waited for.
.
Jenny Hollingsworth peels off Let's Eat Grandma for an excursion of her own as Jenny on Holiday and Quicksand Heart a holiday properly in the Pop Sun. Pitchfork detects Replacements Cindi Lauper and Prefab Sprout within its grooves. I'm not sure I can but the record's groovy..
It's all rather like a helium balloon appearing in the sky on a greyer than grey day. Light as a feather. Not remotely challenging or particularly interesting lyrically but what were you expecting Knut Hamsen's Hunger. ? I imagine Nick Cave will be along with fresh product presently. The third cool new record in three days on It Starts With a Birthstone. January Blues? Not here.
I cared about the Top 40 until about 1984. And then it gradually became less important to me; as the Top 40 got worse and I became more interested in other things. Sting meanwhile was becoming interested in Jazz. Moon Over Bourbon Street was a variation on Autumn Leaves with Literary aspirations. It's nestled outside my Top 40.
Drop whatever you're doing. Run to a listening posr. Access an Internet connection. Put on Winged Wheel, Desert So Green drift unto space. Let go.
Winged Wheel are seasoned Indie operators with great taste and forward moment. Krautrock and ambience. Exploration and innovation.
People seemed to get cross with Morrissey. Because he turned out to be every bit as objectionable as he had been in the Eighties when they loved him. People are strange. Jim was right. Another divisive character in the annals of Rock & Roll. But not I imagine a vegetarian.
Morrissey it seems is a sensitive fellow when it suits him. But I never got the impression he particular minded a bit of violence if it suited him.. You Are The Quarry drags like a twenty tab a day habit. Some of his gesticualtion is somewhat anguished. .
I was feeling my way towards the Feelies in 1986 without knowing. they were there. They had everything a pale anemic twenty year old was after. Velvets and Television. The sound of the suburbs. A slot as the High School Band in a pivotal scene in Something Wild which came out that year. Peter Buck in the production chair on a second album that took them out of the suburbs and out on the highway.. This wasn't a single but could and should have been.
'I'm bored. I'm the chairman of the board....'
Boredom is ultimately the most compelling thing. How can we best occupy the still and static moments. Our vacant moments on the planet. Certainly a pertinent thing to ponder on as I make my way through a dreary January Friday, my lessons and ablutions and potentially a train back to the Arctic wastes of the North if Storm Goretti will allow me.
Dry Cleaning's third album Secret Love accompanies me as It Starts With a Birthstone 2026 officially commences. I'm not sure I'll hear a better record all year. I'm sure plenty of platters that matter will come along and supplant this in my affections but it's a great start and we're not yet at January 10th.
Jagged guitar. Sprechgesang the current Post Punk Plat Du Jour. Dry Cleaning our comfortable in their quotidian recklessness and studied vigour now. It seems to me they're the maverick middle distance athlete. Steve Ovett coming off the bend in an Olympic Final and into the final strait with the pack chasing. Lengthening stride to power away from flailing also ran Eastern Europeans clinging on for bronze. Blowing kisses to his beloved as he breasts the tape.
Occasionally the boredom factor strikes the listener on Secret Love . But then a thrilling vista drops into view. This strikes me as one to learn and maybe not sing so much as mutter under your breath. We're off! Here comes February before you know it. See you at the barricade babe !
'I'm going down to Tulse Hill Station. Going to go right down and lay my head down on the line. This time I'm going to show her. About the perfect darkness of the void.'
The long sliding road down. 'From bar to street to bookie' Insecure Men on latest album A Man For All Seasons understand what Pop Music is capable of. That it's not just.there to talk about how pretty everything is but can also shed light on the darkness within. What we are capable of doing to others and ourselves.
A Man For All Seasons shines a light on shades and nuances and also occasionally forgets its inhibitions and makes its way out onto the Indie Dancefloor and struts its stuff.
Almost twenty five years on. John Peel compared them to Hendrix. Odd. It did feel like they'd turned over a new rock..
