I'VE BEEN reading Bobby G's typically immodest but entertaining memoirs and was especially happy to re-read for the umpteenth time his anecdote about Loaded. I also concur with Weatherall that the best record he put his own name to wasn't that but the Primal's version of Dennis Wilson's Carry Me Home.
He actually gave the song more gravitas by pitching it a little slower and adding some depth with his psychotic coda that bewitches in a mournful yet meaningful way. Both Weatherall and The Primals were barely into their 30s yet still sound utterly convincing and soulful. As with other releases on NuNorthern Soul, I was awaiting my 2 track seven from Huw and BJ Smith only to discover it was a digital only second track.
Thankfully, I bought a sampler twelve so at least have the stunning Sun When You Come on vinyl. I love the fact Huw like The Primal's hands over control of his work to surprise both himself and us. One copy of the vinyl sampler is left for sale on Bandcamp. Hurry! What I'm more interested in this week are the long anticipated Torn Sail remixes that were becoming as mythical as theB'dum B'dum... vinyl, which is also out now. Christopher Galloway delivers a yummy vinyl copy, and Shrinkwrap, a production duo permitted into Huw's thought processes, may not be prolific but are top drawer, make it absolutely essential.
Disconnected has been on a journey with me, as I was hoping it would gain the traction needed to get to honour the Playhouse show. Sadly, it didn't, but it has evolved into a song that sprays like shards of fine cut glass, transforming itself with a fragile beauty. And that's just Huw's own reinterpretation. Like BJ, this duo understand production and compose a sunset masterpiece out of his once tight pop song.
That they turn two further Gains on Gains remixes abetted by BJ on Moog that truly maximises its wondrous musical passage that unsurprisingly sounds much more aquatic than astral, is a massive bonus. I'm more smitten with the lighter weighted dub right now, which bobs along brilliantly but all that could change as all three tracks are on rotation. Three epic, differing excursions that all explore wider-screen musical routes out of Huw's more plaintive expression. And all for the price of a dessert.
Yes, hail the remixers, but hail the artists who permit them freedom. More.
11. WE WANNA GET LOADED AND WE WANNA HAVE A GOOD TIME
PART 1'Just what is it that you want to do?'
LOADED WAS a game-changer, altering everything since the day I first heard it from a fuzzy monochrome into crystal-clear technicolour. Everything except my clobber. Other than Blundstone boots, everything I owned was from my mother's or sister's wardrobes or Wednesday's Oldham flea market. I went to a Loop concert on half a trip the day I bought it, but couldn't wait to get back home to spin it on repeat throughout a sunny Thursday morning in the back garden where it sounded truly wonderful.
I loved the hazy intensity, the day after a decent trip, when I would convince myself I was becoming a little more enlightened. However, by 1997 I was so pleased to hear the Beta Band's Champion Versions EP rewinding everything back to that same point, as I had become truly jaded with going out clubbing, but, in between time, there were Justin Robertson, Greg Fenton, Tom Rowlands, and Ed Simons, whose music had a cumulative effect of further enlightening me, I think.
The minute I walked into HP's night, I knew I had found something ever shifting and much more stimulating than any other nights I'd attended. Records I owned through Spice and Boy's Own charts, but I never heard anywhere else, were rocking a really cool mixed gay and straight crowd.
Greg's tunes really held that vibe together, but Justin had a massive pull and created buckets of energy and enthusiasm. Introducing my good mate Stu's cousin (an Arches regular) to their full on Thursday was memorable. The sweat was just dripping off his carrot top and flying everywhere. I'd never seen anything like it before or since. And I've been in some mad-houses.
My kid sister fitted in well with her Geese clobber, but I only went in there for fanzines and flyers. All my spare cash went on an ever-growing records wants list and going out. Tom sometimes wore a really cool leather jacket with Renegade Soundwave emblazoned on the back and his cohort Phil South an even greater Exile tee. The Stones were my main obsession, and I hadn't at that point considered my socio-economic dis-advantages, let alone my own image. I just felt some spiritual kin-ship and having my sisters in tow helped create that sense of affiliation.
