BEATS OF LOVE  

110. Cascade by Niecy Blues

NOT THAT I made a resolution, but after watching her fawning interview with Mone and Barrowman, which barely scratched the surface of their scandals, I resolved not to watch Laura Kuenssberg again. 

That went well as I sat agog while she cosily chatted with the PM less than a fortnight later. This left me convinced I knew more about the junior doctor's dispute and the post office scandal than the pair of them. Obviously, I didn't, but their dumbing down of politics in the media has now meant dramatists have more credibility.

Whilst my mother's partner celebrated his daughter-in-law's  50th at the Ivy, all attention was on their table until Kuenssberg and Dominic Raab turned up and sat nearby. Suddenly, all attention diverted away from my mother's partner's table and towards theirs, giving him the chance to see just how much booze they consumed. Then, unsurprisingly, Raab, when interviewed the following day, became utterly confused by the meaning of misogyny and sounded truly horrible.

 

The political landscape is now characterised by a revolving door of public school ninnies like him being cosseted by the media when they behave appallingly. Many see that appalling behaviour as authenticity, which epitomises society's shortsightedness. The media never cossets ordinary folk. 

With this track evoking the headphone heaven of the finest trip-hop, but with a fresh and twisted soul sensibility, putting me in my happy place, I resolve never to mention the flaccid state of British politics ever again. 

BEATS OF LOVE

109. Abigail's Party  DVD

PUNK-ROCK started our generation gap, but before that explosion, the teenager was born and grew up. Teenagers who defined themselves by buying and not making stuff. Who mimicked what they watched on the telly to style themselves, serviced their own ego and distanced themselves from their parents. Teenagers, a lot like me then. 

In this fresh, new state of alienated consumerism, these teenagers would continue as adults, defining themselves as middle-class despite being born into houses with tin-baths, buying stuff, including 'brand new' homes and often parented punk-rockers who rightfully rebelled against them.  

No art captures this unconscious state of blind aspiration that is still prevalent in society better than Mike Leigh's brilliant play. I've only seen it on DVD about fifty times. It survives because all the social antagonisms that the tragi-comedy teases out persist today. Their complete lack of any emotional transparency makes his class-obsessed characters, who instead only express themselves by what they consume, appear truly preposterous. Until we recognise little bits of ourselves in them. 

His only proper middle-class character, Sue, looks as uncomfortable as we do watching it. However, whilst she's recognising something shockingly novel, we're instead recognising our own family's social shortcomings and the binge-drinking culture that was spawned in society at large. 

Tragically, the punk-rockers in their more pronounced state of alienation failed to grasp that making stuff was essential in resisting Thatcherism. Sadly, they're now conjoined with their parents in that same middle-class bunker mentality. 

Distanced from both the white-working-class community they should've belonged to and migrants who they should be sympathetic to.

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 vast 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 had 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 miss his high mass, even with the incense peppering my eyes, because it always felt like entering a sacred, timeless space. His theological sermons, which skilfully balanced cautionary warnings with brilliant stand-up comedy, did more than just entertain me; they challenged my thinking and re-shaped how I view faith. Even his long, unfashionable Eucharistic prayers became anchors of deep reflection in my week. I will miss them deeply because, in a changing world, they probably won't come back, but the impact of those moments will stay with me forever.

BEATS OF LOVE 

107. Thousands Are Sailing by The Pogues

CANCER AND my OU studies hit simultaneously, splitting my life into a clear before and after.

Before that, my identity was clear-cut: a far-left Roman Catholic, but thoroughly English. Case in point: choosing to watch Frank Sidebottom instead of The Pogues at Reading in 1989. While I knew I had Irish and Welsh roots, they felt entirely foreign. That changed with my studies, which have completely resurrected my distant past and rewritten my present.

My grandmother and her Irish mother and my aunt (taken into the home after her mother died) all lived with my grandfather. A Heyside native, surrounded by family. 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 the seventy-six million who perished in those two wars. She, like me, was a cancer survivor. 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 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 propelled them forward. Remaining the beating heart of my mother's life, she missed her son dearly when he relocated. When she had a big jackpot 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 understands transformation through hardship. Sung with warm grit and deep kinship to Philip Chevron’s poetic lyrics, it speaks to me through this remarkable woman, the daughter of those we casually call refugees.

 BEATS OF LOVE 

106. Danger Dub by Panda Bear / Sonic Boom

I DEEPLY regret letting my dark moods and false ideas about authenticity drive me to be numb during my free time. It took my focus away from my true passion: my love for music.

Many albums I listen to feel incomplete or overworked. I see the problem, but I cannot fix it. Luckily, Adrian Sherwood is producing this record, and he fixes it. Giving it space to breathe. 

I have struggled to connect with Animal Collective records ever since the masterpiece that was Sung Tongs. That album balanced troubled Brian Wilson-style harmonies with genuinely thrilling experimentation. By the time they toured Feels, however, those same vocal arrangements just started grating on me.

I felt the same resistance toward the Panda Bear and Sonic Boom collaboration, Reset. On paper, their equal partnership promised so much, but the final product felt too constrained by its own pursuit of perfection. It is a frustrating listen: tracks like Danger are packed with brilliant hooks and clever 1950s vocal samples, yet the overall result ends up sounding a bit too 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 constrained by concept and, on this track, especially upbeat. 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 an 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. 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 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 during a comedown session. 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 and evening revellers started out when we arrived. Abigail, whom I didn't notice with her tidied up hair and glasses, was hammering out classics like Rufus & Chaka Khan's Ain't Nobody (Hallucinogenic Version) and I was worrying 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. It priced me 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, something 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 gets cooked longer when the missus prepares it, so its more flavoursome Korean taste pleasantly surprised me. 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’ll likely book the equally impressive Kimpton Clocktower. We’ll pass on the music concierge, though. Has nobody seen Shoreditch Twat? It’s comedy gold for a reason. Regardless, we’ll definitely be back.