Tag: vinyl

In May 1986 the charts looked like this:

At 10 the vocal genius of Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All”. This wasn’t cool.

No. 9 was Queen “It’s a kind of magic”. Not cool.

At 8 the highest climber was Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” re-released on the back of Nick Kamen’s iconic appearance in his boxers (they became cool) for Levi’s. This was a very cool record.

Position 7 was Five Star and “Can’t Wait Another Minute”. This collection of five brothers and sisters showed loads of promise but sat stubbornly the wrong side of cool (too much choreography for me).

At 6 was George Michael with “Different Corner”. This was the start of George’s solo career and was way cooler than everyone thought it would be; a song that has stood the test of time.

No. 5 was Janet Jackson with her first single “What Have You Done For Me Lately?”. Not my bag at all.

At 4 we saw Patti Labelle and Michael McDonald singing to each other (one in NYC and one at the coast). Patti looking supreme and sounding amazing, Michael looking like your uncle Nigel but sounding pretty good. This kind of duet didn’t float my boat and was definitely one for my Nan.

No. 3 was slap-bass maestro Mark King and his Level 42 with “Lessons of Love”. I can’t really say anything bad about Level 42 – they were (maybe still are) a good band. The Chinese Way was a belting single. There was a hint of the soul-boy string vest about them but that’s not a bad thing.

At 2 was a song I had completely erased from my memory – Madonna’s “Live to Tell”. I’ve just watched the video again and even though that was only five minutes ago, I still can’t remember it. At this point Madonna could have released a recording of her gently snoring and it would break the top 5.

And, after a slow climb, Austrian musical genius Falco. Described as the Austrian godfather of white rap by some, his track, Amadeus, was number 1 everywhere. Pretty cool I think.

Why am I giving you a Bruno Brookes-style rundown? Well, I wanted to paint a picture of the background against which one of my favourite albums of all time “Boat to Bolivia” by Martin Stephenson & the Daintees was released. This backdrop of over-produced tunes (excluding Marvin Gaye and George Michael, of course) was a distinct contrast to Boat to Bolivia (admittedly outside the top ten there were a few brilliant and more indie tunes including The Cure, Suzanne Vega, It’s Immaterial, the B52s, and Doctor and the Medics) and was simple and beautiful.

This period saw me listening to a lot of Lloyd Cole and the beginnings of the C86 bands, and of course, The Housemartins (still the best gig I ever went to I think, although Blur at ULU in 1990 comes close). Then, in the middle of all that, Martin Stephenson released Boat to Bolivia and me and my mate Pete were hooked. It was the record that was played each lunchtime and break in the sixth form. It was the record that mirrored, or charted, my first proper relationship. It was the record (and this was probably more important than I realised at the time) that made me feel cool-ish. It was the record that started the conversation with the people at Uni that became my best friends, the record that my wife and I listened to the most (actually maybe that was Donovan but this was a close second).

It’s the record I go back to when I need a hug.

Martin is from the North East, born in Durham and celebrated for his NE folk roots (to which he has returned) and this can be heard throughout the album. My brother was at Sunderland University and I fell in love with the coast up there.

Martin was set free by punk. In an interview with Folking he says:

“I was born in a rough environment but I was always a deer. I wasn’t a wolf but I thought I was a wolf because I was running with the wolves but one day at the watering hole I caught a glimpse of my reflection and I saw Bambi there. When I was fifteen Punk came along and even to my guru Punk was shite but to me it was like being reborn. I thought at that time you had to be a genius to play music but Punk gave you the confidence to have a go and be primitive so I started as a guitarist.  I was a punk guitarist from fifteen to seventeen or eighteen but punk started to move on into New Wave and then I started to educate myself. I bought a classical guitar book, a jazz guitar book, a folk guitar book and I would usually get through the first ten or eleven pages and get bored and go and put the kettle on. It was the journey from giving up on a classical exercise to putting the kettle on where I would meet conceptual art. I became a songwriter and I‘d have little bits of jazz, blues, country – jack of all, master of none – I just used what I had. I was a guitar fan and a bit of a poet and it just started merging. I’d probably been taught how to channel as well so every time I wrote a song I was bringing it through the crown chakra, I wasn’t getting in the way. I felt that I didn’t have the craftsmanship to get in the way but that was giving me a head start with the songs.”

