BEATS OF LOVE 

71. Time Has Told Me by Nick Drake

THIS YEAR has taught me an awful lot and strengthened my faith. 

Letting go of family members and a close friend is private, and the rights and wrongs are ultimately somebody else's business. Somebody else's opinion about what has happened will get heard. Opinions that will then change from person to person. Opinions that will all but bury any semblance of truth. Throughout the rest of my life, there are going to be times of anguish because of events that have occurred this year.  

However, I take massive comfort because other important relationships have strengthened or healed, drawing what remains of us closer together by understanding exactly what has happened and what has been happening for years. The missus' astute observations were especially trenchant and perceptive. Time itself will tell my side of the story. That's how faith works, I guess. 

That this magnificent song, written by a mere 21-year-old, resonates so much with me and the predicament I now find myself in, speaks volumes about Nick Drake. His odd maturity, his disdain for convention, his lightness of touch, and his inspiring faith during the emergence of what was to be a short but magical musical career. 

His lyrics completely wrap themselves around an experience of internal struggle. We can only find some solace by honestly exposing a beauty in solitude and in the imperfection of companionship. Faith in the future is all we have. Without it, we're as good as dead already. 

I never let a day pass without praising the magic that transformed such a troubled soul into the wisest old sage. Teaching me how to heal and warmly nudging me toward a tomorrow, with all its wonderful imperfection.  

BEATS OF LOVE

70. Cold Blooded Love by Thee Hypnotics

READING GEORGE Orwell's Diaries have been illuminating. 

Other than more cleanliness, the conditions that bind today's society are pretty much unchanged. The false dominant narratives propagated by the right wing press still cut through, and wage slavery is still the norm. What surprises is the man behind the persona. A man who passionately loves gardening. A man we wouldn't know existed had he lived to write his autobiography and burn his diaries. 

He hated the artifice of mass-consumerism but nurtured a public image to sell on to the public. It's nigh on impossible not to. We all do, especially folk in bands or folk influenced by them like me. Thee Hypnotics were a tight rock act who I caught live twice but who fetishized Iggy and the MC5 to the point that their public image appeared a bit retro and naff. In 1991, John Leckie, fresh from being scarred working on Lawrence's magnum opus, produced their second studio album. Not that I knew it at the time. Singer Jim Jones told Shindig : 

"In the past, I’d said to people, ‘You know that BIG Phil Spector reverb… well….’ and they’d give you a tiny bit. When I said this to John he swamped the album in it…. woahhhh. He’s a proper producer.”

Forgiving bands a retro or naff public image and instead evaluating the music as a separate entity gets to the essence of what Balearic Beat is all about. Leaving no stone unturned to unearth woozy music with warmth. Music a bit like this. 

Ignore the title and get lost in the earthy organ, then let those seductive slide guitar motifs work their magic. There's even a female backing singer low down in the narcotic mix too. It feels pretty epic, but in truth isn't all that long, and marks a quantum leap for a band hitherto related to the word lounging. 

Other than more cleanliness, the conditions that bind society since the 1930s are pretty much unchanged. However, this deeper reading of rock'n'roll that owes a massive debt to jazz and the Velvets, in equal measure, is a magnificent way to kill time in the 21st century.  

  

BEATS OF LOVE 

69. The Hacienda: The Club That Shook Britain documentary

MY FATHER passed away suddenly less than a fortnight into my first ever job. Exploiting my naivety, the staff-trainer adopted the role of boss and made my confusing life even more confusing by ordering me about and making unreasonable demands. Even chastising me for crying a couple of days after my father died. It took me an age to fathom that he wasn't actually my boss and to move on from my ordeal.

However, the reason this guy still sticks in my craw is that back in late 1987 he taped house music off the radio and then in 88 drove his car to go clubbing at the Hacienda. The apex of its mythical heyday. Whilst all the while raving about Debbie Gibson. As if I was ever going to go clubbing there...

(I did eventually, but I didn't like it much.)

Architectural Review 1982

These latest talking heads promised much, as Kath and Soo are great. John Robb was always lurching about town and is normally a reliable raconteur, but he's obsessed with making punk the main driving force of this story. Nobody's expecting a Free Trade Hall BBC documentary soon.

Other than Mike Pickering, who let go of his ego to reminisce, the other pop stars took up far too much time over emphasizing their part in its backstory. The following sentence covers it; Factory owners and cult band New Order attempted to recreate NY's Funhouse in the rainy city by introducing diverse nights and acts in their club-space, that often looked even more massive and impressive when it was less than half full, which it often was.

Sure, it started in a gym in London, but the Ibiza inspired acid house phenomenon properly took off here. As Soo rightly states, its historical significance was only far-reaching because the pioneering Hot night and E helped change clubbing attitudes in the UK forever. Once the shenanigans were first exposed in the media, people all over the country suddenly wanted to dance and hug one another. Dance alone, dance with friends, dance with family, or, as was often the case, with new friends. Few of us could stretch to 25 quid for an actual E, but by simply being in Manchester, we became less predatory and more relaxed with one another. And, more inclined to dance under the influence of far cheaper drugs.

