This review was originally published on the International Times website: https://internationaltimes.it/digging-your-scene-new-pop-and-all-that-jazz-1982-1987/

October 1983. At seventeen years old I am at least one year younger than anyone else on the architecture course I have just started in Glasgow. With the strange blend of insecurity, arrogance and naïveté that comes with the age, I am pinning a few things to the boards of my allocated studio space: A photograph of my Flying Scot bicycle on Dundonald Hill with Arran in the distance; the loose inner sleeve print from Simple Minds’ ‘Empires and Dance’; an advert for ‘This Charming Man’ clipped from the pages of ‘Smash Hits’ and a poster for ‘La Varieté’ by Weekend. An impossibly handsome young man who has a drawing board two away from mine wanders past. He glances at my choices, visibly shudders and then, with one of those Highland Gentry voices that is 10% Scots and 90% English Public School, he says something about “faux Jazz” before wandering off mumbling about “Monk, Mingus and Mulligan”. Such is the spirit of the times.

Forty three years later I idly wonder whatever became of that self-proclaimed teenage Jazz aficionado. Running a successful architecture studio in London no doubt, but spending more and more of his time at the family retreat hidden away in Speyside. Does he still listen to Modern Jazz or did he meander into more esoteric and ever more challenging sounds? Is there a complete collection of ‘The Wire’ magazine lining the studio walls? Whatever. I really ought not to be judgemental, for if the passing of time has taught me anything it is that the facade of culturally informed intellectual charm emanating from that nineteen year old young man would have been just that: a facade. Behind it no doubt lurked the same insecurities and, yes, defensive arrogance that I suffered myself.

In those intervening forty three years of course I also came to know, and love, the music of Monk, Mingus and Mulligan yet through it all I would always choose to come back to those ‘faux Jazz’ sounds of Weekend. ‘La Varieté’ still sounds extraordinarily fresh to my ears and it is a delight to hear the light as air ‘Weekend Stroll’ on the four disc ‘Digging Your Scene’ boxset from Cherry Red. Subtitled ‘New Pop And All That Jazz 1982-1987’, the Weekend instrumental is a perfect ingredient in what is, on the whole, a rather delicious collection, tracking a route from Everything But The Girl’s (arguably) 1982 scene-setting cover of Cole Porter’s ‘Night and Day’ (which still sounds effortlessly both of its time and timeless) through to the 1987 white label 12” release of Night Train’s ‘Open Channel D’ which arguably provided the segue point into Acid Jazz, which is another thrilling story altogether. In between the collection features a multitude of tracks, many of which will be familiar, some of which not.

Highlights? My nostalgic take on things pulls mostly from the first half of the collection: The French Impressionists’ brittle post-Postcard charity shop chic showcased on ‘Pick Up The Rhythm’; the Bossa-dub urban exotica of Jah Wobble’s ‘Sunshine’; Working Week’s magnificent activist anthem ‘Venceremos – We Will Win’, a benefit record for the UK Chile Solidarity campaign, here in its euphoric ten minute ’Jazz Dance Special’ mix; The Pale Fountains’ mean streets glamour meets country-house lost weekend decadence on ‘Southbound Excursion’ and of course David Sylvian’s luxurious ‘The Ink In The Well’ from his 1984 solo album ‘Brilliant Trees’. In some respects it might seem odd for Sylvian to be in this collection, but this cut really does fit exquisitely well, not least because, as the universally excellent sleeve notes point out, the song references Cocteau’s 1936 film ‘The Blood Of A Poet’ and Sartre’s 1945 novel ‘The Age of Reason’, both essential reference points at the time to anyone keen to show off their cultural qualifications.