Incense sticks. A major memory of my youthful ways and predelictions. I loved incense sticks of various. There was a shop in Norwich called Head In The Clouds which I used to frequent throughout my years at university. I was essentially a hippie I've realised..
Ir's still around. Established in the major city of Est Anglia but frankly looking further eastward on the map to the true Global East. I went there with my Malaysian honey towards the end of the Eighties, but that's another story for another day. In the meantime back to 1986 and the Cocteau Twins.
I never liked the band much at the because of associations really. Patchouli. Pre-Raphaelite skirts .Overdone kohl . applied with a trowel. Still I've enjoyed my time spent here, It's taken me back to Head In The Clouds and Norwich and 1986. The tarot cards and jewellery.the monks and maidens. The pyramids and mysticism.
A deep dive into an album that came out in 1971 when I was six and largely unaware of Rock & Roll. Lady by Californians Children of the Mushroom a Santana inspired and the cauldron pot of meaty stew and anguished wails, and fruity organ that hipsters dug around the block in those heady days.
Yeah The Hives. The Stooges updated and streamlined for millennium needs now we're no longer offended or threatened by such unruly behaviour. Fun for all the family in matching outfits,
'Everybody has their own good reason. Why their favourite season is their favourite season.' Echo & the Bunnymen.
Every generation must walk their own mountain path or perhaps their shady lane to be precise, even if it fairly closely resembles the paths that previous generations have stumbled down. Take Humbug's Open Season.
The album is a joyous, carefree ship round the shires country fields like the ones you used to have when the world was young. Kiwi Jr, Pavement, Television, The Velvet Underground and erm, yes The Beatles. Play dough. Technicolour joy.
I was never very competitive. Never very good with money, This is probably why I'm skint at sixty. But strangely happy. Others pretended not to be ambitious at university but there was enormous self love everywhere I realise looking back. If you're not going to love yourself at 19 why should you expect anyone else to love you. The strongest sense I felt in my first two years was an eerie sensation that something was not quite right. Bad Faith as Jean Paul would have it.
Despite the pretence and assumption of left wing airs, ideals and principles there was the stench of Thatcherism wherever you looked. What many wanted despite the communal facede of 'all in it together' was the desire to be the best, Perhaps I'm unkind. But three terms in I think I knew it. I found my rich, Malaysian honey declared my feelings to her and she reciprocated and we hunkered down together.
And listened to records like this. Though not actually this. I've only uncovered The Death of Samantha looking for options to populate this countown, tell you my story of 1986 and give you flavour of the place and the timbre of the times. Death of Samantha is pure Santana's.
Santana's was the Norwich club we made our way towards on Thursday nights at every opportunity .Like the shepherds trooping down from the Bethlehem hillsides in search of snakebite and The Mamas and The Papas and youthful thrills. Thursday Night was Sixties Night and we were there most Thursday nights. Three miles in. Three miles back. No need for sheep. They were what we were up against. Permanent drizzle all Thursday night..
You saw it all at Santana's. Speed Freak townies. Girl fights. I first snogged my Malaysian honey sat on the dancefloor one Thursday night in May to my friend's horror. They'd assumed I'd sold my soul to Bolshevism but I had a mind of my own and she drew me towards her me in with her invisible crook,. made off with my soul and eventually took me to Penang, But it started with a kiss. At Santana's. I wasn't the only one. There was always a shocking snog or several on Thursday night at Santana's to gossip about on Friday mornings over a fry up at The Fifer's Lane canteen. It was a feeling that felt as if it would last forever. .
Gavin was always there. Large and unlovely. The nephew of John Braine author of Room At The Top Apparently. He was invariably there when we arrived at nine on Thursday. Tottering malevolently in a huge fluorescent pink and black shirt which frankly should have been incinerated on a bonfire immediately to avoid contagion. He haunted the edge of the dancefloor with my pal Hippie Andy.
