LINER NOTES: AKA DEVIL IN DISGUISE [2005]

1.  That’s the Way It’s Got to Be – The Poets
2.  Entry of the Gladiators – Nero & the Gladiators
3.  Pretty Ballerina – The Left Banke
4.  Song for Jeffrey – Jethro Tull
5.  Christine’s Tune (aka Devil in Disguise) – The Flying Burrito Brothers
6.  Rhyme the Rhyme Well – Beastie Boys
7.  Outdoor Miner [album version] – Wire
8.  Sunny Sunny Cold Cold Day – Herman Dune
9.  Warning Sign – Talking Heads
10.  Insight – Joy Division
11.  (Intro/Tokyo) City Girl – Kevin Shields
12.  Cruiser’s Creek [Peel Session] – The Fall
13.  Record Collection – Comet Gain
14.  Come Back Jonee – Devo
15.  King of the Rodeo – Kings of Leon
16.  Mod Lang – Big Star
17.  Road to Nowhere – Hearts and Flowers
18.  Angel – Rod Stewart
19.  Tell Me Why – Neil Young
20.  It Kills – Stephen Malkmus
21.  Mental Poisoning – Weird War
22.  Silly Girl – Television Personalities

Record stores come and go. Growing up in Plymouth, I used to shop at HMV and Our Price on New George Street, Rival Records on Royal Parade, and Virgin Megastore on the corner of Cornwall Street and Armada Way. I say ‘shop’ but I’d mostly go just to look, often on my way home from school after taking an unnecessary detour via the city centre, thus postponing the laborious task of tackling the homework set that day. Later, once I found a use for secondhand material, I’d frequent Purple Haze at Drake Circus, the Music and Video Exchange in the Pannier Market, Different Class on Frankfurt Gate (not so much), and Really Good Records back when it occupied one of a row of Victorian tenements next to Plymouth Library.

The only one of these businesses still doing business is Really Good Records. After occupying a plot in the now defunct Bretonside Bus Station, it can now be found on Exeter Street just above. A guy called Mike runs the place and he won’t open up before 10:30 – or at all if it’s a Monday. He is very persuasive. If money was tight I’d think twice about paying a visit knowing that I might leave with more than I literally bargained for. In 2005, I dropped by to look for a specific Jethro Tull album and left with two (This Was and Aqualung), as well as a psychedelic/garage rock compilation entitled Illusions from the Crackling Void, and only narrowly avoided adding something by The Seeds to my collection. When I returned some months later for Devo’s first album I also came away with Real Life by Magazine.

This sort of thing could happen on any one of my tri-annual sojourns to Plymouth to see family and catch up with friends. These apportioned visitations would reveal sudden physical changes to my hometown’s landscape, often to my dismay, occasionally my pleasure. Some were more substantial than others. When the council finally gave permission for the old Drake Circus to be redeveloped it came down very quickly, as most buildings do once the wrecking ball moves in, radically changing the terrain in and around. The planning process had been so drawn out that by the time the new Drake Circus Shopping Centre opened in 2006, it was immediately considered démodé. Not that I imagine the shopping obsessed hordes particularly cared; only those of us who remembered fondly Arcadia, Olympus Sport, Purple Haze or The Unity were in any way bothered by it.

Illusions from the Crackling Void turned out to be a satisfying purchase. It is a collection of late 1960s psychedelic rock released on the Bam-Caruso imprint, the same people who put together the Rubble anthology comprising the same sort of thing, which was in turn inspired by the Nuggets series begun by Elektra and continued by Rhino Records. Most of it is fairly obscure, although The Poets, who were from Scotland, were probably one of the better known groups of the freakbeat scene, which was really just a British term for psychedelia with a mod-ish slant.

'What the hell is this?' quoth my lady friend; 'It sounds like clowns on acid!' The song, written by Czech composer Julius Fučík, had indeed found fame as a circus march, but why the allusion to hallucinogens? Nero & the Gladiators belong to that tame strain of instrumental rock & roll that was popular for a time in the early 1960s, as exemplified by groups like The Shadows, The Tornados, The Ventures. The source in this case was a long player entitled Decade of Instrumentals: 1959~1967, which was one of a number of the records the former cohabitant from Brighton brought over for me to listen to when I was living at 27 Hanworth Road. A man who moved house often, his records had since become an encumbrance and so he decided to pass them on to me. 'Entry of the Gladiators' starts with applause, then the spoken words, 'Hey, say there Brutus man, like, here come the gladiators,' before a woozy, reverb-drenched guitar kicks off the tune’s chromatic scale, making some sense of my partner’s startled appraisal. In retrospect, I’m surprised it never made it onto The Heroes of Hanworth.

