After The Noise
Everything Is Equal
Wednesday 18 February 2026
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, André Previn, London Symphony Orchestra – Swan Lake, Op 20, Act IV: No.28c, Allegro Agitato (1976)
There’s something that amuses me about the long-winded nature of classical composition titles. Takes me just as long to type them out as it does to write about them. That matters not one whit. A high-brow slab of pompous classical is always most welcome in The Listening Log.
Previn always makes me think of that Morecambe and Wise sketch. Eric hammering away at the piano while Previn looks increasingly horrified, only to be told, “I’m playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.” One of those comedy moments that just lodges itself in your brain forever. So every time I see Previn’s name, I don’t think of concert halls or tuxedos. I think of Eric Morecambe.
Scrunching Previn’s neatly pressed tuxedo with a look of sheer rage.
Still, he was a very highbrow, very talented conductor, and in his hands, Tchaikovsky sounds exactly how you’d expect. Big, sweeping, emotional, and perfectly controlled.
It’s nice having these classical pieces drifting into the playlist. Stuff I ignored for most of my life, if I’m honest. But it works. Calming, steadying, a bit sedative in the best possible way,
And I recognize a fair amount of these pieces too. Get me! I’ll be purchasing a tuxedo next! And a conductor stick. And calling myself “The Maestro”
SZA, Phoebe Bridgers – Ghost In The Machine (2022)
I remember SZA allegedly performing to not many people at Glastonbury a few years ago. And she was headlining. Which I found odd, as I’d never heard of her before. Not unusual for me these days, but I do expect to have heard of a Glastonbury headliner! Apparently, Madonna was in advanced talks only to pull out, leaving Emily Eavis in a bit of a pickle.
So, in Stepped SZA. This is the first time my ears have ever been subjected to her music. And how on earth do you pronounce SZA? Or do you just say the letters?
It’s bog-standard pop, a straightforward, harmless enough ballad, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Not everything has to reinvent the wheel. Sometimes a straight, well-made ballad will do the job just fine. No need for the swearing, though. I feel a lot of these new-fangled pop idealists stick in the swearing for absolutely no other reason than to try to be hard.
Outside, it’s the usual battle with wind and rain. Gloomy February, Manchester is doing its best impression of a damp dishcloth. You forget what dry air even feels like.
These days, I probably haven’t heard of most of the pop artists knocking about. Phoebe Bridgers, for instance. I feel like I should know who she is, but I don’t. Another name in the endless scroll.
Still, this is pleasant enough. A straightforward pop ballad drifting along while the wind does its thing. Could be worse. It usually is.
Marvin Gaye – Rockin’ After Midnight (1982)
Now you’re talking!
A master of his art.
Me and Bowie, our cheeky beloved Labrador, just wandering aimlessly around the wind-swept freezing streets of Manchester this morning. No real destination, just letting the dog lead the way, which usually means zigzagging between every patch of grass within a five-mile radius.
And pulling on the lead when he sees something he simply has to sniff. It is his walk, after all.
This is from his last album, Midnight Love, 1982. Not long before everything went so tragically wrong. One of those facts that always hangs in the air when you listen to late-period Marvin. All that talent, all that soul, and such a sad ending.
But the song itself is light on its feet. Quite jaunty, almost playful. Nothing heavy about it at all. In sync with the day, there is a whole lot of sax going on!
Bowie’s spotted a bit of grass now. Off he goes. Straight in. Of course he does. Probably been holding that in for half an hour. Fair enough, we’ll let him off. Nature calls, and Labradors answer immediately.
Meanwhile, Marvin’s still gliding along in the headphones, smooth as ever, turning an ordinary dog walk into something a bit more stylish than it really deserves.
George W. Johnson – Listening To The Mockingbird (2021)
Don’t be fooled by the year. That’s just when this compilation was released. A quick consultation with my editor (or Chat GPT) and it pinpointed the recording to 1895 or 96.
And now, I am desperately trying to get my head around this.
This would have been done on a wax cylinder. I don’t even properly understand the concept of a wax cylinder, but you can hear the age in every second of it. Scratchy, distant, like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. And all it is, essentially, is a man whistling.
No engineering, no glossy production. Just live music pumped into a funnel.
It’s nuts. Completely nuts. But also, kind of brilliant.
Imagine the thrill back then. You get this strange new invention, put the cylinder on, crank it up, and suddenly there’s a human sound coming out of a machine. Not a band in the room. Not a bloke in the corner. A recording. Must have felt like magic.
Meanwhile, the police are attending to something, not the first time I’ve seen them here. Not Sting and the lads. Real police. I make that stupid joke every single time.
So here we are, over a century later, listening to two minutes of George W. Johnson — who, in my head, always sounds like he should have been an American president (I suppose it sounds just a little bit too similar to George W. Bush) — just whistling into a primitive machine.
And somehow, it might end up being the best thing I hear all day. Which probably says more about the day than the music, but still. It’s history, crackles and all.
End Of Listening Log
The Listening Log 