After The Noise
Everything Is Equal
Thursday 26 February 2026
Dirk Bogarde, The Eric Rogers Orchestra – Can’t We Be Friends (1960)
Yes. That Dirk Bogarde.
Distinguished actor. Film star. Properly English. And at some point, someone said, “You know what? Let’s make an album.”
And here we are. The Bogarde and a high-brow orchestra. Whilst I grapple with driving rain and useless pedestrians, more interested in staring into their phones than looking around at their current environment.
Occasionally, there is serious temptation to not bother applying brakes when there is an act of stupidity in front of your eyes.
Quintessentially English voice. Polite. Measured. Slightly wistful. The sort of tone that sounds like it belongs in a drawing room with heavy curtains and a decanter nobody actually drinks from.
And a cravat. A cravat is a must in such a scenario.
It’s oddly soothing. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just… spoken-sung reflections drifting along.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck at a junction that apparently requires a written application and three-character references before allowing you to pull out. Come on. Someone let me through. I promise not to ruin society.
You do wonder who bought this when it came out. There must have been people thinking, “I like Dirk Bogarde. I’ll have that.” And fair enough. That was the era. Actors made records. Records got bought.
It has that slightly mysterious lyrical feel. Lines repeating like they’re part of a half-remembered story. “I never tell you that… I don’t know the story…” It floats rather than lands.
Not something I’d have gone looking for. But that’s the joy of the wandering playlist. You stumble into an English film icon quietly crooning at you while you’re negotiating traffic.
Strange. Gentle. Unexpected.
Junction finally clears.
Why don’t we be friends, indeed.
Lee “Scratch” Perry – Blackboard Jungle Dub, Version 1 (1988)
This sounds exactly how you’d expect Lee “Scratch” Perry to sound. I’ve dabbled occasionally but never listened to him enough I feel.
Mad. Echo-drenched. Dub floating in and out like it’s been mixed in a swamp at three in the morning. And even by his own usual chaotic standards, this is gloriously unhinged. Proper deep dub. Bits disappearing into reverb. Drums popping up out of nowhere. Voices treated like ghosts.
You don’t listen to Scratch. You experience him.
And it’s oddly perfect timing.
Because I’ve just finished the walking challenge.
Not 99 km. The magic number of 100! Such a little thing makes a difference.
Unplanned. Unintentional. Just happened because I stayed ahead and kept going. Missed two days early on and thought, right, that’s it, no excuses now. So I built a buffer. Stayed consistent. Even on the days when it was only a couple of kilometres, it still counted.
3.6 kilometres a day sounds manageable. Until you miss one. Then two. Then suddenly you’re chasing it. It’s an eye-opener. I walk most days anyway, I thought it would be easy. It isn’t. Not when it’s raining. Not when work’s heavy. Not when your legs start reminding you they exist.
I just carried on. Mostly road walking on the mean streets of Manchester. With my headphones and furry friend for company. Laced with grim determination. Always ahead. Stayed ahead.
Two days to spare.
And the relief is enormous.
Tomorrow I’ll just walk Bowie normally. Local park. No target. No calculation. I think he’s had enough of the pavements as well. He never complained. Never whined. Just trotted along, sniffing everything Manchester has to offer. Happy little dog.
Couldn’t have done it without him.
Scratch’s dub chaos rolling underneath this moment of quiet achievement feels about right. Strange, echoing, slightly mad — but solid underneath it all.
Challenge done.
Legs sore.
Head clearer.
And that bassline still wobbling away like it approves.
John Cooper Clarke – Teenage Werewolf (1978)
Or as he’s now properly known — Doctor John Cooper Clarke.
The Bard of Salford.
I love this man. Always have without knowing his stuff that well, if you get my drift. One of those people, whose always been there.
There’s something about him that feels completely untouched by trends. He arrived fully formed and just stayed there. Same razor delivery. Same wiry silhouette. Same northern bite. No softening, no smoothing the edges.
“Teenage Werewolf” is a funky little burst. Sharp. Lean. No padding. Clarke doesn’t waste syllables. He fires them at you. Amazing, it was released in 1978!
There’s nobody quite like him. Half poet, half punk, half stand-up — yes, that’s three halves, but that’s Clarke for you. He occupies his own space.
I’m seeing him in the summer supporting Sex Pistols featuring Frank Carter, which still sounds slightly surreal when you say it out loud. Looking forward to that. Proper northern energy on one bill. It’ll be loud. It’ll be funny. It’ll be uncompromising.
And here I am tapping this out on a miserable, rain-lashed Thursday, hurtling towards work while he snarls away through the speakers.
Manchester grey outside. Clarke cutting through it inside.
That’ll do.
4Hero – We Who Are Not As Others (1998)
4hero. Two Pages. I remember this album. One of those records where you can tell someone actually sat down and thought about structure. Page one more song-based, more tuneful. Page two drifting into instrumental territory. Tougher. Harder. Throbbing, hardcore drum and bass. No compromise.
We Who Are Not as Others sits right in that sweet spot. Atmospheric. Intelligent. Built rather than thrown together. That’s the thing about good drum and bass — it doesn’t just rattle your teeth. It takes you somewhere.
Music does that when nothing else will. Head pounding. Biscuits already sabotaged this morning.
There’s always so much to do. And yet the day leaks away.
But this track cuts through that fog a bit. Reminds you that time isn’t always wasted just because it wasn’t productive. Sometimes you’re just existing in it. Sitting in the car. Watching the city move. Letting a bassline roll underneath the chaos.
I always liked albums that split personality like this. One side accessible. The other side more niche. More internal. It shows intent. Thought. Not just a collection of tracks dumped together.
Thought going into bonding. Into sequencing. Into mood.
Head still hurts. Biscuits still calling. But 4hero just reminded me why I fell for this stuff in the first place.
And that’s not nothing.
END OF LISTENING LOG
The Listening Log 