Baroque pop is music that utilises classical instruments, such as strings or harpsichords, and may employ strategies more usually associated with classical music. The Beatles were arguably the genre’s most accomplished exponents – 'In my Life', 'Eleanor Rigby', 'Fixing a Hole', etc. (it seems to be more McCartney’s thing) – but the Stones contributed too, probably at Brian Jones’s behest – 'Play with Fire', 'Lady Jane', 'She’s a Rainbow'. It wasn’t by any means purely a British phenomenon. Love dabbled, and The Beach Boys too, but it was perhaps New York band The Left Banke who came the closest to being defined as an actual baroque act. 'Pretty Ballerina' is the last track on Illusions from the Crackling Void. In the 1967 television documentary Inside Pop: The Rock Revolution, Leonard Bernstein cheerfully observed that it incorporated, 'a combination of the Lydian and Mixolydian modes,' although he does then add that we should, 'never forget that this music [as in popular music] employs a highly limited musical vocabulary.' But he was right to single out 'Pretty Ballerina', even if I don’t understand his reasoning.

I purchased the Jethro Tull album This Was specifically for 'Song for Jeffrey' after seeing it performed on The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus (which funnily enough opens to the sound of 'Entry of the Gladiators'). As I have said, I was also cajoled into buying Aqualung, but This Was is a nicer object. The cover depicts Jethro Tull dressed up as old men surrounded by dogs, as if in a forest or wood. On the reverse the band as they are, laughing, not in colour as on the front but in a monochrome, yellowish green with their name and the album title writ large in red. It’s gatefold and so on the inside we get a picture of the group playing live on stage. The outer sleeve has a pleasing lustre. Aqualung's presentation is drab by comparison but is probably the better record.

1968 was transitional phase for The Byrds. Having removed David Crosby from the fold, they were struggling to perform The Notorious Byrd Brothers in a live setting to a satisfactory standard. Enter Gram Parsons, initially on keys and then guitar. Gram had already cultivated a country-rock sound with his group The International Submarine Band, so it was a willing combination. By August, The Byrds had recorded and released their next album, Sweetheart of the Rodeo, regarded by some to be the first pure country-rock record. I bypassed this album – for now – and went straight for The Flying Burrito Brothers, the band Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman formed shortly after the release of Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Whereas The Byrds had become Roger McGuinn’s band, The Flying Burrito Brothers was certainly Gram’s. I can only assume Chris Hillman enjoyed playing a supporting role, which is not to undermine his contribution or even how his contribution was perceived: just as Hillman is given credit commensurate with McGuinn on The Notorious Byrd Brothers, so he is with Parsons on The Gilded Palace of Sin. (Sweetheart of the Rodeo consists mostly of covers.) Band politics aside, the movement of staff doesn’t impact much on the music. Both Sweetheart of the Rodeo and The Gilded Palace of Sin are sincere exercises in fusing rock and roll with country and western, demonstrating a complete disregard for the psychedelia or R & B that was more fashionable at the time. One wonders why 'Christine's Tune' wasn’t released as a single, just as 'Marrakesh Express' was, which featured David Crosby on backing vocals.

It had been six years since the release of the Beastie Boys’ last album, Hello Nasty, and I hadn’t listened to much hip hop in the intervening period. My youngest brother burned me a copy of To the 5 Boroughs, with some Jurassic 5 tacked on the end of it, which I took back to London, along with all the stuff I’d purchased from Really Good Records. The album is a lot sparser than Hello Nasty, as 'Rhyme the Rhyme Well' shows. Save for the sampling of Chuck D’s opening salvo on 'Public Enemy No. 1', the track is built around nothing much more than a strong thumping beat and a weird descending keyboard effect. Country rock and hip hop aren’t the most complimentary of styles but the pared down sound of 'Rhyme the Rhyme Well' allows it to follow on from 'Christine's Tune' without too much bother.

To supplement my modest income I’d been attending focus groups on a fairly regular basis. They typically paid in the region of £50 for a couple hours of your time, give or take, and there might also be free food and drink. Since the last June, I’d offered my thoughts on Anadin paracetamol, Burger King, Twix, Foster’s lager, Threshers off-license, Right Guard, the BBC website, iced tea, Budweiser, and cigars. I didn’t even smoke cigars.

The day after expatiating on the subject of cigars, for which I was awarded £60, I was back in London to see Herman Dune at the 100 Club with the chap who introduced me to Sarah Records. This means that he would have already made me the compilation that included Herman Dune’s 'Sunny Sunny Cold Cold Day' as well as 'Outdoor Miner' by Wire (the album version). Wire had the same look that a lot of those early British post-punk bands had: Gang of Four, Magazine, Joy Division, Buzzcocks. It’s a simple, understated look made up of plain shirts, suit jackets, sensible shoes, slacks, all in muted colours. I’ve often wondered where it derived from. Was this a deliberate attempt to eschew the showier visage of early punk: the torn fabric, piercings and sculpted hair of bands like the Sex Pistols, The Clash and The Damned? Or was it a nod to the drab functionalism of Dr Feelgood and the pub rock scene? Television, Blondie and Talking Heads manifested it too – all of them American – so maybe not. That aside, 'Outdoor Miner' by Wire doesn’t sound much like Wire – they’re not normally so melodic – but how is this for an opening stanza:

No blind spots in the leopard's eyes,

Can only help to jeopardize,

The lives of lambs, the shepherd cries.

