BEATS OF LOVE

79. Every Cloud (Coastlines remix) by Simon Peter 

THERE IS a strange irony in how people attach themselves to "the tops"; that high ground where locals convince themselves they’re in Saddleworth, when they are, in fact, in Oldham just like me.

As a young girl, my mother used to walk these hills with my grandfather, in an ill-fitting trench coat. Yet, as the years passed, she grew disenchanted with the memory. Perhaps she saw me echoing him, inheriting his complete lack of ambition. 

In those days, I’d push my beloved Raleigh Fourteen up the incline toward Bishops Park, obsessively playing pitch-and-putt. Back then, I needed a prize; now, the walk itself is the reward.

My mother and uncle’s ashes rest near the monument there. Other trails may be objectively grander, but nowhere else does the earth speak to me so clearly as I try to untangle my family's ghosts.

It makes the perfect backdrop for this phenomenal four-track release. Every Cloud is a gentle, acoustic meander, elevated by Katie English’s flute, an undulating swell so light and effortless it breathes pure warmth and colour into the air. There must be something in the water at Flower Sound Studio.

But it’s this rework by the ever-reliable Coastlines that takes it to another level, weaving in steel pan and Spanish guitar. It is a masterclass in understated perfection, the ultimate soundtrack for zoning out after a freezing hill walk. As the piano ascends, I’m left in a state of absolute, eyes-closed bliss. If daily life felt this good every time the postman delivered a parcel, I’d face the end contentedly, long before they lower me into the cold ground of Moston Cemetery, into the family plot nobody else wanted.

BEATS OF LOVE 

78. History by The Verve

MUSIC IS love. 

On the day my dentist accidentally drilled a small hole in my tongue, I smiled and paid for the treatment without a quibble. Perhaps I could hear my mother's voice telling me not to be soft. More likely, I simply wanted to walk back to the tram stop, singing a timeless classic to myself, rather than replaying some trivial drama.

I liked "Mad Richard" before his competitive battle with the Gallaghers. After The Verve's support slots preceded Oasis's stratospheric success, Ashcroft seemed intent on becoming a more highly lauded frontman and songwriter, driven coz he already knew he was infinitely better. I guess he envied their lifestyle.

Suddenly, the cosmic unpredictability that made the band sound so fresh and exciting gave way to concept and planning. I wasn't remotely interested in chart positions or record sales; I assumed folk who were had little soul. Coz the first singles lifted off A Northern Soul felt deeply disappointing and soulless, I switched off. Then, they broke up.

I sat with a small pile of their records. Then, for no apparent reason, I played this track on YouTube. It has since turned into a bit of an obsession while the physical records remain untouched.

The band creates a baroque-styled, psychedelic masterpiece. It heralds a style of balladeering that the masses soon latched onto, but it does so with an outpouring of genuine soul, the very thing that had gone missing. I'm guessing the entire world already knows this song except me.

Forget William Blake; instead, surrender to the emotive delivery of these words. Ashcroft could read out his shopping list, but set inside those haunting violins with the band cradling the song so beautifully, his pain would still be transparent.

That is why music is love. It allows us to experience raw emotion on a deeply personal level. It is the reason I am swallowing a salt-water solution right now and refusing to complain. I just want one more uninterrupted listen.  

 

BEATS OF LOVE 

77. A-Side: Are Your Dreams at Night 1985 Sizes Too Big? by Graham Holliday

ACCORDING TO its blurb, the publisher behind The Grass is Green in the Fields for You shuns self-opinionated hyperbole in favour of collaboration, community, and conversation. Any book casting the Jazz Butcher himself, Pat Fish, as a catalyst for change is an absolute must-read.

Yet despite the publisher's communal intentions, author Graham Holliday relies on eyewitness accounts of an iconic, backroom Spacemen 3 gig to validate his own memories. In doing so, his blog-turned-book morphed into something far bigger than a mere concert recap.

Watching small gigs is in the main voyeuristic and only rarely a communal experience, but when it is it transcends the stadium experience coz, the acts themselves become as encompassed in it. There are no barriers, as this book testifies.

Jason has become the minor rock star he was on his way to being when I first fell under their spell. These lucky attendees saw something different. He had stood up for a start and was too young to look anything other than normal. Prompting Fish to write 'Here come your girlfriend's little brother's mates.'