Then there is Vic Godard’s seminal ‘Holiday Hymn’, perhaps made more (in)famous by Orange Juice’s priceless cover version, but sounding tremendous here sandwiched between the instrumental version of The Colourfield’s simply gorgeous ‘Castles In The Air’ and Alison Moyet’s take on ‘That Ole Devil Called Love’. Curiously, I had all but forgotten about that particular Moyet single and listening now I have to admit that whilst her voice still sounds sensational, the arrangement itself falls a little flat. A little too traditional perhaps, following the well worn paths rather than injecting something contemporaneous to the times. It seems to me that other covers of standards fare better: Bronski Beat’s ‘It Ain’t Necessarily So’ still sounds fresh and seductively spirited; Brilliant’s ‘It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World’ (here in the nearly seven minute Trans Global Mix) is one of those fabulous Stock Aitken Waterman productions that reminds us that there was much more to SAW than saccharine Chart Pop (further evidence is on display here in the form of their funky eight minute ‘Roadblock’ from 1987) whilst Kid Montana’s take on ‘Spooky’ is a classy European urbane delight. One of the more obscure treats in the collection, this track from 1986 is notable for featuring Dudley Klute on vocal duties, a name many may be more familiar with from for his later appearances on Magnetic Fields’ ’69 Love Songs’ magnum opus. Then of course there is Paul Haig doing his finest Sinatra impressions on ‘The Song Is You’. Originally featuring on the ‘Swing in ’82’ mini-LP, this cut splendidly bridges back to the post-punk anxious energy of Josef K and forward to more sophisticated syncopations, all whilst aligning itself with with what Vic Godard was doing at the time with his Club Left cocktail jazz sets, which brings us neatly back to the start of this paragraph.

Good, then, to see Godard’s role in establishing the, ahem, swing towards a jazzier side to the post-punk Pop style in the early 1980s, and good too to recognise the role of Paul Weller in its further development. If it may be true that many were aghast at Weller’s decision to split The Jam at arguably the height of their powers/success it may also be true to suggest that those same people were determined to sneer at What Weller Did Next with The Style Council. Fools. In hindsight, it is easy to see those early Style Council singles as energetic bursts of soul infused Pop that harked back just enough to the idea of The Jam to propel Weller and company forward towards the release of 1984’s influential ‘Cafe Bleu’ jazz/soul/blues review set. Weller himself is represented on this particular collection, though, with the 1986 reworking of the previous year’s album track ‘With Everything To Lose’. Re-written by Weller as ‘Have You Ever Had It Blue’ and rearranged by Gil Evans as a sophisticated jazzpop smooch, the single was a feature of Julian Temple’s musical film treatment of Colin MacInnes’ 1959 novel ‘Absolute Beginners’. Weller of course had long been a champion of MacInnes’ novel so it all fitted, and if reception to the film was somewhat critically and commercially muted at the time I suggest that it has weathered well and now reads more clearly as both an interesting take on the novel whilst simultaneously being a celebration/critique of the very New Pop/Jazz scene (and the neoliberal Thatcherism that gave it context) that this boxset charts. If you have not seen it lately I recommend watching it. Elsewhere in the collection there are more Weller/‘Absolute Beginners’ references: Eighth Wonder’s ‘Having It All’, from the film soundtrack originally cropped up as a 12” b-side to a flop single and is much better than one might expect/remember; Tracie’s ‘(I Love You) When You Sleep’, a 7” on Weller’s Respond label is a gorgeous ballad that deserved much more on its 1984 release and it is a pleasure to be reminded of the Elvis Costello written number here, whilst former Wham! And Style Councillor Dee C. Lee’s solo smash hit single of 1985 ‘See The Day’ is deservedly revisited. It still sounds sensational.

Elsewhere in the collection there is a largely pleasing amount of other chart hits to enjoy: Madness’ ‘One Better Day’ is a splendid reminder of the fact that are few better singles acts in the history of Pop; Everything But The Girl’s ‘mainstream breakthrough’ single ‘Each and Every One’ still sounds utterly beguiling, the more so now on the realisation that lyrically it was written by Tracey Thorn as a critique of the patronising male music press’s treatment of her all-female group The Marine Girls; China Crisis’ ‘Black Man Ray’ showcases Gary Daly and Eddie Lundon’s move into more commercial ground with its Walter Becker production. It sounded a little disappointing to me at the time after the cool electronic charm of tracks like ‘African And White’, but now sounds delicately charming; Swing Out Sister’s magnificent UK top five smash ’Breakout’ which I loved at the time of its 1986 release and am delighted to hear here in its relatively rare 12” ‘New Rockin’ Version’ mix still sounds wonderfully exuberant whilst Fine Young Cannibals’ enduringly appealing and relevant anti-Tory ‘Blue’ continues to resonate with it’s insistent proclamations. “It’s a colour so cruel” indeed. Then there is Blow Monkey’s 1986 hit ‘Digging Your Scene’, which gives the boxset its title and here appears in its ‘US Mix’. This tremendous single sounds immeasurably more appealing to me than it did on release, its lyrical critique of the period’s anti-gay sentiments having passed me by entirely at the time. Meanwhile, Level 42’s ‘Seven Days’, though not a single, came from their top 20 ‘True Colours’ LP of late 1984 and also sounds much, much better than I ever remember Level 42 sounding. Indeed, of the ‘hits’ and of the entire boxset itself, only Sting’s ‘Moon Over Bourbon Street’ feels out of place. Sounding overly earnest and rather lumpen and dreary, the single rightly failed to breach the UK top 40 at the time and would, for my mind, have been much better left in the past.