I'd wander over to Gavin and his greeting was always the same. 'I've had ten pints and I'm drunk as fuck... His breath was withering. It was probably best to leave him to it. He had a mad, dead eye. A greasy, bleached fringe. He set his room on fire third term and dropped out within a year.
Hippie Andy was a different matter, One of the finest people I met during my time at UEA. A true friend. The gig going pal of my lifetime .The only person I've ever met who I wanted to form a band with. Stipe and Buck. Jagger and Richard. Nation and Bax. A West Country Bhuddist and Beat Poet. .
Over the years we bonded over The Velvet Underground, The Doors, Les Negresses Verts, Left Wing activism The Pixies, All Tomorrow's Parties and trips to New York City and Auschwitz. We've lived together.
Andy would love Death of Samantha. Cleveland Ohio's finest. Well Pere Ubu had cleared out by 1986. Death of Samantha were pretty ace. Leather jackets and shades. Dream Syndicate meets, Gun Club, Bo Diddley and The Cramps. So 1986.
Great One Hand Clapping album titles of 2025 I Saw a Galloping Horse Covers No Ground by Chico Horse. And the albums pretty stately and damned graceful too. American guitars jangling through the trees. A Hickory Wind blowing.
There are so many records like this coming down the Americana pike but I'm certainly not complaining.. This is Alto Californian Romanticist Hippie Honky Tonk. That's the Spotify Bio calling.Full of wry found poetry and winning tunes/
Patti Smith has probably been the most explicit and upfront figure in the whole history if Rock & Roll in terms of parading and celebrating her heroes and influence; literary, poetic, artistic, musical. She wants to push her audience and inspire them to create themselves.
The third passage of Bread of Angels takes Patti to 1959 and thirteen. She loves her siblings and parents but sees herself as a child apart. A sense of herself as an artist. She's a sickly child and her mother wonders aloud if she is going to 'make it.'.
She plots her search for inspiration for enchantment, her fixation on the young Dalai Lama and Tibet's plight, She's clearlyseeking her path. Music rarely gets a mention as of yet.
.
The kind of listening experience that I write this blog for, A loping dark Rock & Roll experience. Pared back bass and drums salute the sunrise. They're in the zone of The Doors, Joy Division, Spiritualised; the cool kids in the playground who hung out by the fence, chewed their mails and smoked. And you suspect went astray and headed for the rocks.
Looking back I found myself between terms one and two of my first year at university. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say I found the three people I'd been looking for since I was 14. People who liked the same things as I liked. Fancied themselves and their opinons rotten,
For six months we had an absolute wail of a time. Nineteen and twenty year olds have probably never been happier. Or drunk more snakebite and black at the Student Bar before stumbling back and listening to What's Going On together, . It was the Brideshead Revisited university experience that everyone longs for . We had all watched the celebrated Granada TV production which had just been televised and captured the British imagination. Sebastian and Charles. Aloysius and Nanny Hawkins. Catholicism, Anthony Blanche and bloody huge country estates. We were Socialists but thought we were due greatness. It was certainly there in our psyches, whether we acknowledged it or not.
. But our version of the Brideshead experience was different, It had Trotskyism, Post Structuralism, Filofaxes Thatcherism, The Miner's Strike, The Sloan Rangers Handbook, The Young Ones, The NME Penguin Classics James Brown and Talking Heads and more stirred into the mix. It was a truly beautiful rites of passage. Then gradually over the next six months our beautiful alliance unraveled.
But not before The Queen Is Dead came out and we listened to it together. Every generation reclaims The Smiths . On 16th June 1986 to be precise it happened to us. The day it came out. I wasn't completely there emotionally. My heart was no longer in the corridor in Fifer's Lane but on campus five miles down the road, In Waveney Terrace to be precise. On the pillow where my Malaysian honey lay her sweet bobbed head under a poster where she'd written out the words to Manic Monday in different coloured crayons. I stood no chance as soon as I saw it, I'm sorry but Gramsci and Walter Benjamin just couldn't compete with that.
