father died.

It was the perfect escape hatch for my own grief, but I was reticent to play it without firstly doing a bit of leg-work. Worryingly, nobody I know digs this guy, whose reincarnation is a little too hipster for my natural bent. More worrying was the saccharine art-work that just didn't feel exciting to hold. Then the songs played on the stereo and sounded too trite. Not the updated Pet Sounds I was promised.

I was absolutely desperate to connect and luckily, when songs were fast running out, the needle hit the groove on this. I recall Richard Ashcroft being scared that chart success exposed his music to little kids, explaining that 'there is a loss of innocence in our music that I don't want them to hear.' * Thankfully, my nephew is now an adult. This song has clarified the fact.

Evoking Plush's mighty Fed LP in its musical ambition and to my ears at least the Wild Honey era Beach Boys, as favoured by Jim Morrison, in its casual, soulful feel, it both soars and touches my very being.

Sure, it's a little over-layered and self-consciously retro, but the harmonies actually crystallize into something pretty epic and moving. One-night stands can be pretty epic and moving. Or comic.

I still find words on the subject extremely difficult, but when this spins, I just know that, on some metaphysical level at least, enjoying a shared love of music, I'm where I need to be. With my sister, nephew, and brother-in-law.     

•  Face magazine volume 3, number 8   

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

13. MATERIAL POP GENIUS: DENIM.

PART 1

SO FAR Lawrence's most definitive story is told in David Cavanagh's My Magpie eyes are hungry for the Prize, but there is talk of an autobiography. All I will say is if you know his singular treatment of popular music, you're blessed. His bands were conceived, and it's comforting to hope he's still writing his Berlin under the Denim moniker while still keeping Go Kart Mozart alive. (I was going to review a 2018 Hebden GKM show but decided it wasn't SFH enough. I was wrong.) Felt is dead in the water, which is why it's consequently the most fashionable.

Denim is my favourite conception and is the real deal. And a total break from art-school pretence, being both ridiculously brave and earnest. Lyrically, his genius is unsurpassed.

Juxtaposing weighty themes like the I.R.A and homelessness with the cold brutality of everyday trivia elevates him to the level of a cutting satirist or protest writer. They bankrupted their label Boy's Own. Denim's what happens when John Peel doesn't like you and in his quest for a more popular synthetic sound, Lawrence created novelty rock. But by the time it arrived, it felt relatively normal. As he explained to the music press on why it didn't happen on his debut, "I had studio trouble...Big trouble. I fell out with John Leckie - I wanted to make plastic music...I wanted to make music that had no roots. In the end, I was banned from the studio. I had to sign a contract saying I wouldn't go near Abbey Road."

They also had a loose manifesto to boot: being bored rigid with the canon they offered up 70s kitsch as pop art, knowingly lambasted 70s pub rock because it drew parallels with Brit-pop and engineered novelty slogans which have got far more bizarre. He also unwittingly created the perfect soundtrack to Trainspotting on his sophomore album Denim on Ice with its odes to drug addiction, joblessness, and stifling routine.

PART 2

BEFORE BACK in Denim was finally unleashed outside of demo-form, The World of Twist had already made an ill-fated move on the charts, with one of their number playing swirls and sea noises. In comparison, Lawrence's 70s session players felt relatively normal. As he succinctly noted to the music press at the time,

"The idea of using The Glitter Band had a value it wouldn't have now. And if I decided next week to get Jeff Wayne in to produce an album, I don't think anyone would bat an eyelid. "

I inhabited a club scene that comprehensively understood pop-cultural heritage. Lawrence really believed DJs would get him in the charts instead of live performances.

What made Jockey Slut so great was they understood that Pete Wiggs records were every bit as important as the Dust Brothers. It's what made their club nights eclectic and colourful. By comparison, the indie-circuit was narrow minded and much more stifling, so, after losing money trying to tour with Pulp (after realizing DJ's couldn't get him in the charts) on the tired circuit, Denim retreated back into being a studio-band. Back to the imagination.

.

Lawrence's lyrics are often cruel, but don't make a point of being clever. He writes from the protagonist's perspective. Articulating, in his art at least, in a few choice words, that life's cruel. I Will Cry at Christmas is conjured from deep within those spheres of our lives we try to airbrush away. Our own cruelty and our own inflated sense of self.

I assumed the role of club-stalker but in reality I was trapped, just walking around town in a plastic coat, my head full of broken biscuits. Falling a-fucking-part. New Potatoes made perfect sense to me coz after a decade of repetitive factory work, nicotine, prescriptions, lager, and cheap drugs, I was a fucking New Potato. Only, I lived in a shared studio flat and not a tin.

Summer Smash is Lawrence's own EMI moment. The pinnacle of his artistic achievement in atypical throwaway fashion was given to Chris Porter (of Chris De Burgh fame) to produce in anticipation of signing with the major-label. It's a blatant pastiche of the sugar-coated synth-pop that Steve Wright raved about in the golden age.