PART 2'Ground Controllll!'
LUCKILY, MONDAYS at the Brickhouse were a more dressed down affair and mainly given over to Ariel T-Shirted straight lads and impromptu PA's from the likes of Andy E and Rowetta, who always sounded champion.They wouldn't stand on a stage but would instead belt out numbers on the stairwell.People forget that there was one tune that charged up Justin's dancefloor that summer. The girls were admiring one another's I-D recommended clobber and swish haircuts, then Rhythm is a Mystery dropped and the place erupted into smiling and dancing. Not many Monday night DJs could then keep their floor full by playing Sheer Taft and the Fun Boy Three. Hats well and truly off.
Monday clubbing really made a statement, but with working Tuesday's I was supping Sol and other than a bit of puff on the journey down was pretty much straight headed. Most folk for most of the time were in a similar laid back head-space.
Kid Sister
Tim used to drive down from Lancaster and was much more energetic and enthusiastic than me. Even after a week in Berlin, he was full of vim. He was great coz his congenial nature meant he shared the track titles Justin was playing without making a meal of it, saving me the embarrassment of approaching the DJ booth.
The seminal closers Don't Fight It (Scat mix), Temple Head, andFallen were quasi-religious in their effect, and sent us all off to the high place.
However, I'd soon be fast asleep on the car journey back home before jotting down the titles on my way to bed. I was the worst of things; a train-spotter in denial. In all the other clubs, I was too wasted.
Glitter Baby at the State was a case in point. I was still prone to losing the plot, whereas Greg would waft himself in the heat with records I could only dream of buying and never have a hair out of place. Tom would sit down in sober conversation often with carrier bags of records whilst I'd be sliding down a wall in a poppers and sweat haze.
I only ever recall him dancing once and that was to Weatherall's Come Homeremix at a Primal's gig. He'd already enjoyed his dancefloor conversion long before me and had obviously considered his socio-economic advantages and own image.
One Saturday I was too inebriated to even leave Mum's house, so gave her cat Garfield, who I called Brian, some poppers instead and laughed as he walked into the radiator. I laughed too on another sorry occasion when my mother called into my room to tell me my uncle had just died as I had just been sampling some pills. Mother, luckily, had the wisdom to recognize my folly and knew I would feel dreadful eventually. Or did my sister tell her? Anyway, I eventually I did. Brian exacted his own revenge too when he began talking to me in a cold manner when we were alone together and this completely freaked me out for well over a year.
I recall Nicola Stephenson, whose character Margaret Clemence shared that infamous kiss in Brookside, showing concern for my mental-state one night, and me predictably making a poorly judged pass at her. These nights morphed into days and other nights, Circus took the reins from Glitter Baby and Most Excellent moved to Thursdays at the Wiggly Worm before it got ram-raided by gangs. Ed became increasingly chatty, discussing MBV, Graham Massey, and the Roses, whilst Tom, whose band Ariel was on the wane, was every bit as transparent as myself. His look of complete disdain when I enthused about Nia Peeples was only matched by my own when he was buzzing about the Prodigy. Looking back, it was a primitive form of market research.
I was surprised and supportive when Tom and Ed eagerly started Naked Under Leather. It attracted a load of students and was a cool place to try out Dennis the Menaces with my good pal Bobby, or introduce Stu's maddest cousin in day-glow pants to magic mushrooms and crazy dancing. Or did he introduce us? Either way, it was mental.
I like the fact that it was Justin who had told Tom to concentrate on the weird interludes in his music. Moonboots deserves credit too for arming them with dubbed-out, hip-hop records, which really stood them out. Often sounding not unlike their own output.
PART 3'Gu-Gan-Gu Gagga-Gan, Gu-Gan-Gu Gagga-Gan- Girl i'm high!'
THE DUST Brothers produced really ground-breaking music.A case in point is their Swordfish remix. It retained a Balearic air, but, with the help of an East Side Hoods sample and some lysergic acid dimethylamide in the groove, they took them off to another stratosphere.