But Morrissey, Marr, Rourke and Joyce could. So I was there in Rod's room when he returned from Backs Records on the day of its release with a copy of The Queen is Dead. And we were rightly slain. I'll get back to The Smiths with a full review later on in this rundown and give the full picture of what it felt like to be young and too cool for school to such a glorious dawn. To be smitten by The Smiths,
But first a little known Rock & Roll detail, a highly pertinent factoid. Giant the first album by The Woodentops came out the same day as The Queen Is Dead and it's pretty great too. Cool BBC children's television evoking band name, dark tribal rhythms, groovy vibes and tones. It's not catalogued as one of the greatest or even perhaps the greatest album ever made. The Queen Is Dead is. But Giant is revered and remembered and played by the cognoscenti . The Rock & Roll snobs with too many records. People like me.
Bebel Gilberto 'daughter of Bossa Nova overlord Joao' and part of an extended clan of musical notables released Tanto Tempo twenty five years ago. Davud Hepworth reviews the rerelease package in the pages of the current issue of Mojo.
It's an incredibly easy listen. I'll probably never go to Brazil but this makes me feel like I am there and that's a wonderful sensation to wake up to on a Sunday morning in Canterbury. Whispering of Portuguese sweet nothings. A breeze in the palms.
Patti overhears a teacher saying to another teacher that she is 'an odd duck' in the playground. She fronts a neighborhood gang, Generally you sense that there is artistic lucence and embroidery on every other line but Patti Smith is someone who understands better than most that life us the great fiction.
She unlocks the intrepid imagination of the collective childhood experience. Her writing is alchemy, a metaphor Patti uses herself. It inspires you to rush yo a keyboard or a notebook and write yourself. To populate paragraphs and sentences. She does an incredible thing. Reinvents her own childhood. Turns it into the stuff of myth, She discpvers Alice. One of her first literary steps and models.
An unrepeatable time and moment. Regardless of how modern hipsters try to repeat it. Such are the indulgences of The Internet Age.
You get the feeling that Espers are prone to the odd bit of role playing courtmanship. Imagining themselves to be Elves and pretending we're in the 14th Century, Nothing wrong with that,
You don't have to live like a refugee. I think increasingly a lot of us do. This is increasingly a Ball of Confusion so chancing on a record like this is welcome respite. A Silver Jews and Lambchop refugee teams up one from the Four Tet faction member to post 41 Longfield Street Late 80s an immensely relaxing slab of guitar and ambient soft and gentle noise. Into fresh waters on It Starts With a Birthstone foe 2026. .The uncharted waters look intriguing
'Obstacles are our wings '- Gogol
Patti Smit can write. Like a dream frequently. I'm tucking in to Bread of Angels like it's a sumptuous dessert at the end of a leisurely New Years family meal. I was actually given the book before a leisurely New Year's family meal. So apt. This is immediately a treat.I feel like I'm in front of a crackling open fire in a country pub with no Back to Work Date envisioned.
We, start as so often at the very beginning. In Childhood. Patti unwraps a lost and enchanted kingdom. Growing up in Post War Chicago. With loving parents and treasured siblings. Jesus died for somebody's sins. But not hers. Every emotion is heightened and dramatic, She takes inspiration from her literary heroes and dances onwards
The kind of album that Pitchfork dreams about. And if they exist one of their staffwriters would probably have to invent, Lifetime by Erika Di Casier, Cased in a sleeve of rolling clouds and airbrushed vision of female beauty of the kind that have adorned teenage walls since the Sixties.
As for the music. Gentle, sensuous neo soul. Steam rising from a fragrant bath. 30 minutes and forty seconds of the clock paused. Sweet !
Fifer's Lane University Residences Winter and Spring Terms 1985 - 1986 terms. A series of former RAF housing blocks converted for the needs of callow 18, 19 and 20 year olds away from home for an extended stretch for the first time. All projecting an image that's hardly true to what's inside. . Would be lovers, writers, academics. husbands and wives, parents. Feet truly set on the road.
