BEATS OF LOVE 

108. Father Stephen Doyle

MY LOCAL parish priest deserves my warmest well wishes and thanks as he sadly retires his post from ill-health. Despite the bad apples and the church's systemic failure to toss them out, the mass-majority of priests still do a great service for their community. 

I first fell under Father Stephen's spell when he regaled his congregation with a warm sermon about his calling. He was young, like myself when his father died, and the dark episode convinced him to walk into the light towards the priesthood. I had some instant respect for him because of this strength of faith. All I could do was fumble around in the darkness. 

His candour and wit always temper a stiff-necked conservatism. I was privy to a lighter side of this character whilst being instructed for our wedding, when he regularly me and the missus in teary fits of laughter. And a deep pragmaticism discussing our tribulations with the home office when I found strength through his guidance. When the health service was reluctant to assist. Later, whilst the missus was converting to the faith and in regular consultation with him, she always came home smiling despite being given a massiv, great big book to read. And that is the important thing. Despite his staunch conservatism, he still spreads joy. 

He even injected his dry wit into my mother's funeral prep when I was skirting around the houses, refusing to tell him that in all truth she was probably agnostic. His eyebrows raised playfully when he thought the word liberal was a bit of an understatement for her. Then the look of sheer relief when I told him she'd had the last rites. He loves music and sat disapprovingly as I was culling hymns from the folk mass for our wedding that I used to enjoy back in the early eighties. Unsurprisingly, during the pandemic and without his musicians, the church was full of Gregorian chanting. It was brill and so utterly Father Stephen. 

I will even miss his high mass with incense peppering my eyes. His theological sermons that always either come with a cautionary warning or a bit of stand-up. And his long, unfashionable Eucharistic prayers. I will miss them because, probably, they won't come back. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

107. Thousands Are Sailing by The Pogues

WHEN MY OU studies coincided with my cancer diagnosis, a dividing line emerged. A before and after. A sort of epiphany. 

Up until that point I would've described myself as a Roman Catholic, left of the left politically, but definitely English. A point emphasized when I chose to watch Frank Sidebottom rather than The Pogues at Reading in 1989. My Irish and Welsh ancestry, although known to me, seemed so completely distant. My openness to study has consequently brought the distant past to life. Especially my own. 

My grandmother and her Irish mother and my aunt (taken into the home after her mother died) all lived with my grandfather. A Heyside local whose family all lived nearby. During the depression they all had to make the walk from Shaw to Chadderton for their state handouts. Two of her brothers died. Two of seventy-six million who perished in those two wars. Yet, retaining dignity, and containing sorrow, she remained a pivotal part of the church community.

Despite being highly intelligent, my grandmother was thrown into the mill at the age of fifteen. It partly explains why her children were so keen to iron out their Irish and Welsh ancestry and progress up the social ladder. Selflessly, she was driving them on. Remaining the beating heart in my mother's life, she missed her son dearly when he relocated. When she had a big win she gave half back to the church and split the remaining half amongst her two children. Keeping nothing for herself. I can only imagine what a great example had been set for her. Even in death, kicking against the hospital bed posts with the pain of kidney failure, she was defying the odds.

This mighty song, sung with such marvel and warm grit and kinship with Philip Chevron's quasi-poetic lyrics, sings to me through this truly remarkable woman. The daughter of what we casually call refugees. 

 BEATS OF LOVE 

106. Danger Dub by Panda Bear / Sonic Boom

I DEFINITELY regret that my dark moods and warped notions of authenticity necessitated a need to be out of it in much of my free time. It detracted attention away from my passion for loving the art of music. 

There are so many records that whirl around my musical vortex that are just lacking that little something to make them truly special. I can diagnose the problem but can offer no such remedy. Fortunately, in this instance, we have Adrian Sherwood at the controls, and he can and does.   

I have struggled with Animal Collective records since the mighty Sung Tongs LP. It cradled those harmonies, evocative of Brian Wilson's more troubled times, with an experimentation that sounded truly exciting. When they toured the follow-up, Feels, the harmonies began to grate. I was even resistant to the Panda Bear collaboration with Sonic Boom Reset for the same reason. Its conceptual nature and their symbiotic relationship on an equal footing definitely promised a lot, but it wound up being a little too straight-jacketed by its own idea of perfection. It was upsetting coz Danger is laden with brilliant hooky moments and really updated those 1950s samples but sounds a little artificial and saccharine.

Thankfully, Sherwood reinterprets the project and, whilst retaining the vocals, he isn't afraid to chop them up and create something looser, less straight-jacketed by concept and, on this track, especially up-beat. I'm in skank heaven coz those brilliant hooky moments are captured, but thankfully, with less coherence and fresher sounding instrumentation. It repudiates the notion that a new psychedelia has to sound futuristic. It simply doesn't, it just needs to be creatively exciting. 

I also regret that such optimistic vibrancy wasn't around decades ago. Perhaps my moods wouldn't have been so dark.   

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.