If you are looking for something a little more obscure (and immeasurably better sounding) than Sting, then thankfully this boxset has you covered: Makin’ Time, featuring the great Fay Hallam’s organ playing to the fore on instrumental ‘Walk A Thin Line’ (the flip side of their 1986 cover of Costello’s ‘Pump It Up’) showcase the jazz and soul influences on Mod style to perfection; The Friday Club’s now rare 1985 single for 2 Tone, ‘Window Shopping’ is the kind of dole-queue social(ist) observational statement cloaked in upbeat poptimistic style that in many ways epitomises the era, whilst Marden Hill’s 1986 debut single ‘Curtain’ is a sub-three minute breeze that sounds like it was made whilst in thrall to The Free Design and anticipates early Stereolab at a time when Tim Gane was still playing chiming Marxist Pop with McCarthy. Best of the lot for me though is the glorious ‘Thank You For Being An Angel’ by Friends Again, which featured originally on the 1984 ‘Friends Again E.P.’. The single (a double pack 7” of which included previous fabulous singles ‘Sunkissed’ and ‘State Of Art’) was almost the last ditch effort by Mercury to break the band into the charts. It peaked at number 59 and within a year or so the group had split, with members forming Love And Money (James Grant, Paul McGeechan and Stuart Kerr) and The Bathers (Chris Thompson). Both have given us many fine records in the past forty years or so but my heart is still tied to the charming folk/soul/blues inflected Pop they crafted in the shadows of Bothwell Castle, falling down as it was. Well, nostalgia is a strange and strong emotion after all.

Nostalgia then will surely draw a lot of listeners to the ‘Digging Your Scene’ collection and there is surely not much wrong with that, especially since the relatively broad musical scope of the selections means there is as much to whet the appetite for new excavations as to tease at the rusting synapses of memory. Faux Jazz? Maybe yes, maybe no. Tremendously entertaining regardless.

‘Digging Your Scene: New Pop and All That Jazz, 1982-1987’ is a four CD boxset. Released by Cherry Red Records on 26th June 2026. https://www.cherryred.co.uk/various-artists-digging-your-scene-new-pop-and-all-that-jazz-1982-1987-4cd-box-set

The cover illustration is a two colour ‘jigsaw’ linocut print of blackbirds at the Unpopular pond.

a – dudal & de Roover (from ‘pivot rotations’ LP)
Salish Sea – Derek Hunter Wilson (from ‘Sculptures’ LP)
Sauna Motif II – Sontag Shogun x Lau Nau (from ‘Päiväkahvit’ LP)
Oil And Ripples – The Balloonist (from ‘Canals Of South Staffordshire & The Black Country (Haunted By Victorian Ghosts)’ LP)
Sur la surface – Catharæ (from ‘Dreams of the Mediterranéant’ LP)
Olive groves – Snakeskin (from ‘We live in sand’ LP)
Téte Brec, the Twinkling Hoard – Milkweed (from ‘Remscéla’ LP)
Beautiful Dreamer – Fragment B (digital single)
Driving – Sibylle Baier (from ‘Colour Green’ LP)
Dream is the Driver – The Golden Samphire Band (from ‘Dream Is The Driver’ LP)
Another Time – Cat Clyde (from ‘Mud Blood Bone’ LP)
California – Alela Diane (from ‘Who’s Keeping Time?’ LP)
Juxon Street – Andrew Rumsey (from ‘Blank Arcades’ LP)
Distant Screen – Emma Tricca (from ‘Prisms of Winter – LIVE in London’ LP)
Marat/Sade – Judy Collins (from ‘In My Life’ LP)
Begging for Change – Pulp (from ‘HELP(2)’ LP)
Pills & Soap – Elvis Costello & The Attractions (from ‘Punch the Clock’ LP)
Jackboot Democrats – Leon Rosselson (from ‘The World Turned Upside Down’ LP)
Democracy Coma – Manic Street Preachers (from ‘Lipstick Traces’ LP)
The Drinking Song Of The Merchant Bankers – McCarthy (from ‘Banking Violence And Inner City Life Today’ LP)