Talking Heads: I’d owned the live album Stop Making Sense since my first year at university (on tape). In 1998, I bought True Stories on a hungover Sunday morning with the guy who used to own many indie tapes, who by now owned as many CDs. I purchased More Songs About Buildings and Food on a whim in 2005 after finding it in the ‘£5 or less section’ of HMV in Hounslow. The front cover intrigued me – a group portrait made up of 529 individual Polaroids. Its date – 1978: the same year of Plastic Letters by Blondie and Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! by Devo – inferred the album might exhibit the sort of new wave qualities that appealed to me: keyboards, rhythmic guitars, slightly odd vocal inflections. On playing the CD this was found to be true.

'Warning Sign' is a very highly strung tune. It starts with Chris Frantz knocking out a few bars on drums, Tania Weymouth then embarks on a wandering groove, David Byrne’s guitar gradually chimes in before Jerry Harrison on second guitar. After 1 minute and 7 seconds, the whole thing then shifts: Byrne mutates his instrument into a discordant siren and starts ranting on about how he’s got money now and that we should look at his hair because he likes its design. It could be a comment on how wealth corrupts the individual, but I can’t be sure.

What Brian Eno brings to More Songs About Buildings and Food is comparable to that which Martin Hannett lends to Unknown Pleasures. Both producers subject their musical constituents to echo and delay, with a particular emphasis on drum and bass, to create a sort of industrial sonority. However, the prevailing mood on Joy Division’s record is different. 'Insight' begins with a distant drone, then a faint whir and the sound of a door being opened and shut – a prison cell is inferred. Cymbals and guitars gradually fade in, then Peter Hook’s bass in a register diametrically opposite to Tina Weymouth’s. The variance between the respective vocals is even more pronounced. Where David Byrne offers abstruse verbalism, Ian Curtis’s tone seems to be one of resignation. His inflection is more nuanced than he’s given credit for, and nowhere is this more true than on 'Insight', his bass-baritone sounding at moments almost fragile.

I used to watch more movies in those pre-internet days, like Lost in Translation. If I had been connected to the internet then I would have downloaded 'City Girl', but I had to buy the film’s soundtrack, and did so for this song alone. When it came to including it on Aka ‘Devil in Disguise’ I was unable to physically dissociate it from 'Intro/Tokyo', a segment of ambient sound that wouldn’t feel out of place on the second side of David Bowie's “Heroes”. This turned out not to be a bad thing, providing a dissonant bridge across from the relative clarity of 'Insight' to the melodic oddness and distorted guitar of 'City Girl'. It’s a song that doesn’t really resolve itself. The same chord cycle repeats itself four times, without any real regard for what might be a verse or a chorus, except each time the tempo is increased slightly. I could listen to it all day.

In 2005 I turned 30. We gathered at The Endurance in Soho to celebrate: myself, my partner, the guy who keeled over in Debenhams, the former cohabitant from Brighton, the guy who used to own a pager and Roz Childs, The Wilkinsons, the boys who lived at The Grosvenor, No Eyes and her husband, Queen of Tin (an old university associate we became reacquainted with during our Brentford years), and my brother (the one who recorded Orbital for me, not the Beastie Boys). A few days later I was in Tuscany for the wedding of an old school friend. A city-break to Barcelona in July, camping in Wales at the end of August, and an excursion to Berlin with The Wilkinsons in late October. Badminton had died a death but I was now playing 5-a-side with the guys at work. I cycled to work. My brother (Orbital) challenged me to run the Brighton 10K with him in mid-November, to which I acceded.

For my birthday, The Wilkinsons very kindly gifted me The Fall: The Complete Peel Sessions 1978–2004. The Fall was known to be 'my' group. In truth, I hadn’t listened to them much over the last five or so years and hadn’t bought any of their records for longer than that, but I welcomed the prospect of reacquainting myself with the world of Mark E Smith. These Peel Session tracks would proceed to form the backbone of a ‘Best of The Fall’ playlist I subsequently compiled and prompted me to purchase a few of the earlier albums that had previously escaped my attention. 'Cruiser’s Creek' features here.

Comet Gain are another by-product of the compilation the chap who introduced me to Sarah Records put together. The song 'Record Collection' tells of not being able to listen to certain records because they remind the protagonist of his ex. Sarah Records guy and I have a shared appreciation of many such moments: the sudden shift from Gbm to D in 'Marbles' by the Tindersticks; the strained harmonies in 'Solace' by The Sea Urchins; Arthur Lee pleading that, 'we’re all normal and we want our freedom,' towards the end of Love’s 'The Red Telephone'. On the other hand, whereas I’m interested in rhythm, Sarah Records guy is all about melody. If there’s a space where we meet in the middle, Comet Gain occupy it. He took me to see them at The Water Rats in King’s Cross at the beginning of the year, and I understood perfectly.

