After The Noise
Everything Is Equal
19 January 2026
The Sound of Fresh Air #1 (2026)
The first thing I noticed when I stepped outside was the raucous smell of dope.
Not exactly the pastoral escape I had in mind, but still — fresh air. Or at least fresher than being inside the machine. I’d been brainstorming all morning, telling myself I should put the machine down. Naturally, I didn’t. I talked to it. Stayed inside it. Got properly absorbed.
So this walk wasn’t optional. It was functional. Necessary.
The dog needed it. I needed it.
Fresh air is the soundtrack.
Have we ever really thought about that?
Everyone assumes you need headphones. Loud ones. Music on at all times. I was that person. Still am, half the time. But today, the walk itself is the audio: footsteps, breathing, distant traffic, the dog snuffling about like he’s investigating a crime scene.
Bowie — our beloved Labrador — has been dictating ideas as I wander, not quite aimlessly, because today there’s a time restraint. I’ve got work. No one’s brave enough to pay me to write this kind of thing. Their loss. Mine as well.
Ow.
The dog’s eating something odd.
Last time he did that, he had a seizure. So now I’m worried — that low-level background worry that sticks with you all day. Whatever it was, it went down in one. Classic Labrador. Didn’t even touch the sides. He’s carefree. Tail wagging. Me? Clock-watching without a watch.
I stopped wearing one because I decided I didn’t need it. Very zen.
Today I decided I did need it.
Couldn’t find it.
Always the way. Usually, when I stop looking for something, it turns up. Not that I need the watch — I just need to keep an eye on the time. Subtle difference.
The brainstorming ate up the morning, but something useful came out of it: eclecticism.
AI can take the credit for the word — fair’s fair — but the idea is spot on. From Charles Bukowski to Cliff Richard. Or better still, just to annoy people: from Cliff Richard to Charles Bukowski.
That’s After the Noise.
Everything sits on the same level. Everything counts. If that bothers you, you’re probably in the wrong place — and that’s fine too.
Fresh air fades.
Work looms.
The soundtrack ends — for now.
Lorde – White Teeth Teens (2013)
Lorde with a silent e. I finally looked it up. Been around for years, still only 29. Don’t people age in New Zealand?
White Teeth Teens — that realm where she sits alongside Taylor Swift and Olivia Rodrigo. A world where, to my ears at least, a lot of it sounds broadly similar.
But similar doesn’t mean bad.
Everything sounds good to me at the moment. Maybe that’s the mood. Maybe that’s age. Maybe it’s what happens when you stop going in armed with opinions and let the music come to you.
This is what young people like — and I’m genuinely glad I don’t hate it anymore. I used to. Or at least I felt obliged to.
They mess about with beats. They sound tortured. They go on a bit.
Three and a half minutes would do it.
Have an alcopop, love.
Stop dating rubbish boys.
I don’t dislike music discovery. I just don’t chase it anymore. I prefer music to arrive unannounced. That’s the joy of After the Noise: music turns up without asking permission.
Still, let’s be honest.
This isn’t changing lives like Bob Dylan did.
Or like The Beatles did.
Or like those records that didn’t just chart — they shifted culture.
I don’t think much of today’s music will land the same way in fifty years. It’s too disposable to reshape anything. But that’s fine. Sometimes one good hit is enough — if it’s genuinely good.
That’s the point.
No hierarchy.
No sneering.
Starlight Vocal Band – Afternoon Delight (1976)
Music remains a thrill because of those “woah, not heard this for years” moments. One just hit me full on as I begin another humdrum week of admin porn (also known as the day gig).
I’m guessing this found its way onto After the Noise: Everything Is Equal via a soundtrack. Which one? No idea — and that makes it better.
As for the Starlight Vocal Band (is there a Starlight Instrumental Band, one wonders), I was instantly transported back to the late 70s. Flares. Punk. Robert Maxwell. The memories came flooding back, even though I was but a nipper.
My research head popped up to say hello:
Were they British? American? Angolan?
Did they make albums?
Are they still going?
Are any of them dead?
The questions remain. I just don’t automatically reach for Wikipedia anymore. That’s self-protection. I’m too busy plotting ideas — like I did in my twenties — and it feels good.
This song, though.
Timeless.
Silvery.
Seventies radio.
An old Grundig glowing in the corner of the room.
I half-expect an old school Radio 1 DJ voice to drift out of it (Stewart, Edmunds, Burnett, Hamilton, Travis) — the reassuring, sturdy kind. Not flashy. Just there.
Brian Hodgson / Delia Derbyshire / Don Harper – No Man’s Land (1972)
A different kind of seventies.
Terrifying music. Early synths. Tape loops. Reel-to-reels. Properly unsettling. You can hear the machines thinking.
I’ve seen photos of Delia Derbyshire’s studio — all cables, tape, intention. And to think she was doing this in the 70s and before. As a woman. In a world where sexism was the default setting.
Imagine the blokes’ jaws dropping when she rustled up the Doctor Who theme instead of bacon and eggs.
If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t want to be a pop star.
I’d want a job at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop.
Pottering about with reel-to-reels all day.
Letting sounds happen.
Experimenting on a weekly salary in a small brown packet.
And letting you smoke in the studio.
Nostalgia lives.
The Listening Log 