The gushing praise for the band is great to read but unsurprising. That a tape is actually out there of them being booed is revelatory. Will Carruthers bitterly funny, exaggerated, and self-opinionated anecdotes sort of bring everything into better focus when counter balanced with the book's enthusiastic fanboy accounts. Holliday nails it when describing the stark divisions inside the Spacemen 3 affiliated Reverberation club. 

'Territorial regulations applied: how old you were, how you dressed, what school you went to, (or had gone to), what music you liked, who your friends were, where you lived, how you lived, maybe even how you talked, if you smoked, if you drank, or if you took drugs.'

They could apply to most clubs in the mid to late eighties. And most likely today.

Ultimately, the project is written, edited, and spearheaded by Holliday, and honestly, thank goodness for that, irrespective of the publishers' original plans. He even went so far as to include a list of what he listened to throughout the creative process. I am actually checking out some of those tracks right now.

That, to me, has been the real highlight, discovering seldom heard peripheral acts

and finding some fresh raw garage treasure in the process. And then playing Spacemen 3 records ridiculously loudly, of course.

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

19. A Mountain of One : People with love

PART ONE 

WHAT I love about getting old is reassessing a good deal of stuff and concluding that there is always some overlooked magic.

When a band fuse effects from the greats like early R.E.M. and Natural Life, yet still find a melting point to create songs that come to sound like their very own, then that band deserves high praise. Or an elongated blog piece like this. 

A Mountain of One unsurprisingly found their way onto my turntable with their very first EP. The highlight for me was the opener Ride that more than showcases their stylistic leanings. Sounding both barren and weighty, it was unashamedly AOR in an age of po-faced coolness and locks into a great groove. Like a breezier Beta Band on a good day. To get Martina Topley Bird on board, then waste her with a pointless cover of Ginny's classic Can't Be Serious was a bug-bear. I'm still not sold. 

Their second EP contains two absolute gems. Innocent Reprise actually improves a competent tune and illustrates their studio prowess. It has aged magnificently. Better still, People Without Love is a thought-provoking call-and-response anthem that treads a similar terrain to the Sandals. It shares the same energy and still sounds relevant. Rhyming couplets like these empower, whereas so much music underarm serves and weakens folk. Probably the only good thing about covid, the underarm serve masterclass, is that it brought them back together.   

Normally when a band reforms, it's for some banal reason like money, but A Mountain of One has knocked it out of the park with Stars Planets Dust Me. Their finest to date, it simply had to exist. Hard to believe it's being given away in the Rough Trade knockdowns. Folk are clearly mad not to buy it. As per usual, it has a mighty impressive roll-call of assists, Dip in the Pool being the most successful, with the mesmerising, shimmering closer Soft Landing. 

Transcending labels like synth pop, nu-disco, and Balearic, the duo retain the weight of their previous work but reach a higher altitude and consistency. Star is pop brilliance, but my personal favourite is Our Love Must Grow, which has a unique skank all of its own. Only Dennis Bovell creates something even more magical to improve the songs opener Custards Last Stand. So magical it's possibly my best buy of 2022. As per usual, A Mountain of One realise their own vision better than anyone when working the remaining songs. In fact, other than Dennis Bovell, only Swedish band Studio have been able to add something of lasting value to their music. Their version of Brown Piano deserves a blog piece all of its own. Until last year, my A Mountain of One journey ended with it.   

PART 2

IT'S PERHAPS inevitable that after releasing Institute of Joy a full decade would have to elapse to hear anything else.  

Institute of Joy had a scale of ambition that was only half realised and its mixed reviews put me off. However, for the cost of a tenner, I now have in my possession the CD with an Inspirations mix CDR, a mint copy of the vinyl EP, and a Bones picture disc. I buy a few CDs nowadays and the CDR plays ridiculously well too.  

Mo is the perfect collaborator and foil for Zeb, giving him the confidence to settle into a groove. Their explorations usually deliver the perfect blend of epic mountain top music and hypnotic space-dust. Infusing just the right amount of soul and gospel to ensure the tracks fall well short of pastiche. The album's sonic architecture is as rich as it is expressive. The Verve's sprawling, jazz infused hymns influence the mood this album creates. So many bands get linked with Pink Floyd, with most lacking any brevity to justify serious comparison. Not so A Mountain of One. They understand depth and space and have assembled a cast of talent to back up such comparison. 