I doubt very much the chap who introduced me to Sarah Records has much time for Devo. This is because he would perceive them to be a comedy band, and if there’s one thing he can’t stand it’s that. But he wouldn’t be quite right. There’s certainly a humorous element to Devo’s act, but it’s equally kitsch, subversive and satirical. Not that that would impress Sarah Records guy either – as far as I know, he has no time for Weird War. Myself, I have no problem mixing music with mirth. How I laugh to myself every time I catch a glimpse of the back cover of Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! depicting various band members with stockings pulled over their heads (actually a stilled image from the band’s extended music video The Truth About De-Evolution).

It might appear that I was still avoiding contemporary music but this is only partly true. In September I saw Stephen Malkmus touring his latest album, Face the Truth, supported by a band called Clor. My friend who passed out in Debenhams pointed me in the direction of Tom Vek. Field Music, who had impressed in support of The Go! Team the previous year, released their debut album. Weird War had a new record out. They even played twice in support of it: at the Camden Underworld in May and again at the Highbury Garage in November. Aside from Illuminated by the Light by Weird War, bought within days of its release, it took me a while to absorb the rest, but ultimately I did.

In the meantime I purchased Aha Shake Heartbreak by Kings of Leon on double 10” vinyl. It is a nice object and an all right album. I like the interplay between the guitars, and Caleb’s vocal incoherence amuses me. My only complaint is that, when you can understand what’s being sung, the lyrics are neither very interesting nor pleasant.

Barcelona

Early in the year I thought I’d have another stab at Big Star. I took a chance on #1 Record and liked it so much that within a matter of weeks I’d bought Radio City.

It can be hard to discern from my playlists what sort of thing I might have been into at the time I compiled them. Generally speaking there’s no particular strain of music that predominates, but sometimes there is. I’m alluding to music in the wider sense, encompassing its broader aesthetics. For example, the collective presence of Blur, The Jam, the Small Faces, early Rolling Stones, Love, The Beatles, Herbie Hancock, The Yardbirds, and Saint Etienne on Carrington Classics and The Heroes of Hanworth is indicative of the Britpop scene and its many cultural accoutrements: Fred Perry polo shirts, V-neck jumpers, desert boots, anoraks; films like Blow-Up and The Ipcress File; cafes; a sense of irony; whatever Graham Coxon was into. By the time I’d made Bully for Bulstrode these inclinations had dissipated. After the eclecticism of the French Gite compilations my view began to narrow once more. The artistes this time around were The Byrds, Gram Parsons, Neil Young, Syd Barrett, The Amboy Dukes, Led Zeppelin, Big Star, golden era Rolling Stones, and, as we have seen, a miscellany of psychedelia, garage and country rock. It was something approaching Americana and found its representation in: pale-blue denim, checked shirts, Cuban heels and black leather bomber jackets; films like Zabriskie Point and Buffalo 66; the works of Hunter S Thompson; the tattered reputation of Richard Nixon; my American road trip of the 2004, which was basically the enactment of some sort of fantasy; Keith Richards sat outside the burnt hulk of his Redlands estate in cut-off denim shorts and a tight-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up. These are trivial matters, but when I look back over certain periods of my life, to the clothes I wore, the places I ventured, the music I listened to, the films I watched, then suddenly there’s meaning where there didn’t appear to be in the moment.

Anyway, Big Star. I’d explored power pop without having to resort to Cheap Trick or The Knack. 

Let’s all give Mike at Really Good Records a big round of applause. The third and final track taken from Illusions from the Crackling Void – and there could easily have been more – is 'Road to Nowhere' by Hearts and Flowers. A Goffin/King composition, you might call it country rock, and it could be seen as the climax to the compilation.

As much as Rod Stewart’s personality can be slightly nauseating, he’s undoubtedly a great singer. There’s a folksy feel to 'Angel' that follows on from 'Road to Nowhere' nicely, although it was Jimi Hendrix’s tune originally, concernng his mother. Ronnie Wood’s guitar playing is loose, sometimes behind, sometimes ahead of the beat. The verse builds to a crescendo and at the moment of release there are congas.

A lot of country, folk and psychedelic rock is fairly interchangeable (excepting the strain of British folk rock that developed into the Canterbury Scene, but that’s not relevant here). Take Neil Young’s work with Buffalo Springfield. At the time it could conceivably have been characterised as folk rock with a psychedelic edge. When Young went solo he jettisoned the psychedelic and rockier elements in favour of a more country inflected sound, and yet you’d be hard pushed to call it country rock in the vein of The Byrds or The Flying Burrito Brothers. Nor could you call it southern rock, a derivative of the genre that was gathering pace. What you might call it is country folk. Pedantic taxonomy aside, I added After the Gold Rush to my collection and sought to include a track on this compilation. Still beholden to MiniDisc, I was going to go with 'Cripple Creep Ferry' but found I had almost three minutes to spare after opting for 'Silly Girl' by Television Personalities, at 2 minutes 45 seconds, ahead of 'Cross-Eyed Merry' by Jethro Tull, which comes in at 4 minutes and 6 seconds, and so settled for 'Tell Me Why', which lasts 2 minutes and 54 seconds.

