Liner Notes

Tiny Tears by Tindersticks immediately comes to mind, and makes me think of the Sopranos episode it featured in. Music is used to great effect throughout the series, up to and including the final episode. For me, and perhaps a lot of people, it’s impossible to listen to any of the songs without thinking of the show. When it was originally broadcast, it was unusual for TV drama to be so elevated. Even now, 25+ years later, it still stands at the pinnacle.

This might not seem unusual to anyone over a certain age, but this prompt made me think about the ways I discovered music before the internet. When I was at school, one way was swapping tapes. During breaks, we'd retrieve our cassettes from battered military-surplus backpacks and do swapsies. They were often copies, or even copies of copies, made from an unknowing or pitying older sibling's original. One particular tape I came by had Come on Pilgrim and part of Surfer Rosa on one side, the rest on the other. For a while, I thought both records were a single album. Anyway, that's how I first discovered The Pixies. Simpler, more innocent times.

I saw a conversation online recently where tech workers were talking about how they had no friendships with colleagues and would be uncomfortable if they did. That made me ineffably sad, but when I thought about it, I realised they had a point. I haven’t made any genuine or enduring friends through work for a very long time. Listening to Shudder / King of Snake by Underworld elicits a wry smile and makes me think of my friend Andy, who I met at work and still count among my closest friends, even though we now live on different sides of the world. It reminds me of the adventures we had running around London as if it were our own personal theme park in the 2000s. All the overlong lunches, blurry late nights, sketchy mornings after, and the omnipresent magic bus. Somehow, we managed to make a decent enough showing at work to avoid drawing the ire of management and getting fired. I like to think they found our capers in the office amusing, including wrapping entire pieces of furniture and equipment in tin foil. Miss you. Love you, buddy.

I wouldn't necessarily say it’s better than the original—let's be honest, covering Bowie is a tall order. That said, I love Nirvana's take on The Man Who Sold the World. Despite being a fairly straightforward rendition, this song and the entire Unplugged set revealed a tender, vulnerable aspect to the band not immediately apparent on their studio albums. Live and acoustic, recorded in a single take—astonishing, really. I watched the performance on MTV at a friend's place around the time it was originally broadcast because cable never reached as far into the suburbs as I lived. When it was over, I remember being stunned into silence. The album has lost none of that arresting power over the years.

Time was you could scan the live sections in the music press and The Fall would be touring, playing small venues and charging next to nothing for tickets. I could kick myself for not going to see them, but it took me years to develop a taste for the band, and by then it was too late. What a formidable back catalogue, though—so many albums, live recordings, and compilations to explore. It's impossible to select a single track and say "this grew on me" or neatly represents a band whose very nature seems to defy being pigeonholed. Instead, I'll choose Lost In Music—the song of theirs that first captured my imagination.

I'm not sure this track fits the usual definition of a deep cut, but I'm choosing Y Teimlad by Datblygu anyway. I first heard it as a cover by Super Furry Animals on their album Mwng—notable for being entirely in the Welsh language. It's a lovely song even if you don't understand the words, though that's not really a problem nowadays. Perhaps a better frame of reference for this choice is: a song that opened the door to something overlooked by the mainstream.

I discovered Brian Eno's solo records long after they were released—even after many of the 1990s records I enjoyed as a teenager, which were clearly influenced by his work and themselves felt ahead of their time. Some years ago, I played The Big Ship to a much younger colleague who told me that listening to artists like Jon Hopkins at work helped them focus over the farmyard din of our open-plan office. Their response when I drew their attention to the release date was marvellous: "It's like electronic music before electronic music was a thing." Well, yes…

Back when I was a teenager, I had some friends who were into metal. They'd play Metallica records and patiently explain the quality of the musicianship. But I was having none of it. It took me about 30 years to come around to their way of thinking. Sometimes when I play Master of Puppets, I'll think about those leather-and-denim-clad Brummies and accept they did have a point.

Home is a fluid concept when you're young and move around a bit. But this prompt made me think of the first time I felt truly settled as an adult—finally finding a nice flat, a good job, great friends. Going hi-fi shopping on Gray's Inn Road and letting the salesman talk me into spending more than I should have on my first separates system: Cambridge Audio components and Bowers & Wilkins speakers with eye-catching Kevlar cones. Cabbing it back across London, excitedly wiring it up, putting on Talking Book, and being astonished by how good it sounded. Listening to it now takes me back to Adys Road, Peckham—the place I happily called home for a few years in the 2000s.

I'd make a poor party DJ. My instinct would be to share songs I like, that have meaning to me, instead of acknowledging what other people actually need. Anyway, keeping that in mind, here's a song that perhaps doesn't get selected too often nowadays, so has the benefit of being a novelty while also hopefully getting people up on their feet.

It's still winter in the UK, but when I look out, I see spring bulbs on the cusp of flowering. Soon my garden will be awash with vivid purples and yellows. I know seeing those colours will lift my spirits and that life's what you make it.

