BEATS OF LOVE 

140. Looking Glass by The La's

USED TO go to the Liverpool Poly to catch bands occasionally. Getting there early to watch the soundcheck but when The La's played there in 1990 was a different vibe. It was already busy.

Ordinary, expectant people were milling around the bar with thick scouse accents. This was their band and with my deep monotone North Manchester accent, I was wary of speaking. After all, I'd been obsessed with most of their songs for just over a month whilst many of the crowd had lived with them for years. They were an incredible live force with a fiery spark, and the tunes were just dripping out naturally. 

Hearing from folk who'd heard Maver's demos for a follow-up album was a regular part of post-clubbing in the 90s. The stuff of legend, yet when they surfaced online decades later, they actually surpassed the crazy high expectations. Tears in the Rain slowed down, sounds sublime. The band hated their recorded output. However, despite their harsh criticism, it's still much loved. Their only album's closer. This effortlessly poetic epic helps give the band authenticity. Making it more resonant with age. It's the music that The Verve strove to eclipse. 

Shifting toward the experimental space of the twelve-inch releases, the track confidently declares a permanent change in direction. This new approach favours a direct, soulful expression, ironic then that Mavers' obsessive demo-tweaking confined him to the same songbook since 1986. The current dilemma is deciding which version to share; since Mavers detested the final release, many alternate sessions and takes have surfaced.

 

For today, at least, I'm going with the one that has served me longest. The one Mavers hates the most. It's still one of the best songs ever recorded.

 BEATS OF LOVE 

139. Afro Disco by Vincent Arthur & Dagomba

BIGGED UP Sam Don before, but he's since started a label. Sweet Free Association. 

I secured one of the last two copies on his Bandcamp page, as the original pressing has become expensive. Sam caught onto this record well before the price skyrocketed and has generously licensed three standout cuts. I also lucked out by grabbing one of the final two copies of his debut release: the incredibly rare Carter Lake by Carl Moore.

 

That track is a slow burner that peaked perfectly for heavy rotation over Christmas. Missing out on fresh music is the sole disadvantage of leaving social media, leaving me reliant on blogs and forums. But truly, it is the only downside. As a failed DJ, I appreciate the idiosyncratic self-imposed rules the successful DJs define their sonic territory into a particular style. A style they can then harness. Comparatively speaking, I'm like the massively overgrown hedge-way found outside derelict buildings.

Case in point, before deciding this record creates a brilliant atmosphere for dancing, I was pitching the idea, largely to myself, that Tony Ogden and John West's Man, Myth and Music demos, need recording. They're so good. Not by AI, but by the compilation artists' Imaginary records were so good at finding. I've also been entering the hallucinatory world of my mother's surviving partner with his rapidly declining dementia diagnosis. A fatiguing world. It reminds me that life can change in an instant. 

This year, I must stop filling notepads that overgrow with ideas that never get realised and act on one instead. Cheers Sam and Ted for today's lesson.

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

23. Nick Sanderson : Shrunken Head, Massive Head

PART 1

I DISLIKE drummers; they came back to mine and talked up Queen. They snidely slagged off my big hooter and formed the Foo Fighters.

I like Nick though, unless his cheeriness stood in my way of talking to World Of Twist frontman extraordinaire Tony. He has been the much loved antihero of at least four books I've read, so has become an obsession of sorts. Hence, this retro-glance back at his career highlights. In descending order; train driver, boarder, Earl Brutus co frontman, WOT, Mary Chain, Freeheat, Gun Club and Clock DVA drummer.

Would love to drive the Brighton to London train. All those tired empty faces of a Monday morning heading away from a weekend's pleasure. Not so good on a Friday teatime mind. I had fantasies about boarding school and a different life. Genesis fan Nick breaking into Peter Gabriel's house suggests it would've been a waste on me. That he had the audacity to go back there trying to find the touches to make an album that was both brilliant and commercial, and beat his host at table tennis is an anecdote for most of us but a mere footnote for Nick.

Surprised he wasn't driving the underground tube trains though, as he was a bit of a hex on the overground majors. The Mary Chain got dropped by WEA after his sole contribution to their arsenal. Circa dropped WOT after they handed in insanely rushed demos for a follow-up album. Polydor dropped Clock DVA after his sole contribution to their arsenal and Island dropped Earl Brutus after their sophomore album tanked. Not that anybody ever held it against him.

Wish he'd fronted WOT with Tony slinking into the background, but after commercial failure, the band got dropped and simply fizzled away. His time in the Gun Club, which bookmarked his time with WOT, coincides with the music of theirs I found more accessible. Lupita Screams is fantastic in anybody's book. It must've taken an enormous amount of patience and fortitude to help Jeffrey Lee Pierce realise his musical vision. Almost as much as helping Tony realise his. Little wonder he needed to exhale.