I was initially a bit disappointed with Weird War’s Illuminated by the Light. It lacks the urgency, the mania and the effect pedals of its predecessors. However, its lethargic funk grew on me and the material worked well live. But Svenonius was done with Weird War. He would take a break and return four years later with a new outfit, called Chain & the Gang.

Berlin

In October my partner and I moved to the more salubrious environs of St Margarets, Twickenham. I didn’t want to but circumstances dictated that we did. I had liked living in Isleworth, having the Red Lion as my local and St John’s stores at the end of my road.

'Silly Girl' by the Television Personalities, courtesy of the chap who introduced me to Sarah Records. I’ve only got two Television Personalities songs to go on: this and a track called 'Back to Vietnam' which the chap played to me around the time he introduced me to Sarah Records, and did so with a smirk.

 [Listen to here.]

LINER NOTES: HOUNSLOW TO BRENTFORD, PART 2 [1998-99]

1.  Holes – Mercury Rev
2.  S.Y.M.M. – Manic Street Preachers
3.  Help the Aged – Pulp
4.  (Tonight) Are You Trying to Fall in Love Again – Tindersticks
5.  Fan Mail – Blondie
6.  Wild Wild Life – Talking Heads
7.  Slapstick Girl – The Dylan Rabbit
8.  High Street Love – The Dylan Rabbit
9.  Boys Better – The Dandy Warhols
10.  Folk Jam – Pavement
11.  Cowboy Raga – Delta
12.  Get Carter – Stereolab
13.  Free Arthur Lee – Make Up
14.  Rama Lama Fa Fa Fa – MC5
15.  Hard Knock Life (Ghetto Anthem) – Jay-Z
16.  Murmur One – Add N to (X)
17.  Jump n’ Shout – Basement Jaxx
18.  Dusted – Leftfield
19.  Magnetizing – Handsome Boy Modeling School 
20.  Grass Skirt and Fruit Hat – Them
21.  Kontakte – Les Rythmes Digitales
22.  Come and Play in the Milky Night – Stereolab

My lady friend has secured a job in Northfields, which lies in the centre of a triangle – like a Masonic eye – that can be drawn between Hanwell, Ealing and Brentford. We are to move in together and shall occupy a small flat in a housing block located directly behind Griffin Park football stadium in Brentford.

Brentford is a strange place, with a high street marginally less depressing than Hounslow West’s but slightly more threatening. The only emporium of note is the furniture store P Goddard & Sons on the corner of the high street opposite The Beehive pub. Aside from that, there are a few cafes and restaurants, a pharmacy, a couple of hardware stores and not much else. There are however many pubs, although the standard varies considerably. The Griffin, The White Horse and The Waterman’s Arms become semi-regular haunts, but we avoid The Royal Oak, The New Inn and The Bricklayer’s Arms.

I am working in conference and banqueting with the friend who passed out in Debenhams, at the hotel I occasionally worked at while living on Penderel Road. We are employed on zero-hour contracts, which means we can take Fridays off whenever the fancy takes us. We are able to justify this because it’s not unusual to accrue 40 hours from Monday to Thursday. As Christmas nears, we’ll often find ourselves working in excess of 60 hours a week. Occasionally the system will backfire and there won’t be enough work to satisfy an eight hour shift. We invariably clock on at 15:00, so whenever this happens there’s normally enough time for a few drinks before heading home, either in The Three Magpies across the road or in Delaney’s, the hotel bar.

Plastic Letters

Part 2 of this playlist is a complete fabrication. I certainly did listen to Mercury Rev, Manic Street Preachers, Pulp, Pavement and Tindersticks (who I saw live at the Hammersmith Palais in November '99) but not necessarily together on the same tape. The Dylan Rabbit tracks were taken from their 1999 release Musicali Obskura 1: Das Chimp, but these songs would not have featured on any compendium. Other components were acquired years earlier. I’d purchased Blondie’s Plastic Letters from the Plymouth’s Pannier Market in 1995 with the intention of giving it to the girl who was a massive Blondie fan, but never got around to it. For some reason, it had great appeal in 1999. Similarly, I had access to ...The Dandy Warhols Come Down on its release in 1997, but only really took to it during my time in Brentford. The Talking Heads’ tune is from their album True Stories, which was derived from the film of the same name, written and directed by David Byrne. I'm fairly sure I bought it from a stall in Spitalfields Market in the company of the guy with the indie tapes, who was living in Whitechapel, but I couldn’t say exactly when.

The content thereafter is more rooted in the time this playlist is supposed to represent. Folk Jam comes from Pavement’s last studio album, Terror Twilight, released in June 1999. It’s not their best work and maybe the band’s subsequent liquidation shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise, but it's a good record nonetheless. 'Real Time' is taken from Delta's Laughing Mostly, a collection of B-sides, outtakes and various odd and sods; an album proper, Slippin' Out, would materialise the following year. Stereolab’s Aluminum Tunes is a similar sort of collection, the third instalment in a series of three. (Switched On Volume 1 and Refried Ectoplasm [Switched on Volume 2] are the other two.) 'Get Carter' stood out by virtue of it being a cover of the Roy Budd penned theme tune to the film of the same name, and one of my favourites.