Bones once reminded me of Coldplay, but now I can appreciate its rolling percussion that loosens it, and then find that all important groove. Zeb's voice soars with a textural warmth that sets it apart. Sometimes my in-built prejudices stopped me from listening properly, I guess. Fool. Like a lot of their tunes, Hail Pleasure appears happy bathed in a proggy swamp before shaking itself free with a psychedelic abandon. It's a spiritual lift for these gloomy times we live in. Even their darkest brew, a heady version of Leonard Cohen's Who By Fire, pummels the depths whilst maintaining a lightness of touch that makes the song their own. Forget PJ Harvey. 

   

Their almighty canon of work is destined for mutant radio stations to pick up in the future, somewhere.  For sure.  

 

 LESS CHITTER-CHATTERING, MORE MUSIC MATTERING : AN END OF YEAR  REVIEW

DESPITE BEING ecstatic the year has ended, I'm taking away a fair few positives. 

I no longer have to mither folk for mixes coz I've already reached my Mixcloud limit. I no longer have to mither musicians coz I have no wish to promote. I'm basically freeing up time to listen more intently and maybe sell some things online. Cue relief stamped across the missus boat-race. 

Still locked into the majesty of Smiling C's American Dream Reserve, a masterclass in compiling records by Charles Bals and Henry Jones. So many long term wants ticked off and so many woozy hours in the horizontal with a look of sheer bliss stamped across my boat. Buy, beg, or steal a copy, it's truly magnificent. Another honourable mention to pH whose comps were cherished by just about everybody. Well, everybody we know. 

 

Another LP of unparalleled languid beauty was The Zenmenn/John Moods Hidden Gem. Opener Out of My Mind is the best fully realized song, but the whole set creates a wonderful atmosphere that thankfully slows life right down. A more intense, but no less wonderful, LP is Samana's All One Breath. Some breathtakingly fragile tunes that have both body and something more ethereal at play. Opener Melancholy Heat sets the tone wonderfully, but The Beach is the stunner on this very strong sophomore album. I do hope their digital only goodness Two Wrongs is getting a wax workout. It's even better. 

Like a lot of folk, I was excited by the return of DJH for about 5 minutes. I was much more excited by Jaz and Bertie's belated twelve on the buy on sight label Death on Wax. I first heard about John on the forum and Jesus Loves Lizzy Mercier Descloux is simply a brilliantly crisp cosmic delight. As good if a little groggier is DJ Absolutely Shit's Close Your Eyes, that also took an age to arrive. Completed with Howard Jones's Hide and Seek extended mix (Cheers Darren!) and the Mondays WFL Vince Clarke mix for a full sensory experience and maximum trance-dance joy.   

The good thing about year end round ups is they unearth some overlooked gems. One such gem is Dennis Bovells Custard's Last Stand DUBfinity Version that marks the highlight of A Mountain of One's impressive return. Thanks again to Dr Rob for sharing The Disciples Spirit Of Shaka on Boom Shaka Laka. It's yummy and much mellower than the Thank You material I was aware of.  

On an altogether mellower trip still, Misha Panfilov's The Sea Will Outlive Us All LP showcases the multi-instrumentalist lost in dreamscape mode and is spell-blinding. I hear folk funk lolloping in a more discordant landscape and it works a treat. Play it all the way through, all day. With a nod to the future, Strata-Gemma's Radamato LP takes us to an even spacier side of lunar-jazz. Capitolium is a delightful amalgamation of sparse electronics and rich, textured instrumentation that drifts me off into the deep.   

A more conventional head melt comes in the form of Wax Machine's folksy jazz infused album Hermit's Grove. The trippy All I Can Do evokes prime-time Pentangle, with its shimmering hazy groove, but the important ghostly messaging is unique and marks a quantum leap from their linear debut. Matthieu Beck's Here Alone LP is a wholly singular excursion to a sock free hideaway if ever there was. Closer Piano Fin shares a sublime oddness, that unsurprisingly, is reminiscent of Basso's finest growing bin treasure. It really feels pretty special to be horizontal without socks when playing it.   