I've been blasting out Earl Brutus all Christmas. Their resonant slogans and glam leanings are as festive as I've felt, and I have been getting some funny looks in the supermarket where I work chanting their catchiest tunes. I needed a survival strategy. Where most acts drip their inner selves into songs, they resist that as if they were creating an art installation and not a song. It possibly explains why I only started getting into them once I understood the Chapman Brothers.

PART 2

MASSIVE KUDOS to Icerink for releasing Earl Brutus's skull-fuck of a glittery stomper, Life's Too Long, on the label. Not least because it is. They saw the remnants of World of Twist and If? and had their own minds blown. And kindly blew ours. Twinned on a good sound-system with The Fall at their deranged best, people would go insane. And I mean insane. That they surpassed all expectations was down to Nick's energy and soul. Few people can shout 'shrunken head, massive head' and make it sound earnest.

Following on from WOT, whose live shows were events Earl Brutus has attracted the anti-terrorist squad and, following Nick actually pissing on the stage, got signed. (Only in the nineties.) Predictably, I never saw them live. Possibly because I felt they'd wronged Tony, but more than likely because Gordon never once let on despite being in the same pubs and clubs. We hide the truth. Pretty sure my pal Jeff was into them back then.

Again, following on from WOT who conceived of the idea that writing the worst lyrics in pop's history would be their golden ticket, Earl Brutus conceived of the idea that infusing the energy and inane banter emanating from telly pages and gritty northern taprooms would be theirs. Alas, only art students think subverting the mainstream with highly convincing parody is a good idea. Their second album was no better than the first, despite major backing on account of their debut being so strong. Quality is quality, I guess. That said, Universal Mind should've been a smash hit.

And again following on from WOT, whose in joking held them back, Earl Brutus set themselves apart from their contemporaries. Seeing most of them as shoddy revivalists. Nick famously called his most famous fan Noel Gallagher, John Noakes, and withdrew consent for their inclusion on the Trainspotting soundtrack on account of Ewan McGregor sounding too posh. It was these acts of self-sabotage that made both acts great but came at a great cost. 

Freeheat; what happened before the Mary Chain reformed and while Earl Brutus waited for another label to sign them, was more an exercise in fun. That said, the Chemical Brothers sampled the riff from The Two of Us. Sadly, the last time Nick's wife and bandmate Romi duetted with Jim was in tribute to him following his untimely death. Tragic a life lived so richly needed a fundraiser. 

As I was ending this piece, Man United's beleaguered ten men had forced a penalty shootout. I thought of Nick, a massive fan and, for the first time in my life, actually wanted them to win. Unthinkable an hour ago. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

138. The Drift by deary 

 

CAPITALISM OUTLIVED communism because it's pragmatic, adaptable to corruption, and less demanding of human nature. Communism’s radical ambition was a threat that ultimately forced the West to adopt a stabilising social democratic model.

Meaning there was less nepotism and cronyism and more education and opportunity. Now, with the end of the cold war, there is a complete inattention to the plight of everyday folks as the unimaginative politicians inflate their own egos and get obsessed with one another. 

It's why Starmer, the most unimaginative politician in modern times, can go from socialism to something that could be mistaken for the greyness of the Sunak era in a few short months. It's why populism, the final gambit in any democracy, is so popular. Its ideas, values and tenets are malleable. Another unspoken truth is that everyday folks are a bit like politicians. Creating a low-cost world with mass consumerism, meaning that they can also unimaginatively inflate their own egos and get obsessed with one another. 

Despite still having slavery in its DNA, this unchecked capitalism has now become the new religion. Reagan, by exhausting Russias wealth pool, created an oligarchy. And not just in Russia. A politician's role is now to serve that whilst paying lip-service to the low-cost world we create. Meaning that only the very richest feel any gains. Something similar occurred during the late Roman Empire. When its ideas, language, and culture took hold elsewhere while it became obsessed with lying and deceiving the everyday folk in its care. 

It's why another part of the world with more imagination and integrity holds the key to moving humanity forward. One not so in fear of the truth.  

BEATS OF LOVE

137. Bigger & Closer (Not Smaller & Further Away) by David Hockney 

IT WAS with trepidation that I entered the Aviva studio, thinking I was going to see another three-hour show. The last time I went, I saw Laurie Anderson. While some elements were compelling, the performance was sprawling and indulgent, going on far too long.

My relief was palpable as I discovered two of the three hours my missus had allotted to this were actually in the bar. The last time I saw Hockney in Manchester was his photographic exhibition, that left me a little cold. I like to see the artist's hand in the work, so I was even less drawn to this. 