Make Up featured twice in the NME’s 100-strong ‘highest rated albums of 1999’: the album proper Save Yourself and the singles compilation I Want Some. I figured that the double LP I Want Some would serve as a better introduction to this mysterious band, and besides, it contained a song that pleaded for the release of the incarcerated Arthur Lee. The record proved to be money well spent. I could not say the same for Teen Age Lust, a live recording by MC5, although the riff throughout 'Rama Lama Fa Fa Fa' almost compensates for the terrible sound quality.

I don’t know what inspired me to get into Add N to (X) but I do know that Leftfield and Basement Jaxx were getting airplay on the radio, and that I have a copy of 'Dusted' on 12”. I became acquainted with 'Kontakte' by Les Rythmes Digitales and 'Grass Skirt and Fruit Hat' in the year 2000. The former was introduced to me by my brother when I visited him in Rotterdam in February, the latter I bought on a whim after I heard it playing in Beggars Banquet, Kingston. I have included them on this transitional compilation because I did not include them on the playlist I put together later that summer, and yet they evoke strongly the memory I have of living in Brentford and deserve representation.

'Come and Play in the Milky Night' is the final track off of Stereolab's sixth studio album, Cobra and Phases Group Play Voltage in the Milky Night (which was vastly underrated at the time of its release, and maybe still is). Stereolab didn't play it when I saw them at Heaven in November 1999, but they have done on every one of the three occasions I've seen them since: as a final encore in 2001 and at the start of their set in both 2006 and 2019. I prefer it as an encore.

Rotterdam

Towards the end of the year 2000, I ditched my cassette tapes and converted to MiniDisc. Thereafter, every playlist remains largely faithful to its original incarnation. If you were to go to the effort of compiling any one of my playlists then I’d hope you wouldn’t start with this one. For one thing, its artificial nature probably hampers the flow. More importantly, it is clear to me now looking back that it wasn’t only my circumstances that were subject to change but my taste also. I was in a state of flux, disillusioned with indie music and with only a passing interest in electronica.

But who would even know? It was never my intention to chronicle music that was being made at the time but to merely collate what I listened to at various stages of my life. That late 1997 through to early 2000 saw my enthusiasm for the playlist presumably wane is neither here nor there. Hounslow to Brentford, parts 1 and 2, is a collection of songs just like any other, and how it works as a playlist is largely a matter of taste. Nonetheless, as an act of creation it is impaired. I obliged myself to work with whatever fragmentary memories I have of these three years and took it from there. Moreover, it spans too long a period of time in my life to be in any way intelligible to my own ears, so I how can I expect it to cohere to anyone else’s?

[Listen to here.]

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 18 - KOH CHANG

03/02/03: Minibus to Koh Chang, stopping off at motorway services along the way, with L, ‘A’ and F – Welsh L & K to follow. Book into the last bungalows in town, eat at Thor’s, and drink on the beach with F.

Koh Chang feels a bit like Au Nang but with less traffic. They are building actual hotels. The intended prey is the 30-something holiday maker away for a few weeks’ peace and quiet. There are ‘travellers’ but not the sort you generally find in Koh Samui or Koh Phangan. They could be taking time out in-between a stint on the nearby islands of Koh Kut and Koh Samet, perhaps after returning from a tour of Vietnam and Cambodia, or maybe fleeing the licentiousness of Pattaya, which is not far away. Or, like us, they’ve pretty much finished with Thailand and fancy a week or so relaxing before exploring Cambodia’s hinterland.

The beach at White Sands is shallow but just large enough for games. An emaciated man practises yoga in a modest hut overlooking the beach. His extensive collection of new-age paraphernalia suggests that he’s put up home here.

L is coming to Koh Chang with us, and ‘A’ and F are coming too. It is said that Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G, plan on doing the same, although nobody has seen them since we arrived in Bangkok more than two days ago. Apparently O might join us but we can't be sure. Koh Chang isn’t far and L has booked us on a minibus to take us there. It’s an early start, but not too early: favourable terms.

Minibuses haven’t featured very heavily on my travels up until now; we’ve used just the one, on our journey from Chumphon to Surat Thani. This is also a good opportunity to bask in the magnitude of Bangkok’s sheer scale. As with any megacity, it takes some time to exit its inner circle, the first hour or so spent negotiating gridlocked traffic under and over the many flyovers that weave in and out of each other. Bangkok’s suburbs give an indication as to the impact of the 1997/98 Asian Currency Crisis. In the run up to this financial calamity, Thailand had been regarded as a Tiger Economy and did much to open itself up to foreign trade. And then things went all wrong and financial institutions crumbled, businesses went bankrupt and people became unemployed. As a testament to this, redundant concrete brackets strike out into the countryside, like giant H’s, intended to support flyovers that will never be built. (Probably irreparable but too expensive to pull down, many of these stanchions remain in place to this day.)

