BEATS OF LOVE 

129. Never Understood: The Jesus and Mary Chain by William & Jim Reid 

BEING IN bunker mentality because of more weird dark art shit has led to a lot of books being read.

John Berger and Will Hodgkinson deserve honorary mentions. The former for reminding me that Marxism is still alive in spirit and the latter for making me laugh out loud five times. This book, however, is a cut above for being the most brutally honest autobiography I've ever read. 

Psychocandy was the ultimate antidote to the artifice of eighties pop, which grew the prettiest flowers on a monolithic slab of fuzzed up feedback and its creators, the first pop stars to speak directly to my teenage self. I'm still indebted to them for being so real then and now. The goths I knew were all middle-managers or bank clerks and hated the gritty realism of the Mary Chain. Unsurprising coz goths were all about that same artifice, I guess.  

They gloss over this period of relative solidarity with a warmth that fades out with each subsequent chapter until they can no longer be on the same continent together. That said, a shared self-deprecating humour accompanied by a hindsight that comes with age means the book remains colourfully gripping throughout and never once loses sight of the disorientating music. Music, as understood from the perspectives of at least half a dozen different versions of each brother.

That Dave Booth regularly span Never Understand at the Hangout was a testament to their musical influence. It was like a shot of something authentic that had more in common with Funhouse tracks than the sugary Inspiral Carpets tracks being played. It's tragic to learn that a band who, to my mind, at least existed within the confines of their own in-built mythology, was jealous of the happening scenes that sprung up around them. Tragic, but heartening to learn that they're human after all. 

Ultimately, despite the authors' best efforts to convince you otherwise, that's their lasting legacy. They transcended the age in which they first came into fashion to become something truly timeless. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

128 Step to the Rear by Brand Nubian

I'M OFF social media sites and it feels great. Facebook was accidental. (A long story.) Twitter; well you'd be mad to stay on there, right? Now I really am just talking to myself without all that toxic noise deafening me.

I still remember the Monday in Musicworld, my town’s only record store, when this track on the turntable completely blew me away. Walking up to shop counters in Mancunia was second nature to me, but not here. Yet, breaking my usual reserve in that shop, I stepped forward to ask.

I admit it was my kid sister playing De La Soul that first got me into Hip-hop. I think I swiped it before realising that the U.S. press was far superior. I love lyrics, sages, and wordplay, so this was tailor made for me. Their LP sounded so perfect on that Monday. And it sounded even better when I cranked it up later on the home hi-fi.

With all the toxic noise that deafened us out of nowhere, I revisit this gem to make some noise of my own. Until the neighbour returns home from work. It sounds perfect and still blows me clean away. Puba just flowing vibrant rhymes effortlessly and elastically on top of some of the dopest, laid back funky hooks committed to vinyl. I doubt you can eclipse the breezy lines, 'But I'm long, I'm like Stretch Armstrong, I go on and on and on and on'. The Mar-Keys’ Plantation Inn was the springboard for them and their extended crew, the SD50s, to get deeply creative. Giving Puba the ideal platform to be brilliant whilst still disarming me with his swaggering elegance.  

Music, memory, and escape are my armour. They anchor me against the dread of these dark days; through the noise of a social media detox and the sting of rampant racism. Right now, I can blast this out loud. But in an hour, reality will come crashing back with the heavy slam of my neighbour’s front door.

BEATS OF LOVE 

127. Drifting in the Moonlight by Richenel

BLAIR'S TIMING couldn't have been worse. UK's second generation Muslim population was integrating at pace when he waged his illegal war. Both the police and media then scapegoated them whilst shielding the footy firms who caused carnage in their neighbourhoods. Inciting riots and galvanising far-right hate groups.

The footy firm was alluring in the mid 80s for a school dropout like myself. The gang; shouting obscenities at the police in decent clobber, smelt like freedom. Luckily, after a couple of outings, one of the main heads of the FYC (Oldham's firm, the Fine Young Casuals) found his way into the family home and went on a minor wrecking spree. 

After picking up a broken seven inch single, I instantly fell out of love with his plotted acts of violence. Finding record shopping was a better way to spend my Saturdays. He goaded my pal's young-brother into throwing a petrol bomb a few years later that epitomised his cowardice. Scarpering whilst my pal's young brother faced serious charges. 

Sadly, my pal, like many, has got more obsessed with the frightening concepts surrounding Islam and immigration than the footy of late. Concepts put into his head by fake online memes and coercive, radicalising posts, but legitimised by the divisive and cowardly rhetoric of a few politicians and journalists who don't let the truth they obscure impede their inflammatory arguments. Goading arguments that have given way to a scarpering silence in the past few days. 

They mistake secularism for progress while falsely labelling immigrants as backward. True backwardness is an emotional and aggressive reaction to everything; stuck in a perpetual state of teenage angst and amplified by immature public figures. That inability to mature is the real regression.

It's as pathetic as it is cowardly to encourage in any way a protest borne of beak and strong lager that will inevitably turn violent, which targets entirely innocent people. A riot then, in everything but name. 

BEATS OF LOVE

 

126. Yuri-G by PJ Harvey

WHAT A brilliant afternoon unfolded. After washing my floors whilst watching American Psycho, I had to decide whether to listen to the golf on the radio or watch the telly highlights and go for a walk. 