download part one

Undemocratic – Catapult
When I Have Fears – European Sun (from ‘When Britain Was Great’ LP)
Venceremos (Jazz Dance Special Version) – Working Week
Pine – Royal Ottawa (from ‘Here Comes Everybody’ EP)
Scene Stealing – Heavenly (from ‘Highway To Heavenly’ LP)
Away With The Fairies – The Would-Be-Goods (from ‘Tears Before Bedtime’ LP)
The Joy of Living – Cliff Richard
Homunculus – Animals That Swim (from ‘Happiness From A Distant Star’ LP)
Evening Prayer – Turner Cody (from ‘Out for Blood’ LP)
Hot Thing – Prince (from ‘Sign ‘O’ the Times’ LP)
Everything Counts – Depeche Mode (from ‘Construction Time Again’ LP)
O.A.O. Material – (from ‘CBGB & OMFUG: A New York City Soundtrack 1975-1986’ boxset)
Everything Lost Remains – Marielle V Jakobsons (from ‘The Patterns Lost to Air’ LP)
Drawing Maps – Correlations (from ‘Keep It Light Yeah’ LP)
Encounters – Caminauta (from ‘Unseen Dimensions’ LP)
Rainwater – Chen Ming Chang (from ‘Searchlight Moonbeam’ LP)

download part two

If Unpopular has seemed quiet of late then this is largely due to the fact that 2026 started with something of a bang and a whimper as my traditional New Year’s Day bicycle ride was interrupted somewhat ignominiously on the ice and potholes of East Village in Mid-Devon. The fact that I managed to ride the 20km home with what turned out to be a broken collarbone is surely something of a testament to the power of adrenaline and/or sheer bloodymindedness. So January 2026 has been even more subdued and miserable than usual, although with alternate periods of icy and flooded roads the silver lining is surely that I would have been largely restricted to spending time indoors regardless, unable to continue with my little project of the past eight months or so which has consisted largely of colouring in maps.

Specifically, the colouring activity is about recording roads and lanes down which I have cycled at some point and is largely focused on sheet 192 (Exeter and Sidmouth) of the Ordnance Survey 1:50000 First Series from 1974, although surrounding maps have also been touched by my pen on occasion. I suspect part of the reason for doing it is some kind of instinctive need to evidence existence, whilst another might be the strain of completist collector in me. Whatever the reasons, the desire to colour in as many lanes as possible is strong and has, alongside investment in an electric road bike (originally as a means of getting back to health after a spinal issue, ahem, ‘back’ in 2024) rather reinvigorated my love for cycling.

The first assaults on the map are exercises in memory retrieval. What roads and lanes have I ridden in thirty three years of living in Devon? Quite a lot, as it turns out, and it is particularly gratifying to let loose with the highlighter pen on those larger roads that I would never choose to ride on now, like the A3052 from Sidmouth to Exeter. This was one of the first Devon roads that I cycled back in 1988 when I made a cycling tour of parts of the South West visiting musician and fanzine writing friends. It is immeasurably busier these days and now it is mostly an obstacle to cross rather than something to travel along.