The journey to Koh Chang is long enough to justify a pause at a roadside service station. I like service stations immensely, although it would be mistake to assume that they’re the same the world over. Here they comprise of little more than a petrol garage, a 7-Eleven type establishment and a forecourt with a few stone benches. But it is a service station none the less, and I am glad we stop there.

Our transport bypasses the town of Trat and takes us directly to the ferry terminal. We’ve just missed one, so we’ll have to wait a while; more coffee. As it was when we sailed to Thailand’s southern islands, there appears to be a variety of boats servicing a number of destinations, but we need one to take us to Hat Sai Khao (White Sands Beach) on the island’s west coast. There is no pier there, so the quickest route is by way of a weathered fishing vessel, taking about an hour, capable of anchoring within wading distance of the shore. Fish are caught along the way – big fish – and many of the travellers on board wince at the sight of them being clubbed to death. I wonder to myself whether these same travellers intend on eating any during their stay on Koh Chang.

White Sands Beach is deceptively calm. The beach huts are all booked up, there are hotels shooting up along the main drag, and swanky villas beyond. Struggling to find accommodation, we split up and broaden our search, until L reports back that she’s found somewhere with room to spare. We had it pretty good in Laos, renting reasonable rooms in solidly built hotels, but it looks like we’ll have to slum it again. The hut on offer is not small but the bed looks like it’s about ready for retirement, and I reckon I could punch my fist through the dividing wall without too much bother. We have a front porch but that’s on the verge of collapse, and in front of that there’s a rockery of rubble. It occurs to me, what with the construction going on up the road, that White Sands is probably in the process of gentrifying itself and these dilapidated bungalows have probably been slated for redevelopment in the not too distant future, so why invest in maintaining them?

No matter: L knows a lovely place to eat called Thor’s, which serves the best red curry I’ve had thus far. Thor’s establishment is located at the end of the beach, where the sand segues into rocks, with an unobstructed view west over the Gulf of Thailand. It’s nice to be on the coast again.

04/02/03: Cookies for breakfast with L, F and ‘A’. Hang out on beach. Welsh L & K, G and O arrive. Thor’s again with all; get drunk on buckets.

05/02/03: Very hungover. Cookies with partner, random bar, plus L and ‘A’, to play cards, Thor’s and 15 Palms with all except O and F. Drinks at guesthouse with L and G.

Koh Chang was just what I needed without having realised it. Beaches aren’t my thing generally – I’m too easily bored – but I do like being beside the sea, listening to the water and studying the horizon. And I could put up with our ramshackle hut, to whose inventory I could now add bedbugs, rats, seawater and a large lizard. It took a while to be sure about the bedbugs, but then little red dots started appearing about my person, and on my partner’s too. I dealt with this by covering my bed with a dramatic flourish of DEET, which seemed to put a stop to the little red dots appearing about my person.

The scurrying about in the loft I assumed to be nesting birds, but what birds? Other than the gallinaceous kind, I’d not noticed much in the way of wild fowl anywhere in Thailand, and the birds I had observed were too spindly in leg to produce this racket. Must be rats, so I sprayed more DEET into every point of access anywhere in the room that I could find.

It took a while to discern that what I was washing in was not fresh water but something more brackish. Whether it came directly from the sea or the tide backed up into the water supply I could not tell, but I didn’t at any point taste the salt. What alerted me to its presence was the absence of soapsuds, although it took two showers for me to notice.

And on top of all that was a large lizard, although not as large as the one that S suffered in Haad Rin. It was a welcome addition anyway: a sort of sentry to guard against the insects and rats.

Our first full day on Koh Chang sees the arrival of Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G. I like the way these people are so spontaneous in their travels. It always takes me at least a day to update my itinerary, and when I do get around to it I’ll then normally book something for the day after that. This held true even when we were using public transport, where booking in advance is not normally required.

Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G, have arrived and they are in good spirits. They apologise for not meeting up with us in Bangkok but they’d high-end accommodation to enjoy. They’d also wanted to show G some of the sights, and the Khao San Road wasn’t among them. I could have done with them around in Bangkok, if I’m honest. Or failing that, I could have done without L and her Welsh friend B being around.

So Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G, have arrived, and O’s on his way too. L’s looks a little put out by that last snatch of information. Turns out that she’s not so keen on O. You would have thought that she’d like another American among the rank and file, but no, she thinks that O’s a ‘bit weird’. She’s not ingratiating herself towards me with statements like that, as she didn’t when she turned on M (Mk.2) in Luang Prabang.

Welsh L, K and K’s brother, G, are up for a few drinks tonight, and so is O now that he’s arrived. It’s great to hear L advocating a return to Thor’s because it really is the perfect place to make merry. There are global flags hanging from the rafters, wooden picnic-bench style seating, reasonably priced drinks, a toilet embellished with (gay) porn, and Thor plays good music. [Saint Etienne’s Heart Failed (in the Back of a Taxi) is a highlight, featuring on some ambient compilation that plays on rotation.]