I am absolutely hopeless at reading people. I walked into the work office proclaiming 'Happy Do-Di-Die-Day' before registering that everybody was crying. Lawrence cried the following week, when, because of their car-crash, his genuine stab at chart action got melted by the pressing plant because of its unfortunate title. His major-label dream was in tatters.

When the world finally reappraises these folk, (which Lawrence prophesied in the mid-80's would happen), he will finally be elevated to the realm of poet. Morrissey and Doherty and all the other po-faced pretenders will be mere footnotes. AND I'M SERIOUS.

BEATS OF LOVE

23. Screamadelica (Eden Studio Demo) by Primal Scream

MY MOST played LP's post club in 1990 were Pet Sounds and Quadrastate, which, on a subconscious level, sort of worked as the perfect precursor for the arrival of Screamadelica. 

I investigated the naffly titled Demodelica with trepidation as to my ears Screamedelica is perfection. And an LP I hitherto assumed came to life in the hands of Andy Weatherall and Hugo Nicholson has offered up some fresh pearls and perspectives. 

It's refreshing to hear Innes playing with the sampler, Bobby G's talk box, and the Gospel and choral voices laid-bare, which all illustrate that experimentation was very much a part of the embryonic stages of the masterpiece. This album of demos is a crisp sounding surprise and dispels the myth that without Weatherall, they were nothing. They were already amalgamating their past and present influences to create an exciting, sparse psychedelia. 

Although fascinating, with liner note commentary by Bobby G and Innes tied together by the mighty Jon Savage, they only really eclipse the final masters on this, the final track. That it now steals the show on this LP is a highly pleasant surprise. 

As is so often the case, this album title track failed to surface on it, but instead featured on the Dixie Narco EP in 1992. It was the weakest track but here it is shorter than Weatherall's longer workout yet is given more space to breathe, and it really comes to life. It truly captures the essence of what it set out to achieve, which was to update George Clinton's heady brew of psychedelic space-funk for the E generation. Something a little more joyous. 

I'm back smiling, arms aloft. Just the way I like it.     

BEATS OF LOVE

22. Le Chat Du Café Des Artistes by Charlotte Gainsbourg 

AS THE government becomes more Francophobe by the day, in a typical contrarian act, I have subsumed myself in all things French. 

This is a song I was happy to just spin on the turntable repeatedly until Charlotte randomly appeared in a Dix Pour Cent episode I was watching (guilty pleasure), which I took as a cue to type this. However, I'm more eager to turn anyone who isn't already onto this song, than her fluffy cameo.  

Having already approximated Jean Claude Vannier’s orchestral arrangements on the 1999 album, SeaChange with Paper Tigers specifically quoting Melody Nelson, Beck was an obvious choice as producer. Collaborating by exploring the dark theme of her brain surgery, he selflessly cajoled understated but rich vocal performances out of the fragility. Here he turns her onto this song written and performed by French Canadian's Jean-Pierre Ferland and Michel Robidoux, which are the only lyrics that aren't his own on the album, and truly transforms it into a brooding masterpiece. A wonderful subversion of colourful symphony music.   

This interpretation is a little less haunting and melodic but much more stripped-down than the original. Its darker hues really capture the song's essence. Whether it's my own wrong-headed take on authenticity or not, she sounds more earnest when singing in French. More convincing. I'm more than happy to lose the sense of great story-telling to gain that woozy feeling well produced music evokes by bringing warm pictures into my mind. Music for me is a great simplifier and quite often the darkest songs let in the most light. 

After 1998's Mutations, this for me is Beck's greatest musical statement. It's a sweeping orchestral track that has aged magnificently and a track that more than justifies this inspired collaboration by recognizing that neither without the other could achieve sublimity. 

And achieve it, it does. 

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

12. THE PRIMALS LIVE: up the slope & down the hill 

PART 1

THERE'S ONLY one band actually chronicle much of my early adult life; Primal Scream. A band that captured the zeitgeist on more than one occasion. I'd like to say I saw them tear up the Boardwalk in September 89 coz I was all set to go, but it was a weird one. 

I was half pissed and heavily obsessed with Jim Morrison. After reading No One Here... I bypassed his poetic influences, and rather predictably headed straight for his excesses. Only, I didn't smoke, so had never even tried cannabis before. That September afternoon I had acquired an eighth of squidgy-black, but was wary of being busted, so decided to swallow it whole in my bedroom, before departing for the show. 

A messy altercation with my sister followed and my wrist found itself flapping outside despite the window being locked. My sister drove me to A & E instead of the train station but unfathomably after getting stitched up, I jumped out of her moving car on our return. And rather than knock on my mother's door, I decided to shout expletives before launching myself through her porch windows instead.