This blend of influences is what hooked me in. Plus, the fact that he wasn’t a popstar. This was the fag-end of the New Romantics and the height of the pretentiousness of Morrisey and The Smiths. Martin felt like the antidote to both.

For me the thing that runs through the album like “BLACKPOOL” through a stick of rock is Love. Unashamedly. I’m not going to go through each song in detail. But I’ll tell you how it made me feel. In an era of heightened masculinity, it was unusual to talk and sing about feelings, about sexuality, about aging, about nostalgically prone alcoholics, about slow loving. The album balanced my life (rugby playing on one side, poetry writing on the other), it helped me express my form of masculinity. Martin also looked great. Pre-baggy and post-Smiths, finding a sartorial direction was challenging. Bros had emerged and added Grolsch bottle tops to their Docs, the tail-end of Goth was very much still evident and neither felt like me. Martin’s look did. In short, the album reached a hand out to me when I needed it most. Those mid teen years are tough and it’s easy to get a little lost.

Martin Stephenson became a talismanic figure to me and my mates, a symbol of new masculinity as much as music. But the music was great. “Coleen” still makes me weep a little today, as does the “Little Red Bottle” in a different way. The great washing of “Running Waters” was like a baptism. Washing away the old me and revealing the new. I utterly love this album from the marrow of my bones.

The album has travelled through time with me. Like my best friend. Always there when I needed it. Sometimes forgotten and then re-discovered.  I found out about 5 years ago that Martin (now living in the Highlands of Scotland) was recording again. I googled, found him on Facebook and we chatted. What a lovely and wholly humble man he is. We met up before a gig in Birmingham (and what a gig). We arrived on time (The Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath). The door was shut but I could hear someone coming down the stairs. It was Martin and the band off for a curry. He was just about to perform, after a veg dopiaza. Hats off and kudos. He was ace, friendly, warm. His love for his art, his band, his kids, and his friends is tangible and warm. They say never to meet your heroes as you’ll be disappointed. Well in this case I wasn’t. I don’t think life has always been easy, but he is still smiling and still writing and recording great music.

The album can be hard to find now, but well worth searching out. It’s one of those albums that flows, that’s been put together to listen to from front to back rather than on shuffle. The vinyl is rare, and I love nothing more than putting it on and sitting and listening through. It’s a time machine, an emotional crutch, a best friend, a mentor, and a reason to be cheerful.

Thanks Martin.  You’re a diamond. Faceted, sparkling and a one-off.

Give Boat To Bolivia a listen via Martin’s Bandcamp, embedded below.

Martin re-recorded the entire album in 2016, which is available via Bandcamp, too.

I’ll admit it, I’m a sucker for acoustic guitar and piano, especially when they’re paired with delicate soundscapes that evoke specific times of the year, or push the emotions into places of calm, or even sadness.

The first time I heard Emphemetry, which is essentially the pseudonym of the artist, Richard J. Birkin, I was hooked. Elements of Gravenhurst, but with a classical backdrop. A clear, northern accent piercing like strands of sunlight through a cloudy day. It’s obvious, almost immediately, that this isn’t your standard laidback singer songwriter album.

Richard has scored music for film and TV, played with the London Contemporary Orchestra, recorded music for, and at, Abbey Road Studios, and released critically-acclaimed classical-inspired albums. Yet, it’s his earlier, guitar-led work that deserves wider attention.

Each song on ‘A Lullaby Hum for Tired Streets’ flows, like a meandering river; they evoke late-night drives through industrial towns; they’re reminiscent of watching dust motes float through derelict mills, or through half-built new builds of the edge of a once-bustling town. Yet, it is a shining light that brings beauty to all those ideas of decay and forgottenness. There’s a sense it could have some beats applied and you’d have an after-club-comedown soundtrack, too. A Lullaby Hum for Tired Streets is aptly named in that respect.

While it’s a dozen years old now, like all good Unspun Heroes it travels through time and somehow remains current even as it ages. You’re pulled like a riptide towards songs such as Five Fields, or Francis Thompson, which is over nine minutes in length but sails through those minutes like it’s a catchy pop song; as it nears its end, so it breaks down to the bedrock of the song’s structure, all the while never feeling like it’s repetitive or drawn out. Or Emileodie, which begins with a piano refrain that is simple, yet intricate, shifting to a minor key just as you think you’ve got a handle on it.