I do cross this road early on my ride of June 27th, which is the first of my targeted colouring routes, and also one of the rare occasions when I take the bike in the car, riding out from the beach car park at Branscombe. I’m aiming to fill in a bunch of lanes around the hills of Northleigh in the designated East Devon Area Of Outstanding Natural Beauty and the route ends up being a gloriously rewarding 68km and 1600m of elevation gain. Around Harcombe, with its 22% inclines, a series of fluorescent pink signs decorated with stencils of dinosaurs punctuate Chelson Lane. Their meaning is never clear, but I assume them to be for different camp sites as there are vans and tents dotted in fields, whilst another sign promises a Fun Dog Show the following day in ‘The Party Field’. Categories include ‘Best Sausage Catcher’, ‘Waggiest Tail’ and ‘The dog judges would most like to take home’. I hope they do not succumb to the temptation.

Elsewhere on this ride I finally take the opportunity to go past the Devenish Pitt Riding School, the signs for which C and I have seen many times on drives to/from swims at Beer and about which we usually say to each other ‘I’m Devenish Pitt’ in the style of Steve Coogan saying ‘I’m Holbeck Ghyll’ in series one of ’The Trip’. As another aside, Devenish Pitt (retired Army Major, I think) is surely a character out of a great lost Golden Age detective story. In reality the riding school is utterly charming, tucked away on a typically steep hillside with views east to Farway and the river Coly winding its way towards the coast, where it merges with the Seaton wetlands and reaches the sea at Axmouth Harbour. This is where I eventually head, after several loops around the hills, following the Axmouth Road and riding over the old Axmouth Bridge. Built in 1877, it is believed to be the oldest surviving concrete bridge in England and on my 1974 map is still the only bridge across the river at this point.

July 2nd is a ride from home, out west and north this time on lanes I’ve ridden many times. The exception, and the main reason for this ride, is one very short stretch that leads down to and then back up from Pennicott Farm near Shobrooke. At the farm I’ve hit rush hour for the sheep, so gates are closed across the yard through which the lane passes. The farmer apologises, but it’s fine to stand in the shade for a few minutes and watch others at work.

The following day I do a longer ride and fill in more new lanes in East Devon, finally detouring off the road from Hemyock up to the airfield at Dunkeswell, which I have ridden innumerable times, to visit the ruins of Dunkeswell Abbey. It’s a glorious high summer day and I meet a couple from Swansea who have walked to the Abbey along the lane that skirts the Madford river. We talk of the not so ancient routine of ‘two sleeps’ at night, which the monks at the abbey would certainly have practised and about the liberating pleasures of electric bicycles.

The 13th of August finds me out near Dunkeswell again, this time on a mission to colour in some of the lanes around Bolham Water and particularly to ride along what used to be one of the runways of the Upottery Airfield. The approach to the airfield from the north is on a narrow lane, even by East Devon standards, alternately potholed, scattered with gravel and/or muddy, even in one of the driest and hottest summers on record. Often there is grass growing down the middle, a sure sign of a lane less travelled. Nineteenth Century maps show the lane joining the ridge road at Clayhidon Cross, but since the construction of the airfield in WW2 there must have been little reason to travel along it. Then, like now, the only traffic must be for Middleton Barton farm, for the only other building, the quaintly named Trood’s Cottage, is now a crumbling shell. The landscape that the lane crosses is largely wooded, dipping down to the Bolham River and then back up again to the airfield, which explains the lingering dampness. Emerging onto the remains of an airfield runway is quite an odd experience. The surface turns suddenly to concrete, the wind whips across the Blackdowns and the ghosts of American airmen and parachutists linger on the periphery, mixing with burnt out shells of caravans and motor cars, for the airfield now plays host to banger racing and monster truck shows.

It occurs to me now that I must have passed the Upottery airfield site back in 1988 on that first visit to the South West, for my ride to Sidmouth had started in Taunton and I must have ridden out on the Honiton Road, up Blagdon Hill and then across the ridge of the Blackdown hills. It must have been a headwind that day too, the struggle bleaching out all memory, and the proof that the suppleness of youth is no match for the electrical assistance of age. Still, it’s good to piece these fragments of memory together and colour those routes some 37 years later.