Peter Walsh

It truly had a trickle down effect and people at its epicentre like Jon Dasilva remained warm and humorous, influencing the next generation whilst even finding time to entertain folk like myself.

Everyone I got to know in the nineties through clubbing had some link back to the Hacienda. Evoking my move to a new school when, upon my arrival, the class was told a pupil's sister had sadly died. There was something bonding between these folk, so I could never begin to fully understand. Whilst I like to blame the guy from work for missing out, the truth is it was quickly over-hyped with a trendy reputation, so took flack in the music press. Being an impressionable teen, I was always unlikely to go.

I still blame him for holding back my fully fledged house music initiation, though.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m001dsm0/the-hacienda-the-club-that-shook-britain

BEATS OF LOVE 

68. A Puppet by The Mod 4

TEENAGE ALL-GIRL band The Mod 4’s career highlight came in early 1969 on the telly variety show Happening, hosted by Paul Revere and the Raiders. 

That they were beaten by pre-teenagers called Paula & The Pipsqueaks epitomizes the tragi-comic elements of pop failure that make it so fascinating. That Swiss graphic designer and record collector Ivan Liechti has unearthed a double LP's worth of similar warmly ambitious treasure for Oz label Efficient Space with a forward penned by my former guru Sonic Boom is definitely a Christmas come early. 

By the time the Beatles publicly turned their back on LSD, the damage had already been done; scientific zealotry had taken hold, Brian Wilson had lost his mind, and, introspective, more imaginative, soul searching, pop songs were big business. It's no surprise that bands immersed in LSD actually sound worse than the more youthful ones influenced by them. Billy Nicholls, being the exception. Slight misunderstandings make these teenage songs sound less velvety, saccharine, and insincere. 

The Mod 4 had money and in Nellie Hastings a songwriter who had read and listened just enough to craft a song more creatively and imaginatively than the folk she was in part imitating. Big dreams have never sounded so fragile, and the transparency of thought is its biggest charm. 

I had my own big dreams too this year, but, with the sheer quality of compilation albums coming at me, I'm happily mired in a listening mode for the foreseeable. Acting on them will just have to wait. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

67. Give It Up (Benedek remix) by RTSAK

MUCH TO love about this twelve. For a start, the sleeve feels really luxurious. 

Red hot production but less louche and sultry, Antoine, no longer strolls sockless through the cosmos. He instead dances on the daft punk coffee table to a spangled 80s rhythm. Albeit, rather coolly, placing a greater emphasis on Batiste's guitar parts and adding a pop sensibility. But still fastening himself to a load of vintage analog equipment. 

Raphaël Top-Secret brilliantly kick starts his label cachette in collaboration, adding some refreshing earth beneath his work-spars astral leanings. Consequently, creating a vibrancy that gives it more than a sprinkling of funk. The musical equivalent of offering it a smile with a loving tumbler of Mezcal.   

However, it's this remix that does it for me. Benedek created the lockdown classic Mr Goods on L.I.E.S., perfecting the future-retro grooves that folk my age find really appealing. Nodding to the raw beats of yesteryear but with a pulse that places it firmly in the now.

The funk has added elasticity, changing this neo-soul wobbler's pace, sending it flurrying, tumbler in hand, onto discerning dancefloors. I'm properly hooked.

BEATS OF LOVE

66. Hotel California (Orbitally Ambient Mix) by Jam on the Mutha 

LEE AND Mark both liked boozing, but that's where the similarity ends. 

When I first met Lee, we'd drive to remote areas and dance topless to S'Express on his car bonnet. Or punch the air in surrender to Erasure in the rougher boozers in Shaw. Like me, he was a bit of a clown. He became a postie and went from being dead chatty to totally remote over the course of a few short years. I was too young to realize unsociable working hours aren't for everyone. 

He was humiliated by the regulars who stripped him naked and threw him out of the local boozers window after his behaviour had got more bizarre, as he sadly lost his faculty to communicate. It was sad to see Lee's demise, and I later felt tremendous shame that I was too apathetic to at least attempt to force some conversation out of him. I could see clearly he was worse than unhappy. 

By 1994 I could see myself spiralling and becoming more like him, who, by this point, was sadly no longer with us. After a failed attempt at self-poisoning, I moved away. Best thing I did until I met the missus.     

I first recall seeing Mark through a police car window. I was being driven off, and he was intrigued as teenagers are. A year later, he was taking LSD with us on the local playing field. I was aware of his young age and despite going through the massive fits of laughter stage; I felt a responsibility to be there for him as the more intense stage kicked in, which it already had with me. We must've walked around that field two hundred times, and Mark never once stopped laughing. 

