After The Noise

Everything Is Equal

Thursday 05 February 2026

The Weeknd – Baptized in Fear (2025)

Some things in life irritate me. Quite a lot of things, if I’m honest. It’s a grumpy old blokes’ prerogative to be eternally grumpy.  And moan a lot.  Excessive whinging over absolutely nothing is a British tradition in the same vein as tea and royalty. 

High on the list is the fact that The Weeknd (known to his mummy as Abel Makkonen Tesfaye) insists on spelling his name without the final “e”. Weeknd. It looks unfinished. Like someone got distracted halfway through typing it and never came back. Petty irritation, admittedly, but it sticks.

And once these things stick, I am so sad I refuse to let go.  What’s wrong with Abel?  It’s a nice name.

I’m in one of those phases where everything feels slightly aggravating. My wife likes The Weeknd, which automatically makes me suspicious. That’s probably unfair. Almost definitely unfair. But, it still makes me suspicious.  Luckily, we have a fair amount of middle ground when it comes to music.  Thank God for David Bowie, The Cure, Depeche Mode and Fleetwood Mac.

Different day, same traffic jam. Same slow crawl, same background soundtrack to people edging forward six inches at a time like it might suddenly solve everything.

The music itself is… pleasant. Well produced. Slick. Every now and then it dips into club territory, which works well enough. It’s clearly popular for a reason. It’s not revolutionary, not life-altering, but it does what it sets out to do without embarrassment.

I still hate the spelling of the name though. Some grudges are stubborn like that.

Snoop Dogg, Charlie Wilson, Justin Timberlake – Signs (2017)

A jolly little ditty, this. Easy going, smooth, knows exactly what it’s trying to be. I don’t mind Snoop Dogg. I don’t mind Timberlake. Charlie Wilson was the unknown quantity for me, though clearly, he fits the whole thing together nicely.

I had a moment of wondering if it was the same Charlie Wilson from that Tom Hanks film.   It isn’t, obviously. But I was surprised to find out the Charlie Wilson in question used to sing with The Gap Band. Shows how the brain wanders when you’re half-listening and half-driving.

It sounds like a single straight away. Ah, well, that would be because it was.  And got to number 2 in the UK charts in 2005.  I was a radio DJ at the time playing pop music of the day so why the heck do I have no recollection of this song???

Clean production, warm groove, and that slightly effortless confidence that makes you nod along whether you meant to or not.

Nearly knocked someone over just now. Headphones on, walking straight into traffic without looking. Entirely avoidable. Had to lean on the horn. She looked shocked. I looked annoyed. Standard modern life. Everyone rushing somewhere while staring into a screen. I’m guilty of it as well. Hard to pretend otherwise.

Back to the track. Dogg with double g.  Timberlake doing what Timberlake does, and Charlie Wilson gluing it together. It’s not trying to change music history, and it doesn’t need to. It’s just a very good track doing its job properly.

That’ll do as I grapple with the morning traffic.

The Shamen – Prince Of Popocatepetl (1995)

I loved The Shamen back in the day. Boss Drum still stands as one of the great 90s dance albums. Proper peak-period stuff. This track is the from the much ignored, beginning of the end for the band effort Axis Mutatis.

Which I fully admit to not purchasing at the time.  And I make no apologies for that. 

It sounds like one of those calmer, ambient-leaning pieces. The kind bands sometimes slide into later on. Whether that’s creative drift or contractual housekeeping is always up for debate, but it works for what it is.

It’s actually doing exactly what I need this morning. Slowing everything down.

I’m a bit agitated at the moment. Medication mix-up. One of those things that sounds ridiculous until it happens to you. Nothing dramatic, just slightly unbalanced and on edge. The kind of restless feeling that sits behind everything.

It should settle now I’m back on the right medication. If it doesn’t, I’ll get myself to the GP and sort it properly. No heroics required. Just common sense.

For now, this track helps. Calm, steady, quietly grounding.

Sometimes that’s all music needs to do.

Parliament – Unfunky UFO (1975)

George Clinton. What a man!

Proper electric funk. The kind that sneaks up on you and suddenly your mood shifts half a notch without asking permission.

A concept album of funk?  Bring it on!

Nearly pulled out in front of a learner just now. Didn’t. Being oddly patient today. One of those “let it go” moods. Which is strange, because if I’m honest, I’m far from feeling okay.

Medication mix-up again. I’m in that awkward holding pattern. A few days of waiting to see if everything settles now, I’m back on the right stuff. I feel… odd. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just slightly off-centre.

I can’t quite work out whether I’m low, relieved, or just tired from trying to figure out why I’ve felt wrong recently. Possibly all three. Hard to pin down.

So, I do what everyone does when the internal wiring feels loose. Carry on regardless. There isn’t really another option.

Thankfully, funk helps. It’s difficult to stay completely tangled up when George Clinton is throwing neon-coloured basslines around your head. It doesn’t fix anything, but it steadies the ground a little.

I fear I am going to raid the biscuit jar at work later.  Chocolate oaties, My favourite.  And I’d given up biscuits but every now and then it is a case of needs must.

Sometimes that’s more than enough.

Fiddlin’ John Carson– Arkansas Traveler (1923)

“Fiddlin’” sounds slightly sinister if you think about it too quickly, but it’s exactly what it says. A man with a fiddle, early twentieth century, playing straight into history.

The recording crackles constantly. Half the time you’re listening through a snowstorm of sound, but that’s part of the charm. It feels fragile. Like it’s barely survived the journey to now.

It must have been extraordinary hearing this in the 1920s. Bringing a record home, placing it carefully on a 78 RPM, lowering the needle, and suddenly there’s music in your front room from somewhere else entirely. That must have felt like magic.

I’ve started dipping more into early recorded music recently. There are even recordings stretching back into late Victorian times. Those first thirty years of the last century feel like a doorway opening. You can hear the roots of everything that follows.

This sort of discovery adds richness. Music I’d never have gone looking for before, now quietly sitting alongside everything else I listen to.

And it helps. Genuinely helps my mood.

End Of Listening Log

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