I was in N Block. Far end of the residences across the football fields Through the main doors, Guys downstairs. Girls upstairs,. Down the corridor past the communal kitchen. Turn left . Four doors. Facing each other. There we lived behind keys to a door. Small, comfortable bedrooms with walls for posters, Plants. A sink. A wardrobe. A bed. None of us had televisions. None of us ever spoke about football.
Ben , Rod, James and Btuce . Like The Beatles. Like the Bolsheviks. Like capital fodder. Like James Austen male characters. Mr Drake. Mt Waterman. Mr Hipwell. Mr Bax. Eligible. Without top hats or horses. Or country houses But with promise. And good hair. And plenty of books, cassettes and records. And plenty of lip and invective.
And clothes. Collarless shirts.. Levis 601s, DMs, M&S black polo necks. Soul aspirations. Aspirations to soul. Marvin Gaye. Al Green. Aretha. Nina. Next to the busts of Lenin and Boshevik posters. And Foucault. Barthes. Marx. And tunes like this. We can dance if we want to !
There are roads you only briefly walk and Goth is one such road for me. I chose and pretty much stuck with The Cure and The Banshees. Sisters of Mercy, The Mission and so forth always struck me as rather daft.
Folktronica. A sublime fifty minutes to close off a wonderful day.
Space Jaguar is a British French supersonic het fighter aircraft. Alternatively its a band formed by London based musician Mark Grassick who released a couple of records of good nature guitar strumming of the sort that might have been released forty or sixty years ago . It ain't broke don't fix it.
I'm listening to Every Room is an Escape Room which improves as it spins, It feels like Paisley Underground. It's open and genial. It sets out on the open road as It Starts With a Birthstone heads out into the open sea. A good start to 2026.
Forty years ago I woke in a large three story terraced house just off the slopes in Brighton. There were many people in the house in different rooms. All of them nursing hangovers or finding themselves with unexpected bedfellows, The house had a telephone, a letter box, a television and that felt like enough. We looked to explore . The world felt like an exciting and fantastic place to discover. The Internet had not yet arrived to drive us inwards. To confuse us with too much information. The tower of babble.
I woke on New Years Day in 1986 on a double bed on the second floor in the arms of a girl girl called Clare I'd got a bit tired and emotional with the previous evening and probably taken advantage of her feelings for me which were probably stronger than my feelings for her. It's often the way.. I'd known for a while that she liked me and I was a boy so naturally confused and a bit of an opportunist though a well meaning one. So I'd taken advantage of the opportunity as the party had gathered pace and we'd got drunker.
We'd left the student party we were at and wandered into the Brighton night, Then returned to the house and we'd gone upstairs, stumbled towards a bedroom and tumbled into bed together as you do at that age given the opportunity. I'd been to the Soviet Union on a college politics trip with Clare a bit over a year earlier. I'd fancied her friend Barbara, but knew Clare had fancied me. It probably wasn't the best idea but life moves fast when you're unsure of yourself and other people. Everything lies before you but you don't really realise it. You don't know you're young, You don't know you're foolish
Now on January 1st 2026 I'm waking up in Canterbury. My elderly parents are in neighbouring rooms The pilgrimage has clearly gained momentum. R,E.M. cone later on this countdown. Towards the top I suspect. They're the constant on this blog. The point it started from and I keep returning to forty years and more onwards, . I'm looking backwards rather than forward here. 1986 was an eventful year for me. From Brighton to Trostkyism, to love to Interrail to the cusp of genuine and lasting trauma . I'll tell parts of that story here. And spin the tunes of 1986.
First The Lucy Show. A British band named after an American TV programme that sounded like an American group. I'd seen them supporting R.E.M. at The Lyceum with my sister in 1984. In 1986 they put out Mania. An album of twisted and literate narratives which gained some traction on American College Radio. They didn't last long but there's bravery and depth here. Mania still sounds great.. Life is the great adventure