I had intended to walk to the monument prior to a trip to Gosfield to celebrate my lovely aunt's 90th year but got waylaid watching the marathon ladies' semi-finals at Wimbledon, so did it today. When I finally got to the place where both my mother's and her brother's ashes scattered after busy winding roads chock-full of cars kept slowing things up, two soft circling ravens met me. 

lovely aunty with her lovely grandchildren

Ravens have become deeply poignant and something I have had to change my attitude toward. They first lingered on my lawn the day my mother took ill, then seemed to gloat after she'd died. However, by the time I celebrated my 50th in a Zurich restaurant replete with ravens designed into glass-panels, I finally embraced the bird, which became emblematic of my mother.  

My lovely aunty Pat is a great example of courage and fortitude. A wise owl. Partially sighted and dependent on carers entering her home, she is full of trust and joy. Reaching that age to teach us still. An atheist, she misses her long chats with my mother, whereas I still put words in mother's mouth every time I see a raven and peck her head. Almost daily. 

Hoping her bearing witness to the duplicity of others can have some sway in future outcomes. That is simply selfish, and I will just have to find the faith to forgive. Today was all about letting go. Praying instead that she rests in perfect peace. 

That a lone raven gently flew past as I headed for home made my soulful walk complete. 

BEATS OF LOVE 

125. Persephone's Song by Students of The George School

Jonny Trunk's genius for unearthing music and releasing it on vinyl knows no bounds, and reading his Friday mail-outs is an integral part of my week. I miss wrapping my tenner in an envelope and receiving advanced copies and still say to myself 'you've surpassed yourself this time' at least once every five years.

I vividly recall the hunt for his breakthrough Wicker Man soundtrack, LP. E-Bloc and Decoy couldn't help and the HMV store and Piccadilly had sold out of their stock, so I scoured second hand outlets. Luckily, after a few weeks, M1 had a copy on their counter, but Brian didn't want to sell it. I must've looked pretty desperate. He finally accepted my steep offer of £17.

With super artwork and an info sheet name-checking the Massiv chorus, Journey of Persephone was less stressful to buy and is stunning. Magically unearthing this rare 1973 album from a Pennsylvania school ensemble like no other, Jonny once again delivers the goods. Unlike the Wonder Years, which taps into a faux nostalgia, this feels authentic. Except darker. 

Echoes of this era's telly acoustic hand clapping children sing-alongs are more embedded in the imaginations of folk, like myself, born in the sixties. Before more visual, ad orientated chewing gum telly became the norm. And Miraculously, the students play all Lars T Clutterman's weird, wonderful songbook with total mastery. On stage. In real time.

   

This opener's jaunty, piano-led blast of folk funk takes me to my happy place, but reflecting on the curation of the whole album, it is a masterclass in musical discovery. 'You've completely surpassed yourself this time!'

BEATS OF LOVE

124. Two Wrongs by Samana 

MERCIFULLY, THE poetry phase has passed. I dreaded a lifetime spent trapped in fifth-rate rhyming couplets. Now, it is back to the music. My latest obsession is Samana’s intense, yet magnificent, self-titled third album.

Some breathtakingly fragile tunes that carry great weight are at play. Opener Into The Blue sets the tone wonderfully, but this track is simply magnificent and I'm so glad to have it on wax. Franklin builds the sonics to a truly blistering crescendo, enhanced by lush soaring strings that stir up marvel. Rebecca's highly distinctive voice is its own instrument and her lyrics are both intense and profound.

We all struggle to contain and control dual conflicting forces in our lives. Sitting on a wooden pew letting intangible thoughts of God's creativity pour into me, hoping to make the struggle easier by feeling some presence, is my freedom quest. Rebecca's flickering imagery harks back to the freight trains of freedom that so influenced writers in 1950s America and beyond.

The music feels remarkably fresh because we remain deeply drawn to exploring our inner selves through raw, visceral experiences rather than rigid, intellectual traditions. Freight-train riding embodies our grandest ideas of America. Its vast landscape and rich sensory imagery spark the imagination, fuelling our personal quest for liberation. These evocative lyrics capture the fleeting nature of the rails, defining what many see as the ultimate pursuit of freedom: a journey into the great unknown.

I'm off to bask in its majesty, at least until the footy starts.   

                   

BEATS OF LOVE 

123. In a Heap by Me

'He's deep,' said someone as I lay in a heap,
The rhythms of the night before were with me on the floor,

How could they possibly know the greatness of the new Two Lone Swordsmen LP?
I asked myself in absolute, emotive wonder.
While they decided that the shallow, glass-eyed edge of life is best,
They chose the drizzle over this sudden thunder.
Drizzle that characterised my old man's days on earth
Sure, he'd seen the Stones at Belle Vue, but that was nothing new

I never thought Mick and Keith would outlive him or Lord Sabre
or never thought I'd be voting for this tepid form of Labour
A vote cast purely to spite my old man, still.

His upper body hides behind a wide-open Daily Express,
As I watch his flapping, slippered feet untangling the mess
That life became inside a paper so incredibly lame.
"He’s in a heap," they whispered. And they were dead right.