There are sevens strewn about, but most are reissues. Must confess to loving Finders Keepers excavation E Tai Daotion by the Gary Sloan Ensemble. An Alaskan jazz voyage that builds brilliantly, then breaks into something even more beguiling. I also bought a necessary cassette by Tabi Tapes called Stockport, which has several moments . Cheers All Night Flight. 

Despite being ecstatic the year has ended, I'm definitely taking away a fair few positives. 

 BEATS OF LOVE 

76. In My Dreams by Crosby, Stills & Nash

DAVID CROSBY saved my life. My father died suddenly, a fortnight after a heart-attack which arose when I booted in the telly. I was full of pain and guilt.

I was watching something high-minded on Channel 4 and my portable lost its signal, so I went to ask if I could watch downstairs. The family were all avidly watching Miss World, so collectively answered 'no.' Undeterred, I switched it on anyway. There then ensued a comedic battle of turning it off and on until the crescendo and nobody watched anything on it thereafter. 

In that fortnight lay the promise of a brighter future. I would stop being a jerk, knuckle down and study, strengthen my faith, become supportive, and love my family more. Obviously, the road ahead was me being an even bigger jerk, dropping out of study completely, losing my faith, becoming unsupportive, and loving what remained of my family, less.     

The only light and warmth in my life at the time came out of my stereo speakers, especially the soothing voice and sensitivity of David Crosby. First, his glorious contributions to the Byrds, which got me through unrequited love and stopped me obsessing about suicide. Nobody else had the answers, but I found them in his frank but truly heartfelt lyrics. 

Shortly after, I experienced a sort of suspended reaction to my father's passing as my first breakdown. Because it was some years after I had to fight through the difficult terrain myself. At this pitiful time, when nothing seemed to go right, I had the great fortune to enter the Corn Exchange and find a copy of If I Could Only Remember My Name. My most played LP really helped me on a profound level. Laughing was an eerily prescient song and I'm so glad it wasn't gifted to George Harrison coz Crosby's delivery is pitch perfect and with a little help from Joni, his harmonic brilliance soars above just about everything and anything. 

Then, I discovered his majestic early work with Stills and Nash and Young that predictably coincided with further breakdowns. Later I bought CSN from Sifters and I was skeptical. 1977 wasn't the golden era of music, but I needn't have worried coz this song is simply mesmerising. My most played song for once didn't correspond with a crisis point in my life and I could engage with it joyously. 

Encapsulated by a night at Nick's Acid Tree when lost in the sheer reverie of it spinning, I danced like a child for a full five minutes. Only the finest songsmiths can have that effect on people. 

Damn right, David Crosby saved my life and Miss Venezuela finished first runner-up 

BEATS OF LOVE 

75. Hot Water (Extended Version) by Level 42

I AM throwing myself into everything this year, and I can finally feel the storm clouds parting.

I’ve started keep-fit classes and film study sessions to help me polish a script draft, one I'm hoping to pitch to a comedy writer. It's a full-blown artistic collaboration, at least in my head. I’ve been religiously putting in two hours a day and constantly living in that creative headspace. Oh, and I’m about to pick up a pair of turntables. My first since 1999.

An insanely busy work schedule has finally cleared, leaving me with a Massiv pile of unplayed vinyl and two whole days to spin them. This absolute monster of a track surfaced right after the incredible Julian Mendelsohn long mix of The Psychedelic Furs' Heartbeat, which felt like the perfect transition. It cost me the princely sum of 50p.

Famed for his work with The Beatles and David Bowie, the legendary Ken Scott produced this gem. He superimposes a relentless, driving rhythm over Mark King’s already distinctive bass-line, culminating in one of the tightest, funkiest cuts I’ve heard in ages. While the band is more widely lauded for their majestic collaborations with Mendelsohn himself (who isn't smitten by his wondrous Sisa mix of Something About You?), this epic mix had completely escaped my attention until now.

Auxiliary member Wally Badarou picks up a writing credit, but it's undoubtedly Scott taking the bow here. Level 42 has never sounded younger or more vital. It's pure Marmite, though, holding absolutely nothing back. You’re either gliding across the floor in pure glee like me, or reaching for the sick bucket. 

The track feels incredibly fast and breezy, perfectly mirroring my own chaotic new year. If you’re currently caught in the eye of your own storm, keep the faith. Dust off your old passions, clear the schedule, and turn up the volume. You’ll come through it, and trust me, the music on the other side sounds magnificent.