BEATS OF LOVE 

105. Love & Hate in a Different Time (Greg Wilson & Che mix) by Gabriels

WHEN I was younger every other weekend threw up some dark art shit. Now, with the wisdom that comes with age on my side, it has become a bi-annual event, throwing everything momentarily up in the air. The horror is not knowing how it's going to land.

Last year it was traversing the line between being with folk that liked me whilst being in the same company as folk who hated my guts. Needless to say I ended up with the folk who hated my guts and then the dark art shit happened.

This year I thought 'great, finally, no weird dark art shit' but then my kitchen roof began dripping water. Less than a week later I now know how sophisticated, calculating, and facilitated by Google rogue traders have become as I've shelled out a small fortune to have even more damage done to my old roof. Google not only guarantees their labour but points folk toward articles that call it an emergency. Inviting panic and poor judgement. 

The day after I felt violated and stupid and guilty coz that money could've put some big smiles on my missus face. I have acted on the advice of the CAB more as a tick-box exercise coz already the bankrupt business site credentials used to procure my custom are already down with another up and running. I suppose there's no end to bankrupt business web pages online. Would I have paid this stupidity tax to not instead scare myself in front of daytime telly so I could do things I enjoy? Definitely. I would however have rather paid it weekly rather than in one inconvenient, untimely lump sum. I can spare folk daytime telly hell by saying the words Trustpilot and Martin Lewis. 

That this particular rogue trader passed me the parcel that contained this beauty means I can almost forgive him. Almost, being the operative word. 

BEATS OF LOVE

104. The Refuge  

SO I finally took the missus to this much loved behemoth after falling for the charms of the Midland and more local restaurants since quitting the tabs. 

I felt bemused when Roberto ordered a meal in the Woodstock way back in the mid-nineties on a Saturday afternoon. I thought everyone was still out partying. To say I'm late to the party is an understatement, but I've become a bit of a foodie myself. Meaning I can be both critical of the missus' cooking or full of praise coz being experimented on is unpredictable. She likes to 'try things out,' so dining out is nearly always safer despite the missus getting better all the time.  

It was that madly busy time when tea-time drinkers were finishing off and evening revellers started out when we arrived. Abigail, who I didn't register with her tidied up hair and glasses, was hammering out classics like Rufus & Chaka Khan's Ain't Nobody (Hallucinogenic Version)  and I was beginning to worry about ambience in the dining room, which was just round the corner. We had a table booked. 

The bar staff were mega-friendly and informed me of the city's current rentals.  I was priced out in the late nineties and am now more than happy to commute by tram after hearing these mad charges. By the time our table was ready, the music's tempo had slowed significantly. There is an art to bar DJing that I didn't comprehend which also explained why the speakers were in the centre of the main space. 

Everything is on a massive scale. The ridiculously high atrium ceiling, the vast, expansive walkways and the huge pillars. Then the menu presents us with these disarmingly small shared dishes. Locally sourced highlights of which were the Pollen Bakery's sourdough bread that blended brilliantly with the Padrón peppers. Having never been to Spain, I was instead reminded of the rustic, intimate charms of Tuscany. Our choices diverged with the main, but came together when we both shared  broccoli, ssamjang, and kimchi. Like everything Nigerian, the Kimchi is cooked longer when the missus prepares it, so I was pleasantly surprised by its more flavoursome Korean taste. She only conceded it smelt nicer. 

Everything  we ate was a taste sensation and, unlike a tapas or sushi restaurant, these exciting hits were global. It was only fitting that we ended the night in Diggle, tucking in to  Grandpa Greene’s raspberry flavoured ice cream. Abigail was still in her own musical world as we left.  

Next time we might book the equally impressive Kimpton Clocktower hotel too, but we won't be needing the music concierge. Nobody should. Have they not watched Shoreditch Twat? 

But there will definitely be a next time. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

103. Moloko Island LP by Mike Salta & Mortale

FROM 1964 until 2006, there was a consensus as to what constituted the charts. Linked to its flagship Thursday night show TOTP, it was every British pop star's dream to get into the BBC top 40 to stand a chance of appearing in it. For that reason, the Sunday evening countdown was exciting. 

That the show fizzled out after a decade long decline since moving to Friday's in 1996, the chart itself became meaningless. Pop stars are now ubiquitous and can express themselves on social media all year round. Amassing likes for posting pictures of their dinner loses a lot of the mystique that made them so fascinating in the past. 

That said, it liberates the fan from caring about such superfluous detail and invites a deeper listening experience. TOTP could make or break folk. I was quite taken with Babylon Zoo until I saw a po-faced TOTP performance then distanced myself from it completely. You could banter about it whilst being conscious of the indie charts because it was an axis point. Like talking about the footy scores. Now I am resigned to blogging coz nobody in my real world actually cares about the things that fascinate me. Like reading Sonic Life by Thurston Moore.

Or deciding that this LP is a masterpiece. The tracks have been teased out individually but make much more sense together. The cover is super too and complements the music brilliantly. I can't differentiate between stand-out tracks coz the quality is so high. It plays coherently and really suppresses its disco, funk, and Tropicália influence to infuse something calmer and more soothing. Whilst maintaining those highly distinct flavours. No mean feat.  

All you need to know in this world of insignificant charts is this whole LP is this week's number one. And next weeks. 

https://musicfordreams-mikesalta.bandcamp.com/album/moloko-island

BEATS OF LOVE 

102. Now and Then by The Beatles

MARRIAGE IS hard. Especially interracial. Seemingly innocuous words or phrases can linger for months and even years, building up a sizeable store of resentments. Yet we try to pretend all is well as to admit a marriage can weaken demands trust in others. Others who might be not what they seem.