It was definitely another Loaded moment for me as it sounded not too dissimilar from the noise reverberating around my own head as I lay on my bed awaiting another unfathomable night of strange dreams. In no time at all, their DJing was uniting journalists and you could anticipate their success. Lots more women and freaks began attending NUL, and they really relegated Phil to a workaday role, despite him being a great DJ in his own right. I actually thought they might be as big as Greg one day.
In fact, Greg played some blinding sets in the Pavillion with Jon Dasilva at Space Funkbefore it too got ram-raided by gangs.He championed Chicago house and Disco and then, with the release of his own disco-infused house bomb, Love Infinity,it all quickly fizzled out for me.Invariably, post-club, whilst folk were wandering around looking for after-parties, I'd be stretched out, star-shaped, on the local bowling green, tripping, and still seeking enlightenment.
I took a lot of magic mushrooms and wandered around his new night, Vive Le Rock at the Wiggly Worm, realizing I was definitely in the wrong meeting. Stu took a lot more than me and was in a far worse state, actually crawling around, and I was in a bad way.
Shortly after, we both suffered very definitive, but wholly separate, breakdowns. He fell back in love with footy, but because I still harboured hopes of being an uncompromising DJ, I wasn't finished with music. Unsurprisingly, there were more breakdowns to come my way. Everything became very disjointed and very foggy until Discopogoat the Paradise Factory where Tom and Ed sounded next level. Long before their fancy Dan light shows and their need to fill bigger spaces with their sound, they were mixing records I owned or selecting cuts off them I myself had overlooked.
Follow 4 Now sounded absolutely astounding and truly futuristic in their set. I was a little in awe and actually thought for the first time that they might be a little bigger than Greg one day.
Tuesday, 5 October 2021
BEATS OF LOVE
20.The Crystal Ship by The Doors
I CAN safely say that the apex of poetic popular music was The Doors and that living past 27 is vastly over-rated. I love Lawrence, whose integrity and wit sear into his songs in a highly unpretentious, poetic manner. However, being honest, he self-destructed over a lack of fame. He was hardly popular.
NME darling Morrissey is now a bugbear for many, but me especially. I bunked off school in part to memorise his lyrics, especially Headmaster Ritual, which brilliantly caricatured the state school monsters who made my life so miserable. This song became a sort of survival kit.
Sadly, to keep his songs relevant nowadays means freezing in time, the monsters that characterize many of his songs. Sadly, the only allies he can find, intent on doing this, are the far-right. A far-right he duly sucks up to in a despicable fashion by wearing shitty little For Britain button badges.
Another important band of my late adolescence, the Stone Roses, utilized the Bible to give gravitas to their lyrics on otherwise formulaic songs. Front man Ian Brown sang these songs in a broad regional dialect but was still propelled by a lot of music journalists into the limelight, and he actually seemed like an iconic figure. With hindsight, he wasn't.
It's tragic that they reformed to desecrate their name. Perhaps a twenty-something can still hear the fiery menace in I Wanna BeAdored, a song written by and for folk in their sexual prime. Not fifty-somethings, who are already decaying. Who are they even kidding? More tragic still is that he now bangs on about covid inanely to desecrate it further. Despite Oliver Stone trashing Jim Morrison's character in his hateful biopic by lampooning him as completely insane, it wasn't real. Alas, Ian Astbury's tragic karaoke bastardization was. It actually happened.
Morrison's short time in the limelight testifies to a sensitivity, evidenced in his poetic lyrics, which more than confirmed he wasn't completely insane. In that all too brief spell before the whiskey took a hold of him,heboth looked and thought better than anyone else before or since. This baroque lament for a left love has been over analysed for its drug connotations, but I prefer to read it as a sombre love song. The Doors brought his poetry to life, and it's the richly colourful instrumentation here that kills me. Left on a page, it wasn't too great. This truly emotive love song is made all the more intense by realizing he never did make it back to drop a line.
It's also one of my favourite love songs of all time and needs another spin as everything in my life becomes uncertain. I have many records, but not that many musical anchors.