On September 4th, a day before driving to Scotland for my mum’s 93rd birthday, I colour in some lanes on Sheet 191 (Okehampton and North Dartmoor), ostensibly to visit the grave of author Jean Rhys in the churchyard of St Matthew Church, Cheriton Fitzpaine. I also track down what I think was the cottage in which she lived, on the end of the terrace of Landboat cottages. There is no plaque commemorating the fact that Rhys lived here and I cannot decide if this is a shame or a relief. The latter, I think, for there is something rather splendid about keeping such mysteries at least partially caged.

In October I do a few rides out east again, through Kentisbeare, where I always nod to the resting place of another author, E. M. Delafield, whose ’Diary of a Provincial Lady’ is one of my very favourite books. On these autumnal rides I head up from the village towards the pumpkin farm on Broad Road, colouring a lane at Windwhistle Cross, an ‘Unsuitable for Wide Vehicles’ one leading from Broadhembury to the A373 and a couple of others that lead only to farms.

On November 1st I visit the area again, this time to fill in a lane that climbs to Blackborough past All Hallows farm. The landscape is damp and grey and I am happy to not have ridden here a day earlier when the ghostly presence of generations past could easily be imagined haunting the crossroads where the finger sign is so weathered as to be almost illegible. The landscape is starting to look more like winter, though there are still enough leaves on the trees to feel like autumn is clinging on for a few more weeks at least.

Come the end of the month, however, and the low sunlight shining through bare branches insists that the year is reaching its conclusion. On a ride close to home I finally take the opportunity to ride along Harepathstead Road, a lane at the foot the Ashcylst Forest close to Westwood, where I am delighted to see that the festive Christmas Bouybles are hung once again from the large Oak tree at Wares Cottages. These remind me that whilst it will no doubt continue to be enormously enjoyable to colour in lanes not yet travelled, it is equally important to keep revisiting the treasures I know and love.



(This post is adapted from a ‘Shadows And Reflections’ piece originally written for Caught By The River.)

Rupert Loydell’s piece on his changing listening habits resonated strongly with me, not so much for the detail (though some of that chimed, for sure) but for the general thrust. The narrative of change through time, or something like that. A time for reflection, anyway.

In terms of some details from Rupert’s piece, I do remember when David Toop came to Exeter to promote his ‘Ocean Of Sound’ book and CD compilation, and it was certainly good to be reminded of Exeter’s Binary Star record shop. Tucked away on a tiny cobbled lane leading to the castle it sat next to the ubiquitous Timepiece nightclub and the Hole In The Wall pub, both of which are still there (or certainly were in 2020, which is the last time I was in that part of the city), I remember it fondly as a source of great delight and as a scourge on my bank account and credit cards. It is possible that I was one of only a very few customers still buying 7” singles at the time (mid ‘90s), and I am quite certain that the small box on the counter top was stocked almost exclusively with Punk Pop treats that might entice me. The environment of Binary Star too, rather than that of the nightclub (for which I already felt myself too old) proved elemental in hooking me into the thrill of drum’n’bass. A young chap called Mike would play me white labels and new releases that sounded like the future. Both the noise and his enthusiasm were utterly addictive and I am glad that both infected my body and soul for a time. Of course it is somewhat startling to think that this was all happening more than thirty years ago, but this seems to be how time works, accelerating ridiculously as we age. Long since disappeared, the Binary Star location now hosts a hairdresser. Read into that what you will.

In truth I do not particularly mourn the loss of physical record shops, or indeed shops of any description. To do so seems to me to be, to coin a phrase beloved of contemporary sports people, wasted energy. Those times are not coming back, at least not any time soon, and I suspect that when we mourn the loss of physical things from our pasts we mourn not the things themselves but our very youth. This is understandable and probably to a greater or lesser degree unavoidable. The extent to which we allow it to poison our present and future existence is much more within our control, however, and this is what our energies ought to be focused on. That and simply savouring the moments we live within.

Music is certainly still one of the things that makes my own moments pleasurable (as the ongoing monthly Unpopular mixes hopefully illustrate), though it would be true to say it now takes up a much smaller proportion of my day to day existence. Long, long gone are the times when I could and would listen to music whilst doing almost everything else. For quite some time now I have found it impossible to even contemplate the idea of writing or reading with music playing ‘in the background’. I rarely even have music playing whilst doing the housework or cooking, preferring the sounds of the garden seeping through the open windows and doors, or the inevitable ear worm snatch of some song half remembered in my head.