After dinner, we work our way along the beach in search of watering holes. The thing with Koh Chang is that the entertainment isn’t as concentrated as it is on other beaches – it’s not that sort of place. None of the bars are particularly busy, but there are people drinking and there are plenty of bars to choose from. And to hit the point home, some bright spark goes and buys a Bucket of Joy, and then somebody else buys another after that – maybe even me.

Thor's

It’s not surprising that I’m hungover the next day and nor is it surprising that I’m not the only one. What’s slightly more confounding – only slightly – is that the following evening offers up a repeat performance of the one before. O and F aren’t involved this time around, the latter on account of the nasty headaches he’s been experiencing from the anti-malarial drugs he’s been taking [Larium]. I’m not sure what O’s excuse is.

Come the end of the night, it’s me, Welsh L and G battling it out for supremacy back at The Meeting Place – our guesthouse’s sorry excuse for a bar. We’re joined by two English lads who have just completed a two week tour of Cambodia, where they paid money to liberate ammunition from an AK-47 selective-fire assault rifle. Good fun, you would think, and if/when we end up in Cambodia then I might have a go myself, but one of the guys is traumatised by the experience. Sounding genuinely disturbed, he tells how delicate he now realises life really is, an epiphany that dawned on him the moment he squeezed the trigger and fired the rifle. The rest of us find this hilarious, but he stands firm and assures us that his life has been irrevocably changed.

06/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast. Stroll about town, back to 15 Palms for coffee with L and ‘A’, dinner at Cookies – barbequed fish on the beach. Drink and a game of cards at Pens with all – a rather subdued evening.

07/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast, beach, Pens for a small drink with F, G, Welsh L & K, dinner at Tonsai with L and ‘A’. Oodies to see a band with L, ‘A’, F and O, and drinks on the beach.

08/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast; post postcards – getting very hot now. Thor’s for tea with L and O. Oodies plus Welsh L, K and G, drink on beach with Welsh and G, and make man-trap.

09/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast. L departs. Tonsai for tea with partner, play cards back at Welsh L & K’s bungalow, with F too.

I have found an establishment that can cater for my hangovers. Up until now I have been ignoring L when she knocks on our door at 10:00, pausing for 10 minutes or so and then moping off to the local store and for crisps and Gatorade (or my partner has – we’ve been taking it in turns). Then I’ve been taking a cold shower, and, finally, I’ve been going to Cookies and battling with an American Breakfast. But even the mighty American Breakfast has been coming up short of late. I must have seen something at 15 Palms last night I liked, or maybe I just can’t be bothered to walk any further, but that’s where I find myself seeking succour today.

My new breakfast is this: 1 bacon and egg roll, 1 serving of fries (with chilli sauce to taste), 1 lime and mint shake, 1 cup of coffee. If I can get the egg and bacon roll down my throat before my gag reflex kicks in then I’m home and dry (fries are never a problem, and the chilli sauce merely adds flavour). Solids ingested, I get to work on the lime and mint shake. I’ve been drinking these shakes regularly since I chanced upon them in Bangkok. Made from crushed ice and real fruit juice, they’re a great form of rehydration and hugely refreshing. Some folk prefer a Lassi, which adds yoghurt to the mix, but I don't them them to be as rejuvenating. Then I finish off with the coffee at my leisure.

Like some sort of bonus feature, 15 Palms also plays Mezzanine by Massive Attack and Once in a Lifetime – The Best of Talking Heads without fail, and sometimes on the bounce. This will ensure that from now on I will take breakfast here every day regardless of my physical state of being. [Incidentally, O’s parents were/are friends of Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz – the bass player and drummer from Talking Heads respectively – and O has met them. The music in 15 Palms, and my fondness for it, enables him to reveal this fact to me with a gratifyingly insouciant air.]

After those first two nights of intense revelry things began to settle down a bit. As a group we’d be pretty fragmented by day. Welsh L, K and her brother, G, hired a motorbike at one point and ventured off to explore the island’s interior. My partner and I attempted a long walk but found nothing of particular note, so spent most of the time reading or playing cards with whoever was about. I recall that I struggled with dinner at a place called Tonsai but quite enjoyed the barbequed fish at one of the pop-up restaurants on the beach, and was very glad when we made one last trip back to Thor’s place – especially so when it prompted a final night of heavy drinking and the construction of man-traps with an inebriated Welsh L and G.

And then, on our sixth full day on the island, L parted company having finally realised than the rest of us had our hearts set on travelling to Cambodia. The skirmishes on the border had abated, but there was no time now to launch an offensive into Vietnam. I was relieved that she was gone if only because her presence seemed to scare off Welsh L & K, and I very much wanted for them to accompany us to Cambodia – at least until I got a handle on the place.

But was it as simple as that, now that L was out of the way, so to speak? We made it clear to our friends that we were ready to leave and that it was to Cambodia that we would be travelling, and we’d probably be catching the earliest ferry back to the mainland the next day. Yet no invitations were extended and no plans were shared. Maybe it wasn’t L who was the problem after all?