Saturday, 2 October 2021
BEATS OF LOVE
19. Anti Mako by Francky Vincent
PRIOR TO covid I had sketched plans for a night called simply - BAREFOOT IN THE HEAD.Featuring crazy funky tunes, mad dubby house, wrong-speeders and the most whacked-out tunes in my collection. With guest DJs pencilled in from mainly Holland, it was to run 3 times a year and press heavily on the delirium button. Like much of my other life as a bedroom DJ, it's now on the cutting room floor, but I still aspire to soundtrack it whenever the mood takes me.
I always knew that the internet was going to both help me join the dots of my 30 year musical odyssey and cost me a packet in the process, which is why I stayed off line until 2008. And it has. Much like my Japanese parcels, my French parcels tend to arrive spasmodically, but in pretty hardcore fashion. Throwing a few curveball buys in for good measure to elicit some surprise.
This, however, was always going to be a major blast. The only questions I asked myself were 'is it a minter, and does it play loud?' Luckily, the answers were, yes, and yes. Francky is Zouk's answer to Serge Gainsbourg. His sexually explicit lyrics often courted controversy, but if I'm honest, I haven't got the foggiest of what he's singing about here. All I know is that the song is delirium on wax. Whether his cheeky smile on the sleeve has disarmed me, I'm not sure, but right from the dizzy opening, I'm completely hooked.
Pure marmite by nature, you're either gliding across the floor in glee like myself, or reaching for the sick bucket. Both vocalists employ their voices instrumentally to engine drive the song at pace in a manner reminiscent of early Wham! and their backing singer classics. However, the tropical percussive heat given off is distinctively Francky and decidedly Zouk at its absolute best.
I'm so glad I purchased it as I've gone from dancing for my mental health to dancing to keep my feet warm in the space of a week. Like 1991 all over again, then.
Friday, 24 September 2021
BEATS OF LOVE
18. When Nirvana Came to Britain documentary
I SUPPOSE a proper writer keeps writing through the arduous weeks, whereas I just look at writing through the weary prism of such weeks as a vanity project or a self-indulgence even. I have instead sat knee deep in warming German and Japanese percussive jazz records and playing them loads, deliberating which ones to photograph and write about, before deciding to just play them and instead convince those of you who haven't watched the documentary When Nirvana Came to Britain to watch it.
It's refreshing to watch a documentary that isn't portraying these people as rock stars. They get the point completely, and the right talking heads are on hand to do this subject justice.
In order to connect with one another to make the whole scene homogenous, we all dumbed-down a little by drinking. Escaping our regional dialects, inner-reality, and actual everyday existence in the process. Consequently, when I went to watch bands, I was always half-cut, and I wasn't alone.
Me and Stu having our Jo Whiley moment
Tony, who found his expression on their stage, wigging out completely, is a case in point. Representative of so many fucked up people like myself. I was there in the Poly with my good mate Stu. Waiting for Tad.
I felt a deep connection with their record label, Sub Pop; its ideals, its acts and its oppositional stance to business as usual. Yet in no time at all, Nirvana was on a major and blowing up big time.With that sense of intimacy lost, their music was relegated from my private listening world to something I listened to via pub jukeboxes.
It was still their best music but was now captivating everybody else to some extent. Trying to communicate with so many more people who weren't fucked up to change a bigotry and intolerance, synonymous with their straight-laced world, was always going to be a thankless task. Luckily, this documentary focuses more on the survivors and offers a clearer hindsight into the group as a whole because of it. So many artists before and after have feared killing the golden goose of their success, but not them. There's plenty of great footage that illustrates why they were the most fearless band of our times. Not my personal favourite by a long chalk, but a band that nonetheless changed music forever.
Their feminine sensibility divided folk, which then made it easier to tell who the cunts were, irrespective of musical taste. A sensibility more relevant now than ever, as tired, aging conservative white men still stamp about like Neanderthal's dividing us. Their short-lived Nirvana phase a lifetime ago.
Tune in, turn on, oh, and drop out if you haven't already. And wear your feminine sensibility like a badge of honour.