Unlike Rupert, who admits that he still wants an object to hold in his hand, I find that I no longer feel the need for a physical artefact when it comes to music. My younger self would find this inexplicable, but that would be his prerogative, as it would be for those my age who still feel attached to their vinyls, old and new. And for the, ahem, record, I don’t think it sad to feel one way or the other about any of this, do not think of it in terms of either capitulation or blind adherence. It simply is, or is not.

As noted however, this has not always been the case for me, and for many years I felt that my records, tapes and CDs held an emotional attachment in their physicality as much as in the music they held. This certainly held true for the first half century of my life, until one day it suddenly didn’t. I suspect that this may in some way be related to my early retirement from teaching at the age of 55 when my level of income dropped by two thirds and the idea of spending well over twenty quid on a new album felt not just unsustainable but somehow rather preposterous. Also, as with teaching, which I loved for the majority of the thirty years I spent in the profession, it was rather as if a switch had been flicked. So just as one day I just realised that I no longer wanted to work in education (and was fortunate to be in a position where I could act on that feeling), one day it seemed that the physical records, tapes and CDs simply no longer held the same kind of emotional hold on me that they once did. Memories, such as they are and as much as I can recall, are still triggered by the actual songs and this is more than enough. I have the vast majority of those songs in a digital format, can listen to them whenever I want and thus am happy to let the objects themselves go. Well, someone is going to have to pay for them, but you know what I mean…

These days then the ongoing sales of my physical collection generally cover the costs of buying new music, which is almost exclusively now in a digital format. To the no doubt horrified glares of some of my friends I do use Spotify a fair bit to listen to music, but this is mostly for either older albums or to test drive new releases. If that new release appeals to me then most of the time I will look to buy it on Bandcamp or, at a push, the old iTunes Store. Like Rupert though I still listen to my music playing through ‘the stereo’ (it goes through a Cambridge Audio DAC, into a Rega amplifier and out through Epos speakers for the audiophiles who might be reading) as opposed to through tinny computer speakers. So perhaps all is not lost, or all is indeed lost, depending on your (dance) stance.

Also unlike Rupert I have no great desire to talk to musicians about their work. I enjoy the very occasional dip into an artists’ memoir or a book about a group or period I used to enjoy (Paul Simpson’s enthralling ‘Revolutionary Spirit’ is the last great one I read), but more often than not these also increasingly leave me cool at best, and if I never read another ‘oral history’ it will be decidedly far too soon. Neither do I read anything much about music online these days. Perhaps a review or two if they are written by friends or people whose taste I largely trust. Oddly enough it’s in this aspect that I think things have come full circle in so far as ‘discovering’ music. There is something appealing about picking up on a new record, a previously unheard artist, a new (for which read old) book or author through the words of friends. It reminds me of conversations in the playground at school or the hushed chats in the Art classroom. Did you see? Have you heard? You should read…

Things change and stay the same right enough.

Alistair Fitchett. 2025.

This article was first published on the International Times website.

When David Toop came to Exeter to promote his book ‘Ocean of Sound’, I was surprised to find out that he didn’t listen to much music. At the time I was still eagerly in our local indie record shop, Binary Star, every week, chatting to other regulars and seeing what the young owners had ordered in, often with specific customers (me included) in mind. Music was playing most of the time in my lounge or study or studio, had been for decades, since my teens…

Now I seem to be in a similar place to where Toop arrived ahead of me. Part of this is simply changing circumstance: a full-time job, children who needed to sleep without being disturbed, and losing a serious part of my hearing as I get older. But some of is simply the fact that, like reading a passage from a favourite book, I don’t need to hear much of it again. A verse, a chorus, a solo, a phrase or instrumental squawk, even an LP sleeve, is often enough to let me recall the music that has embedded itself within me.

I haven’t got perfect recall or a photographic memory, and I continue to listen to and download loads of new music, often on the back of friends’ email recommendations or articles by journalists whose opinions I trust. The house is still full of music, if that is, you count piles of LPs and CDs (OK, I still have my cassettes too) but I live in a much quieter house these days and find it easier to work with the low burble of Radio 4 voices than with jazz, improv or rock blasting out. Ambient works well in my painting studio, can help me mentally move into a different space, but gone are the days of 18 hours of loud music on the stereo.

