After The Noise
Everything Is Equal
Tuesday 03 March 2026
Fred Astaire – Shall We Dance? (1932)
There’s something elegant about music like this. Especially after a 13-hour shift. I need soothing, and Astaire presses all the right buttons.
Proper old-school sophistication. The kind of tune that makes you sit up a bit straighter without even realising it. No cynicism. No irony. Just melody, rhythm, a touch of swing, and people clearly enjoying themselves.
Sometimes I think we overthink music now. Algorithms. Playlists. Micro-genres. Cultural positioning. Back then it felt simpler. You put a record on. You danced. You had a laugh. That was it.
Times were hard then as well. They always are. Different flavour, same weight. But songs like this don’t dwell on it. They lift you out of it for three minutes.
It’s so jolly.
You can practically hear the tap shoes at the end. A bit of shuffle, a bit of flourish, curtain down. There’s an innocence to it. Not naive. Just… unguarded. No layers of commentary. No self-awareness.
Music that doesn’t try to be clever. It just wants to entertain.
And it works.
It’s impossible not to smile at something like this. For a few minutes, everything feels lighter. Sometimes that’s more than enough.
Then I crack on with my day — very tired, slightly erratic, but wearing a wry smile.
Fred would have approved.
Bruce Springsteen – Cutting Knife (2025)
The Boss returns
I hate Bruce Springsteen.
I hate him because he’s so unashamedly brilliant. Six albums’ worth of “lost” material on top of an already ridiculously fantastic catalogue. A second box set. As if it’s nothing.
That’s why I hate him. He’s not just taking the piss. He’s ripping up the book of piss ripping.
Even more than my freeloading furry friend, Bowie. And that is an extremely high level of ripping the piss.
He was born to write songs. He should rename Born in the USA to Born to Write Songs.
This track isn’t better than his best work. That’s not the point. These aren’t demos. These are full-on songs that could have been released and loved.
No pretence. No fuss. Just work.
No idea when this was recorded. Don’t care, that’s the point.
I hate you, Bruce.
In the most affectionate way possible.
Gene Vincent – If You Want My Lovin’ (Take 15) (1990)
Whenever I see Take 15, my suspicion rises. That usually means cutting-room floor. Well, this is from the complete recordings 1954–62, so it was definitely never meant to be released.
But this doesn’t sound like something discarded (unlike some of The Beatles Anthology stuff). It just sounds like something they didn’t think was worth releasing at the time.
So, it stayed in the vaults until 1990.
I’ve become much more aware of Gene Vincent simply because he keeps turning up. That says something.
And it’s not bad to keep turning up when you’ve been dead since 1971.
Listening to this makes me wish I’d been alive back then. Hanging around coffee shops. Drinking Coke through a stripey straw. Record booths. Discovery. Rock ’n’ roll must have been so vibrant for that post-war crowd, right in the middle of all the depression the country was suffering.
This would have put a smile on your face.
The Four Tops – Reach Out I’ll Be There (1966)
One of the things I love about this way of listening is what it does to songs I know too well. Songs I know like the back of my hand. I could probably sing this in Swahili.
And yet, here it is again, sounding different. More poignant. Walking Bowie. Morning air. Space around it.
And bloody hell, there is no rain and the sun shines! Daffodils sprouting, spring is on the way. I love this time of year. End of a long, harsh winter.
This isn’t some obscure album track. This is one of their biggest songs.
I’m picturing grainy early colour TV. Four gentlemen. Big collars. Big hair. Sharp suits. Groovy little dance moves. Pure Motown.
I went through a massive Motown phase late last year. Exploring albums and more obscure artists from the roster. I always knew it was good. But listening now, properly, you realise how timeless it is.
Timeless, yet time-stamped.
That’s Motown.
60s and 70s music that somehow refuses to age.
You hear this in a discotheque, you dance.
You hear it in the car, you still want to dance.
And the thing is, it’s actually quite simple. Nothing overly glittery. Nothing complicated. Just clarity, confidence, and feeling.
The Four Tops. The Temptations. You always know where you stand with songs like this.
That’s their gift.
Cocteau Twins – Lorelei (1984)
I had a massive Cocteau Twins phase over Christmas, largely thanks to their version of Frosty the Snowman. That sent me back down the rabbit hole. I remembered just how wonderful they are, and how I never quite bought everything they released — which I now regret.
I had one of those genuine, life-changing moments when I saw them perform this on The Old Grey Whistle Test — or just Whistle Test by then. Even now it sends a shiver down my spine. I recorded it on our video recorder.
Seems ludicrous that one would get such a thrill out watching something again and again! But what a novelty!
This is completely timeless music. Space music. Space indie. One bass, one guitar, beautiful effects on the drum machine — and then there’s Elizabeth Fraser.
What can you even say about her voice?
There’s always been an air of mystique around Cocteau Twins. They came from Grangemouth. Look it up. Not the sort of place you’d expect this kind of music to emerge from — which is often exactly where creative genius is born, out of boredom.
I’d like to think there are others doing Cocteau Twins-type things.
There aren’t.
They’re a unique band. And they quit at exactly the right time too, which is always a good thing.
Seamus Heaney – A Lough Neagh Sequence (1968)
I don’t know Seamus Heaney’s work that well. But when I do hear it, I’m always excited. Then again, I didn’t know the work of most people I love that well at first. Ted Hughes. Sylvia Plath. It comes in sideways.
And the great thing is, I don’t stand in awe of people like this anymore. Being an office worker does that to you. Writers struggle. All of them. They either lose their voice or things get too loud, too messy. That’s the problem with trying to create in the modern world.
There were always noises though. A lot of these people drank, but I love the rhythm. The pattern. It’s something I’m borrowing now in my own poems.
When people really have a voice, they stand out. Keats. Heaney. Bukowski. Burroughs. You have to listen.
Here I am, blasting poetry out of the car. That’ll impress the kids. I turned it up for the speech piece just to catch the dialect. That’s the point.
I lived in Ireland. I know the difference between a loch and a lough. I lived in the Highlands too. A very inspirational place to write. I sometimes think about going on a writing retreat for a month. No phone. No AI. Just writing. But I don’t really work like that.
I work like this. Dictating. Thinking aloud.
A few weeks ago, I’d never have listened to a nine-minute Seamus Heaney poem. I’d have got bored. Then I realised you don’t have to listen. You just have to absorb.
I see people everywhere now with headphones on. I always wonder what they’re listening to. Probably listening to Olivia Dean. And that’s fine. I like the idea she might be listening to Burroughs. Or Take That. Or Napalm Death. Or mixing it all up.
Heaney versus Dean. Heavyweight bout.
One, a grumpy old Irish poet.
The other, a young woman with the world at her feet.
Who wins?
Nobody.
Everything is equal.
END OF LISTENING LOG
The Listening Log 