However, despite massive reservations, once I found my viewing platform, it drew me in and I became mesmerised. Aviva for once made perfect sense as its vast space became awash with a vibrancy that was both colourful and high spirited. I couldn't help but observe the people below as my eyes scanned the dominant spaces and saw miniature people sat to attention, laid back with their phones, lent against walls, sprawled out on the floor, and knelt down playfully. It very much had a festival flavour. 

Lightroom's masterstroke is having Hockney's distinctively northern voice making pithy comments to guide us through his work with a sense of great purpose. An advantage he has over Van Gogh for sure is this artistic control. Artist Chanje Kunda noted that this gave the work an African flavour by evoking oratory art traditions perfected by the elders and passed down through generations. It certainly gives the exhibition its sense of reverence that means there's no casual banter, allowing the spoken word and image to coalesce. Prompting us to ask, 'are we seeing the work through Hockney's eyes or our own?' Probably our own. That said, the method helps us reach a better level of understanding his work without scrunching our faces in brain ache. 

What came to life for me were the photographs I had dismissed. Possibly because they lend themselves to reproduction, or most likely because I now know what foregrounding time and perspective means. Hockney is a great entry point for this type of installation, as his use of colour is joyful. His big themes, water, spring, theatre; dramatic. It's a great appetiser, as I'm surely not alone in wanting to view more of his actual work now. There is a great big book near the entrance, a more comprehensive catalogue of his oeuvre with a £4500 price tag. I'm guessing it's still there.   

I have my reservations about future installations working as well, but the three-year effort to realise this blockbuster art show needs commending. A blockbuster art show in Manchester. That's a first.  

BEATS OF LOVE 

136. On a Sunday by Nick Heyward

FINDING ONE'S way home after the party was always difficult and, more than once, I needed neighbours to carry my body through the door.

One particular dark episode, sunny Sunday strolling home, away from my good mate Bob's party where I'd just made the best of playing his records and was singing Candi Staton to myself, I bumped into my workmate Tim. A guy who'd just gambled his house away. Convinced the national wank a lottery would save him, only it didn't. 

Inviting him back to my mother's house to share a whisky was a bad idea. To then invite the more excessive remnants of the party, Bob's pal Nick amongst them, an even badder one. Finally, I returned home on the Monday with a copy of this, the single I'd bought off Tim more out of pity as I already had one and a David Holmes single bought from Vinyl Exchange. Just an ordinary Monday on the surface.

All I fully recall after my ill-fated stroll, though, is one guy leaving and returning. It leads to me collapsing on the Tuesday, needing a stomach pump. On my hospital departure, I recognised some faces congregating outside and learned that Nick had died. 

My time with Nick was very sketchy, to say the least. On every other occasion, it would've been a laughing matter. We parted ways upon my angry mother's return home on the Monday afternoon like naughty schoolboys, yet before Tuesday teatime he had died. Everyone, except those closest to him, was happy to buy into this myth of me leading him astray. I'm naturally prone to guilt, but eventually forgave myself, as being blamed is my burden to carry. 

I guess it's only natural to preserve the best possible version of folk when consigning them to memory. Tim, too, has sadly died, but not before finding family joy. I just hope he and Nick have found their way home.

BEATS OF LOVE 

135. Ultra Violet by Mark E

I HARK back to the hours, sat on cold floors listening to blokes (always blokes) mixing after hours. Mixing similar BPMs and similar records. Then, whenever the chance arose, I'd spin 60s tunes, which pissed people off. Shirley Bassey's Something excepted. 

Unless Fiona, Emma or Joanne beat me to it and they'd always spin something truly memorable. Then something else that sounded brilliant, but they'd be dancing and not mixing. I was always dying to know what they were playing. They turned me on to utterly memorable music like There's a Riot..., Stepping Razor, Forever Manna, Rune Lindbaek and Larry Heard's brilliant mid-nineties stuff and were effortlessly cool.  

When rehearsing for our joint DJ debut, I recall Jeff listening to my records and finding the dramatic point in which to cue on another record and realised he was actually doing it properly. I just danced then changed the record or if I was DJing, fade out the sound on one deck before cross fading. I sort of assumed that as long as the music delivered and the drama stayed in focus, I'd keep the floor and I was sometimes right. I took my influence from my three unsung heroes, who were actually poets and journalists when not partying. These brave women trod a path to make it easier for the next generation to find a collective voice. 

I'm pretty sure if we had a time machine and could play today's music at yesteryear's afters, there'd be loads of beige beatport DJ wannabes mixing away and then breaking the rare silence, Fiona would stagger across the room and drop this onto the deck in a no-nonsense manner. Enough said.