He still hadn't stopped laughing throughout the nineties. Or, after a trip to Ibiza, where my mate thought it would be a good idea to knock back brandy and coke in the departure lounge with him. Mark returned home in hysterics as my mate languished in a Spanish cell for two days. 

I recall being round another mate's house and Mark putting Hotel California on. A permanent pub jukebox record, but it made sense to me during a particularly scrambled session. Obviously, I prefer this Orb version, which he would say is shit. Mark, with the same wicked twinkle in his eye as his dad Terry, was definitely more of a ladies' man. 

When the Queen died, I saw him for what would be the last time. Predictably laughing until King Charles spoke on the telly and he became furious that the guys playing pool were, well, playing pool. He eyeballed me, half expecting me to break the silence he had now orchestrated, but out of respect for him, I kept quiet. I'm now glad I did. Lee didn't get the outpouring of social-media love Mark has rightly received. He would have in today's age. That love still needs to translate into a better understanding of one another.

God bless you, Lee and Mark. Your lights shine bright. 

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

18. Candy Flip: A breakfast dream was empty, and no-one took the blame 

PART 1

MY SPECIAL TOTP moments began in 1979 with Wings whose Christmas idyll played on my Grandparents' black and white telly whilst I was getting a bit bored in their company. It was both tantalizingly close and somewhat remote. And mysteriously exciting. That same formula of baffling proximity endured throughout the 80s but in colour, which made TOTP even more captivating. We all know the video hits. 

Watching an eclectic array of acts that often regularly toured on Snub TV brought everything into closer proximity, but killed a lot of mystique. The TOTP acts still seemed remote until the Roses and Mondays swaggered onto the show in 1989. These were bands that were regularly playing the International and Hacienda and not always packing them in. Bands that began fusing their attitude with an acid smiley and daisy age sensibility. It spawned a Face cover that celebrated E and really felt like a moment.   

By early 1990, house influence was ubiquitous and an unadulterated indie-dance sound crossed over into the charts. In my final year of comprehensive education in 1986, I was totally obsessed with the Beatles, so when Candy Flip's Strawberry Fields Forever began to get club play, I was buzzing. Germany's June edition of Pop Rocky magazine labelled them, without irony, 'The Beatles on Acid.' Brilliant. Primal Scream's Loaded also aired on the same TOTP when it finally charted and it felt like another important moment. 

PART 2

CANDY FLIP that same month were on the cover of Smash Hits with their cheeky name, (slang for mixing E with LSD), and played live at the legendary Konspiracy.

I was there flapping without the candy on a wonky stool most of the night. Whereas the Scream welcomed drug references Candy Flip with their unfortunate name and freshly acquired pop aspirations, began distancing themselves from the Hacienda and began talking up the Pet Shop Boys instead.

The fey aspects of C86 inherent in Candy Flip's poppy moments also carried over into the Beloved's later synth pop duo incarnation. The Beloved were more successfully wedded to an acid smiley and daisy age sensibility, but didn't chart as highly. They knew the music business inside out whereas Candy Flip dressed like fashion victims and appealed to a younger audience so started saying naff things like 'acid house might as well have been called banana house.' With an unkind UK music press quickly savaging them their quality tunes got lost in the laughter. 

A crying shame they weren't taken more seriously coz the flip side of their biggest hit, Aqua Libra, is a stunning slice of mellow piano laden goodness. Evolution on their ill-fated debut twelve still takes me to bleep heaven, throbbing in all the right places, and still sells for under a tenner. Buy it. 

Rhythm of Life is also a cheeky little play on Derrick May's masterpiece, which actually sounds cool softening those irrepressibly sexy stabs. Almost as cool as putting JB's funky drummer sample on a Beatles track. The Most Excellent mix of Redhills Road teases in the vocal, then lets it soar. Justin Robertson's remixes were prone to teasing out the vocals, which is testament to its strength.  

They deservedly got the chance to make a studio album and really embraced it. Madstock...The Continuing Adventures Of Bubblecar Fish stands up well and still plays coherently, demonstrating a fine production ear. They comprehended that they were now the weirdest boy band ever but were still subsumed in the same mellow baggy groove that made their big hit such a club moment. Pop songs that sound a bit dull and cheesy fed through videos of Danny Spencer's constant smiles actually come alive and demand much more attention in the context of this LP. Like the opposite of TOTP.   

 

Highlight, the aforementioned Redhills Road, illustrates that they were every bit as odd as Shaun Ryder, whose inane lyrics in stark contrast were lauded by the music press. Odd, but from Stoke and not Salford. So not seen as authentic. They could also concoct a more coherent and convincing form of soft psychedelic dance than the Mondays. 

I also reminisce about Oasis and how fucking over-rated their TOTP performances were, and their authenticity was, with its aggression and simplicity. And I bemoan how LSD sort of fizzled out of the scene, taking Candy Flip with it.