After The Noise
Everything Is Equal
Friday 27 February 2026
Gorillaz, Sparks – The Happy Dictator (2026)
This song has been kicking around since last September as it was released as the lead single from the new album The Mountain, out today! It got me thinking (a dangerous sport for sure) about how I approach singles these days.
Used to be you’d hear something on Radio 1, tape it if you were lucky, then wait. Properly wait. Or leg it out and buy the 7-inch. There was anticipation. Now it just appears on your phone at midnight. And a lot of singles (if you can even call them that) pass right over my head.
In the 90s, radio would be playing weeks in advance. You’d get the CD single before the album. Usually for the all-important b-sides.
I wait for the album and listen to an artist’s new work in full. I’ll occasionally dip into a pre-release track, but I’d rather hear the thing as a whole. Like it used to be. Commit to it. Live with it.
Anyway — this.
When I first heard it, I didn’t clock immediately that it was Sparks collaborating with Gorillaz. But then those unmistakable Russell Mael backing vocals creep in. That theatrical falsetto hovering above everything. You can’t mistake it.
Gorillaz have always been brilliant at collaborations. Proper magpies. Pulling voices from everywhere. Living, archived, half-forgotten. There’s something generous about it. Dennis Hopper. Tony Allen. Mark E. Smith. Bobby Womack, all deceased and all featured. They’ve always blurred timelines.
And this works.
It’s commercial, yes. Lead-single obvious. But it’s got depth. It’s catchy without being shallow. The sort of song that stands up on its own even without the novelty of two iconic acts joining forces.
Gorillaz have been in my life for a quarter of a century now. That’s mad when you say it out loud. One of the few bands I’ve properly stuck with. Different phases, different moods, but they’ve never bored me.
The album’s varied. Very varied. I’ve only properly trawled through it once so far. It’ll need a few more spins. But this track? This is the peak moment.
One of my favourites of the year already.
Fresh single. Old instincts. Album-first loyalty.
And Russell Mael floating above it all like he always does with Ron staring into space looking menacing. As usual.
Bing Crosby – Lazy (1942)
What a tremendous addition to the playlist. The Holiday Inn soundtrack.
Now this is timing.
I’ve been anything but lazy lately. Walking targets. Work shifts. Rain. Lists. More lists. Writing. Admin. And holding down a day job.
At least the walking targets are over. One less thing on my mind!
Bing Crosby floats in, smooth as you like, crooning about wanting to sit in the sun and do absolutely nothing.
“Lazy, I just want to be lazy…”
It’s such a simple concept. Revolutionary, really. In a world that constantly tells you to optimise, maximise, monetise — Bing just wants to lie in the sunshine with a book.
Manchester, of course, has other ideas. Brief glimpse of sun the other day. Now back to drizzle. Classic.
But here’s the thing — Brazil is coming.
Family trip. Heat. Light. Proper sunshine. I don’t speak Portuguese despite twelve heroic years of starting, stopping, restarting and generally butchering it. Impressive consistency in failure, that. But maybe I’ll start again. Or maybe I’ll just let the rhythm of it wash over me while I sit somewhere warm and do absolutely nothing useful.
The family treat me well despite the language barrier. Good food and good beer always come my way!
Books to read. Peace. No walking targets. No drizzle. No bloke forgetting his indicator for the second time today — does it not work, love, or is it decorative?
Bing Crosby in your ear while you imagine Brazilian sunshine is not a bad way to end a damp Manchester drive.
Lazy isn’t weakness. It’s recovery.
And for once, I fully intend to embrace it.
Ben Watt – Thirst For Knowledge (1983)
The early 80s. Before the club remixes. Before the global dance hits. Just Ben Watt with a guitar and that fragile, wind-blown atmosphere.
I first heard a track (Some Things Don’t Matter) from North Marine Drive on Pillows & Prayers, a Cherry Red compilation with a “Pay no more than £0.99” sticker printed proudly across the sleeve. That compilation was a doorway into a whole aesthetic: acoustic, understated, slightly melancholic but never self-pitying.
But I never actually bought the album North Marine Drive. And even in the digital age, I’ve never listened to it.
And now it pops up on the playlist like it’s been waiting patiently for forty years.
It’s beautiful. Sparse. Acoustic. Minimal in the best possible way. No production gloss. Just space and melody and a sense of English coastline melancholy. That cover — wind-swept promenade, solitary figure — it fits the sound perfectly. You can almost feel the salt in the air.
People forget Everything But The Girl began here. Before the dance reinvention. Before “Missing” was echoing round every club in the 90s. There was this: quiet songs, careful arrangements, restraint.
And it works.
Minimal is good. Especially when the world feels busy enough without adding layers to it.
I should give the whole album a proper spin. Not half-listen. Not background it. Sit with it.
Some records don’t demand attention. They just deserve it.
Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros – Bummed Out City (2001)
There’s something about this track that hits different now.
Joe Strummer dying at 50 still feels unreal. Just… gone. Heart attack. No long goodbye. No winding down. He was right in the middle of something good again. The Mescaleros weren’t nostalgia. They were a proper second wind.
Those albums had warmth. World music textures. Rhythm. Politics without shouting. You could hear a man who’d lived a bit, lost his way in the 80s, maybe, but found his footing again. It wasn’t about competing with Big Audio Dynamite or chasing the charts. It felt grounded. Honest.
When he died, I went out and bought every Strummer related album I could get my hands on that I didn’t already own. Everything. Then did a DJ set that was nothing but Strummer. And it worked. People forget how deep that catalogue runs.
I must have played something from Cut the Crap. I’d like to think I did. Even the messy chapters matter. Especially the messy chapters.
You just know the classic lineup of The Clash would have reunited at some point. It was in the air. Rumours. Talk. Then that was it. Door shut. That on stage performance with Mick Jones just a month before he died.
Life’s a lottery. You don’t always get the encore.
It’s strange realising you’re older now than some of your heroes ever got to be. That shift creeps up on you. One day they’re older rebels. Next thing, you’ve outlived them.
But here’s the thing.
I’ve got my creative touch back. After years of dormancy, I’m writing again. Logging. Thinking. Feeling. That matters. It’s easy to think you’re not doing enough. That’s the restless part of talking.
Strummer didn’t waste his second wind. He used it.
That’s not nothing.
END OF LISTENING LOG
The Listening Log 