There are so many beautiful moments scattered throughout the ten tracks. But it’s Richard’s voice that really makes this album a triumph. He uses his voice like a painter uses a brush, to add texture or highlights. It’s not the focus of the album like you’d expect. However, if it were to be removed from these songs it would leave them feeling unfinished, or perhaps bereft would be the better word. No more so than on So Long Magic Helper, one of the many, many highlights.

The album is available on a limited edition vinyl release, mastered by Nils Frahm and pressed in Berlin. You should add it to your collection.

Music, as always, situates you in a time and place. To hear a drum intro, or guitar riff, or the opening words of a chorus you remember screaming along to at some tiny gig in a venue with dubious adherence to fire regulations. Or a shift in your own circumstances, perhaps?

2008. A year of missing out on sleep. A new baby. A new home. Loss and grief, too.

The Shaky Hands reminds me of painting my kitchen, of being stuck on the sofa snuggled with my child gently snoring against my shoulder as he finally crashed out after a feed. It was playing in the car on the way to scatter my Mum’s ashes into the woodland where she loved to walk. It’s soundtracked a lot of different moods and feelings, has Lunglight.

Listening recently, it transported me back to that time, but it also reminded me what a fucking great album it is.

Hailing from Portland, Oregon, at a time when the city was mostly known for another jangly indie band and their song which became the background to a certain mobile phone company. Dandy, you might say.

Lunglight, though, was different. It had way more energy, a lot more punk in its veins, songs that spoke of sweaty basement gigs and spilt beer. The vocals calling something urgent and primal from within. Staccato guitar and drum licks that carry you along, giving a sense of speed even when the tempo slows, most obvious on songs Loosen Up and We Are Young.

The engine of the band for this, their second album, were the brothers, Nick and Nathan Delffs. However, it was a band in which every member brought something unique that, when pulled together on songs like Settle On, You’re The Light, and final song, Oh No, demonstrates why they’re an Unspun Hero. On Lunglight, here was a band on the verge of something and their music spelled it out better than any words I can write down.

It wasn’t to be, though. Still, we are left with 13 brilliant tracks that captured their youthful energy and dynamism. Listen on their Bandcamp page.

I was lucky. A friend lived in Leeds and worked as a roadie, moonlighting as a web developer between gigs. He also shared a house with the entertainments manager of Leeds Uni. Getting out of London to the north was, therefore, a fairly normal thing every weekend. They were even nice to this soft southerner. Mostly.

It was after some sweaty gig that I was introduced to a someone who handed me a CDr of local bands they’d burned at home. On it were a whole host of tracks, mostly forgotten. One of these we played again and again on the long drive down the M1. It was Keepsakes by Sky Larkin from their self-released Souvenir EP.

It made me think of the film, Shallow Grave, which I loved (and still do). It made me ‘car seat dance’ when the inevitable traffic jams brought us to a standstill. It brought out a grin on my face. As soon as I got back home I got on the internet and searched them out. I found two more songs to (legally) download from a fantastic Blogger website called Burning World (now defunct) and a release date for an album.

I was hooked.

Here was a three-piece that sounded like there were twice as many members. A strong female singer who had a knack for great lyrics and even greater riffs. There was more than a slight resemblance to Sleater-Kinney, but with a distinctly northern English grit and humour and perhaps a large splash of that cheeky Los Campesinos personality. They stood out when much of the year I first heard them was wall-to-wall Arctic Monkeys.

The album hasn’t dated in the past 14 years or so. It remains a great album chock full of songs you can sing along to, dance to (car seat or other places), or whatever you want to do while it plays. It gets a regular airing at Unspun Heroes HQ. It was an original take on guitar-based indie when it came out and it is still an original sound.

Because of Sky Larkin, I have the fondest memories of Leeds and the messy weekends at the Uni bar that made up a fair chunk of my late 20s. It really deserves a reissue, though, because it’s bloody hard to find and we’d love a copy. We think you’d love a copy, too.

Plus Katie Harkin, the guitarist and founding member of Sky Larkin hasn’t stopped. She’s still making great music as Harkin (her latest album, Honeymoon Suite is definitely worth checking out once you’ve got your ears around her original band’s debut, which you do below).