It is in this state of hurt and mistrust of others that I find myself listening to this re-polished Lennon demo from 1977. The ultimate marriage break up of a band finding the technology to enhance something rough and real, transforming it into something soaring and beautiful. Whilst losing a little tenderness in the process. 

However, by the third listen, you're asking yourself what would John, George and George make of it. What innocuous words or phrases would emerge and would they add to an already sizeable store of resentments? Definitely, coz it's a little too saccharine and nowhere near magically sparse enough by half to be a proper Beatles record. 

Their marriage was well and truly over. John was bullish and is probably fighting ELO fans who are in Beatle heaven listening to it.   

That said, it is still the best footnote of a single 2023 has to offer. I really hope and pray that my own marriage begins to re-bloom in its afterglow. 

BEATS OF LOVE

101. Paused in Cosmic Reflection by The Chemical Brothers with Robin Turner

NOT SURE why I bought this coffee-table book. I don't have a coffee table. However, the part of their story that has been mythologized into Manchester folklore is always interesting and I wanted to hear what Jim and Emma have to say. They don't disappoint. 

I'd always been a bit of a fanboy and I only made an effort to integrate into the more elitist Balearic clubs when I became obsessed with Justin's remix of Sea of Beats. Ariel were brilliant and quite possibly too cool for their own good. Their death knell was rejecting Tom's groundbreaking Song to the Siren. It instead became the Dust Brothers debut single and quite rightly gets analyzed at length. Moonboots turned me onto it and it blew the roof off the Boardwalk when Weatherall played it. 

I surrendered to them DJing inclusively in and around Manchester countless times and even traveled as far as London. Before it went suddenly from music to spectacle, from jovial banter to a studied, cool conversation. I think they were aware of their trajectory even if I wasn't, as a protective ring formed around them. 

What has been revelatory is Tom's candid and illuminating contribution. Much of my time was traded by stock taking in a warehouse and when I read this book I am filled with an admiration for his self value and the fact he had horded so much time to absorb himself in passions that have withstood the test of time. Maintaining an integrity and grace whilst co-masterminding a tacit understanding of musical abandon. The warehouse is now rubble. 

Ed always had an easier charm but comes across as deep and analytical, which again surprises. I should've guessed he was mixing in Acid Jazz circles coz he wore really nice hats. Jonno recognizes the key to their success when he cites them as being at the epicentre of clubs I was in. I was too self-obsessed to notice their gravitational pull, or too lost in Justin's music. What is apparent is how fucking cool they look in these pictures. 

I recall wincing when they said in an early Face interview that they wanted to inhabit their own world like the Beastie Boys. It's still a naff thing to say, but as this book testifies repeatedly, that's exactly what they've achieved. 

And it feels surprisingly good to be let into it. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

100. Passion by Taffy 

THE PROBLEM with having a lot of vinyl is you lose track of it. When Sam Don dropped his latest compiled offering for Athens of the North, I was in forgiving mode. 

His last one suffered a licensing issue, so got re-released with a brilliant record he sold me ages ago. Byron Walker & Sandra Edwards pumping lovers cover of Don't Look Any Further. That's the problem with rare records. The ones you haven't got are easy to justify buying when they turn up on comps, but the ones you already have, you privately wince to see them popularized. 

When I heard the sound-clips for his UK Street Soul comp Just A Touch, I felt lucky to have owned a few already and convinced myself I also owned this. After a few weeks, I decided I wanted to spin it but couldn't locate it. Excited days later, I then finally found the white label I thought it was and put it on the turntable. It started at pace so I turned it over only to find it still at pace, which shouldn't be happening. I then changed the speed just to realize there was no Balearic soul at all dripping out of the speakers, just a faster paced stepper. 

The only Taffy record in my shelves was a mid eighties Italo-Disco number that plays like a pop of guilty pleasure. Massiv synths and vocals. I'm still not convinced that this understated masterpiece is the same person singing. To now have it on the turntable is special coz it's an incredible tune. No wonder the prolific sun-kissed DJ David Pickering has given its sultry throbs an airing.  

Course I'm in forgiving mode coz Sam has once again hit proper digging pay-dirt. I'm a bit embarrassed to realize I thought I owned a record this good but didn't. Cloth ears strikes again.   

 

BEATS OF LOVE 

99. The Love Revolution (Justin Robertson's Scream Team Remix) by Yargo

MY PARENTS had an off-license in Middleton in the late seventies. I'd be about eight and playing footy around the back of a neighbouring chippy when 'woof,' I somehow managed to sky the ball and smash an upstairs window. I sort of froze with the undamaged ball in my hands whilst everyone else disappeared sharpish. And said that it was me that smashed their window, when the owners bolted towards me. 

The upshot of the situation was I owed them about thirty quid, and my parents suggested I knock on doors and offer my services. (A seemingly more innocent age.)

Whilst everyone else was playing out and enjoying their hols, I was digging up weeds for buttons. I even had the stupid idea of knocking on the local nunnery. Then spent a full morning being put to use gardening just to be given chocolate biscuits. Therein lied the problem. I hadn't pitched my services properly. I think in the end I handed my parents a tenner and the problem from that point on simply disappeared coz when I woke up next morning an envelope was beside the bed with thirty quid in. 

Strange things began to happen after, though. The folk I'd laboured for became mega friendly. The nuns especially. And the chippy owner was bowled over when I handed her the envelope. It was my first taste of respect and it felt good. Sadly, though, I think it was inevitable that I'd turn back on that hapless eight-year-old. 

Just like it was equally inevitable that this wonderful anthem would find me years later and help alter the course of my life. Back towards that same hapless eight-year-old. Happily.