I'M STILL not over my mother's sudden death. In truth, I still feel like a severed branch and I still roll my eyes in disbelief on a daily basis. I did a bit of curating shortly after she died, which was far from perfect, so I know how you can only work in bursts before it all gets too overwhelming. My mother told me my father wasn't the same person since his own mother died and I now understand why.
That Steve Cobby has produced a whole album to commemorate his mother's life is an achievement in itself. That it's pretty much perfect is no great surprise, but that much of it plays so joyously marks the true testament to her and did disarm me, the listener, somewhat.
I'm reminded of Ted, my mother's long term-companion and partner who knew her more than anyone, and deciding what songs should be played to commemorate her life.I was digging out John Coltrane, but he simply scoffed his face. His expression barely changed with Ella, but when he saw Dionne Warwick and played the Bacharach & David penned What the World Needs Now, his face lit up. He wanted joyous music.
I've just got back from a wedding where it felt like I was representing Nigeria. The bride's estranged Nigerian Father (our cousin) was unable to impose a full traditional wedding (thank God), but had influenced the occasion enough to deter his ex-wife, the bride's Jamaican mother from attending.
The joylessness finally built up to a crescendo pitch during the speeches when it became apparent she was missing. The small Nigerian contingent could feel the hostility aimed at them yet framed it along the lines of nationalism, but I knew different. The bride and groom will regret their decision to connect with their Nigerian lineage over and above honouring their mother. That said, this track, the LP closer, isn't all that joyous. Its harmonica etches into the memory through recurring sequence, as the title suggests, so much graphic imagery, that it becomes a duet with the piano. This plaintive expression, served with threadbare accompaniment, truly captures the essence of such a presence. And truly honours his own mother.
The past becomes as much a part of our tomorrow as the present day. If ever the word intarsia can be applied to music, it is this two-sided blend that marks apoignant refusal of death. The presence is simply too strong for its acceptance. It's why my feelings of severance will eventually heal, and why the bride and mother will soon be reconciled and come to realize that she, in fact, never missed her daughter's wedding at all.
THIS LP was actually on my radar during lockdown, then I clean forgot about it.When recalling a couple of Lords of Thyme live shows that clean slipped through my grasp, I actually remembered this and was chuffed that he's still selling copies on his Bandcamp page. And still is.
I'm mystified as to why Tali Trow and Huw are still mailing out their own records, when their music is this great, but being mystified is in itself rather satisfying. It motors the brain; I guess.
Illustrating that the music industries' stranglehold and market fixation so often overlooks time served talent. Whilst illustrating the energetic resilience of musicians, striving to be heard in their own lifetime, in the face of this injustice. It is my hope that they are, which is why I'm doing SFH. My bit.
This track is the highlight of a very solid spin of an album and I thought I had unearthed a little gem. I thought 'just wait until my little wormhole hear this.' I then did a bit of a google search and discovered that the prolific Paul Hillery had already uploaded the very same track on his brilliant Folk Funk and Trippy Troubadours series at the tail-end of last year, so, it's highly likely that my little wormhole have already heard this.
Paul's having a celebration of sorts by compiling his mix-series highlights as it nears its centenary. An insane amount of quality music. He's also more eclectic a DJ than his series suggests, even playing Justin Vandervolgen's Talking Jungle remix on the wrong speed, at the Devil' Jukebox, which roundly deserves a hats off. Cover versions are fascinating. Quite often I love it when everything goes crazy, stupid, but just as often I love it when crazy stupid songs are made to sound more conventional.
Tali has lived with this crazy, stupid song for years and his wonderful interpretation channels the spirit of the mighty James Taylor instead of staying faithful to the country, cosmic original (which would've been trendier). And is gloriously timeless because of it. It's truly reminiscent of the embryonic stages of the golden age of the singer-songwriter. He's at that very same well, and really lets the chorus shine as bright as the afternoon sun, in a deeply effecting way, with that hazy Hammond.
I was actually spinning it during sundown and the missus was in the garden singing along, which is far more satisfying to hear than any wormhole recognition. I can count the times that's happened on one finger.