Toop and I sat with our coffee and listened to a CD play through, something new he had expressed an interest in that I happened to have. When it ended he said ‘Thank you, that was interesting’ and we continued our conversation before driving down to Spacex Gallery where I co-promoted music and readings under the Litmus banner. I hadn’t listened to anything with that kind of attention for a long time, it reminded me of buying new LPs as a teenager, poring over the lyric sheet, gatefold art as I heard the music for the first time. It was a reminder to listen to, not simply consume, music.

Now I am older, I am faced – as many others have before me – with what to do with my collections. I know that one of my friends simply took his cassette collection to the dump, know another carefully auctioned off his prized jazz vinyl collection, and that others have subscribed to streaming services, where almost everything seems to be available. I’m sad enough to want an artefact, an object in my hand, in the same way I have a stereo and a boombox for my music, a telephone to speak to people on and a camera for taking photographs.

I sold 400 albums 18 months ago, mostly post-punk but also some jazz, to a record shop owner from London. He came and collected them, I got a good price (so will he, when he sells them on) and I have them on CD, but I miss many of them. I can still tell you where I bought most of them, which ones I found in Record & Tape Exchange’s bargain basement, the clusters of albums I bought at the same time, and the strange little music shop on the edge of Richmond which had a cupboard full of Anthony Braxton albums I had been searching for for many years. My 10 cent copy of Pere Ubu’s ‘Dub Housing’ I brought back from the States, the mint copy of A Tent’s ‘Six Empty Places’ album found in a Bath junk shop after years of searching after my cassette copy disintegrated. Many were full of music paper cuttings from the time and, by mistake, I managed to leave a copy of an early Patti Smith poetry pamphlet in one of her albums I sold.

I’m still in touch with two people I met in Binary Star, and also (just about) with two writers it turned out I had unknowingly already met before getting to know them as poets. One worked in the record shop in Hammersmith near my school (and his partner in the record library in the suburb I lived in), the other I had chatted to in the queue at The Venue when a Peter Hammill gig was late starting. Music brings people together, literally. Nowadays of course it’s mostly online but the few music forums I contribute to mean I can ‘chat’ or respond to people in the States, Australia or far flung European countries who share the same kind of musical interests I do.

And of course, if you are persistent, you can usually find a way to contact bands, musicians or authors to interview them. I’m lucky in that I have several outlets I publish in, be they zines, magazines or academic journals, and have learnt that most musicians are interested in talking about their work, as long as it’s not all ancient history. Catch them when a new album or book is due, a retrospective box set has been compiled, books are being reissued, or a concert or reading tour is imminent, and Bob’s your uncle (no, not that Bob).

I tend to send people an email list of questions they can take time to respond to, suggesting they should digress and tangent as they wish, including answering themselves any questions they feel I should have asked. Sometimes there’s further episodes of questions and responses; and I always send them a final edit before I submit and publish. Interviews are best when their subjects tell stories, offer opinions and big up events, connections and the music they make or made. When they try to be diplomatic or analytical it can get dull.

One advantage of academic writing is its reliance on quotations. This means that rather than saying ‘your third album was crap, wasn’t it?’ I can say ”NME”s Fred Bloggs suggested that…’ and ask for their response, and in a similar way I can ask questions using quotes about musical influences or how a musical genre or scene was perceived at the time. Maybe everybody mellows as they get older but most musicians and authors are friendly and generous with their time. It could be, of course, that they simply like talking about themselves or welcome being distracted from any actual creative work.

The internet has changed how we think about things. It is easier to read about a book than read the book itself. I can search for reviews, summaries and interviews with the author, then follow links to other recommendations or articles I find there. Several hours later I may return to the book I am meant to be reading. In a similar manner, even when I want to listen to a new single or album I often find myself somewhere else – an online video or obscure blog – rather than where I intended to be. I have become totally distractable, busy creating networks of useless information rather than paying attention, something I once used to do.

Rupert Loydell. 2025

This piece was first published on the International Times website.