 

I soon discovered Mum's next door, but two was a karate expert as he thrashed me all around the living room until the police arrived. Luckily for me, Mum refused to press charges on account of one of my teacher's telling her I was highly intelligent. I sat meekly in her living room watching the golf the day after on my final life at home before writing a cheque to a neighbour to replace 5 panels of glass (what was left of my inheritance). 

Just to register their own contempt for my appalling behaviour, my sisters left all my jazz-mags and the drugs that the police never found on the dining room table the week after. Thankfully, my mother reasoned that this was a past misdemeanor.

Fast-forward to July 91 and I'm off my box in a good way with both my sisters in tow enjoying my best ever night at the Hacienda and my favourite ever Tuesday night show. Despite convincing myself that it was my favourite Monday night show for thirty years. The Orb and Weatherall were spinning amazing records like System 7's Flutter and Liberation. 

Club veterans and DJs were milling around, but the half pissed, half drugged, gig aficionado's, had a euphoric woosh for big nights that set them apart and helped create an extra brilliant atmosphere. The Primals were simply stoned, immaculate, and playing their masterpiece Screamadelica to a sweat-box audience. Then many of us danced freely until 2 am. Not many people can put their hand on their heart and say 'indie-dance saved my life.'  

The year after, my kid sister had a mad crush on Bobby after dancing in dizzying proximity to him at the International 2, where leather trousers were out en masse. He glanced at me, a look akin to steaming hot piss ricocheting off a cold urinal but glanced her a wee smile. His skin actually looked sublime and, oddly, he was more impressive in the flesh. Most pop-stars were disappointing in real life. 

She never touched drugs, and I was galvanized in turn by her natural enthusiasm. I was just grateful that we now had a telepathic relationship that meant my drinks got bought and my spliffs got rolled despite me being too out of it to speak. I did have a stupid great smile on my face all that week. Ditto, Glastonbury 92, where a large array of different people were really feeling The Orb and the Primals. Making it revolutionary even. In 1990, only a few of us were dancing through the night, but that year... 

PART 2

A LESS well received Give Out... LP meant their Academy show in 94 was fairly low key. Kris Needs was playing The Clash, Mott The Hoople and Grandmaster Flash, but it still felt decidedly more like a gig. A bloody good gig.

I was starting to feel more mature and despite necking down some strong lagers on the bus into town; I was relatively sober and straight. I didn't drink during the show either, as I was at the front so my kid sister could get close and missed the cynicism and jokey banter of the Jockey Slut posse who were standing quite a few rows back. My arm was blue the next day after a sea of people had leant against it. It was, without doubt, my kindest act ever. Unsurprisingly, when they returned as veterans in the summer of  97 with a more cohesive album Vanishing Point, they played the Apollo. I was in bad shape but recall the show being quiet enough to walk through spacious foyers. 

My last truly enjoyable Primal's show was the Ritz in 98. Weatherall and the Chemical Brothers span many tunes I owned like Placebo's Balek and lots of familiar smiling faces were out in force. Like Discopogo with more space. The Primals even played Higher Than The Sun to a reverential response but largely perfected tunes from their previous show. Mannie's inclusion is what cemented their home team status, but this brought about its own mess. 

  

Before the long coda of the plastic glass years, that I will try to summarize swiftly, there was another fine show at the Ritz at the start of the new millennium. Eerily prescient and politicized, XTRMNTR was an energizing sensory assault of an album that luckily for us was captured perfectly in their live show. However, for a band so hard-wired into the psyche of my generation, something buckled when the anti-capitalist movement stalled. Coupled with Iraq, that felt like an unjust dictate. Hope of any meaningful concrete change dimmed.

In my thirties I was reading a lot of poetry, (via OU study and not Jim Morrison, I must add), so my elitist self convinced me that I understood their shows better than most and that the swelling numbers were missing the central tenet of their messaging. And had just showed up for some light entertainment.  

However, because they were so tight and passionate, live, I went to countless shows at the Apollo and even Brixton, spilling beer all over my hands. I saw their fresh material condensed to smaller and smaller segments as the boozy crowds just wanted a sing-song, reducing them to pricey karaoke. 

The highlights were often hearing their warm-up playlists, which included The Byrds and MC5, while the places were still half-empty. These shows were fast becoming nostalgia fests for ticket-stub collectors and hearing them bastardize their masterpiece Screamadelica, that one, perfect, harmonious memory I had, was tragic. Well, they didn't, but the sing-along crowd spitting their beer out everywhere did. Actually throwing myself out of a fast-moving car would've been more fun. 

I drew the line right there but did almost buy tickets for Bobby's book signing until recalling the fawning self-importance of these intimate events and decided reading it without the surplus flannel or autograph would be better. 

Infamous Audrey Witherspoon review - https://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/1989-andrew-weatherall-nme-live-review-primal-scream-screamadelica-2610946

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