Fuzzy Logic by Super Furry Animals, particularly If You Don't Want Me to Destroy You, reminds me of the first person I fell in love with who also happened to love me back. Listening to it takes me back to 1996 and draughty student houses—which didn't matter because we were young and happy for a while, at least.

Sometime in 1994, while I was at sixth form college, I heard whispers about a club in Birmingham called Oscillate which was, by all accounts, extraordinary. The first time I went along, with some trepidation, I was a glum, long-haired Doc Marten–wearing indie kid. I came reeling out early the following morning, ears ringing and mind buzzing to the sound of the dawn chorus—disoriented, elated, and altered. Within a few months I was unrecognisable: clothes, hair, music, friends, and attitude—all transformed. A lot of different artists played sets and DJ’ed at Oscillate, and at best I have hazy and jumbled memories from those nights, but Ptolemy by Aphex Twin feels representative and conjures memories of those times when my musical tastes and the course of my life changed.

Bowie and Eno have possibly had the biggest impact on my adult life, but when I stand back and think about my whole life, from that perspective, it would have to be the Beatles. My earliest memories include rooting through my parents' vinyl records from the sixties and being fascinated by their music—looking at the sleeves, captivated by the images, then playing the records and being transported to another world. All the bands I've loved and records I've bought, showing the influence of their work. Revisiting their music again and again over the years, finding different things to love, as their songs gradually intertwine with my own life and memories of friendship and loneliness, happiness and sadness. It always seems to come back to the Fab Four.

For me, it would have to be Yes by McAlmont & Butler. Soaring and shimmering, joyful and liberating, it's the sound of shaking off and leaving behind whoever or whatever brought you low and moving forward, head held high.

It would have to be Spinning Away by Brian Eno and John Cale, which invokes Van Gogh imagery. There's something comforting about Eno's vocals and the topsy-turvy accompaniment—perfect for looking up, away, and marvelling at it all.

One by one all the stars appear
As the great winds of the planet spiral in
Spinning away like the night sky at Arles
In the million insect storm, the constellations form

Mixed in with the nonsense lyrics and brazen attitude, I always thought there was a strong streak of optimism running through Oasis songs. Live Forever is a good example. I suppose it was so popular because it arrived at a time when people really needed something hopeful and defiant—that seems to be the case once again.

Not exactly short of options, but Tangerine by Led Zeppelin fits the bill. Page's lilting pedal steel guitar and Plant's wistful vocals combine in a poignant ballad of longing.

Tangerine, tangerine
Living reflections from a dream
I was her love, she was my queen
And now a thousand years between

I could pick a song that genuinely reminds me of my biggest mistake. But that would be too depressing, and I've got enough of that on my plate this morning. Instead, I'll go with Hey Ya! by Outkast. Released in August 2003, it took a while to build momentum in the UK before becoming an inescapable hit over the Christmas period. On New Year's Eve, a close friend and I made the error of accepting an invitation to a house party in Brixton where this song was played on repeat all night. This being South London in 2003, our only option was to wait until sunrise before miserably trudging five miles back to Brockley, pondering our mistake and mindlessly humming the damn tune all the way home. HNY!

It'd have to be Cemetry Gates by The Smiths, in a flash. One of my favourite songs of theirs and a fairly obvious choice in this context. My feelings about the band have changed over the years, but this song stands as an example that at their best they were untouchable.

How about a record from the year I was born by one of my all-time favourite artists, David Bowie? Instead of the studio recording, I'd opt for the irrepressible, icily funky version of Stay from arguably his absolute best recorded live performance at the Nassau Coliseum back in 1976. The perfect party record in my book.

Maggie May by Rod Stewart reminds me of my dad—Mick, Mickey, or Michael, depending on who was addressing him. He used to play this record a lot when he was younger and I was a child. When I hear it now, I can still picture him in the 1980s, singing along in his deep, gruff, but gentle voice.

A potential minefield of a question. Setting aside history and the capricious nature of feelings, I'm thinking instead about a recent idle conversation I had with someone. We asked each other what songs we'd want played at our funerals, and she said Queen Bitch by David Bowie. That response is one of the reasons why this individual is—and probably always will be—my favourite person.

This prompt is fortuitous—monsoon season appears to have arrived in Manchester. Slate grey sky, leaky gutters, and dodging cars that drench you as they plough through puddles that could easily be mistaken for small lakes. Anyway, the wind chimes and gothic slabs of synthesiser combined with Robert Smith's world-weary vocals on Plainsong suit the despondent, resigned mood this weather puts me in.

I was seventeen when this record came out, and it had a big impact on me at the time. Listening to it now transports me back to 1994—sixth form college, nightclubs, and a strikingly beautiful girl with dreadlocks.

Picking a song about summer evenings seems somewhat contradictory, but I'll reserve that right and go with Fat Old Sun by Pink Floyd. The loping groove and wistful vocals—bookended by church bells ringing out—make it the perfect accompaniment to a lazy, contemplative Sunday morning.

When I first heard Warp Records' Artificial Intelligence compilation, it sounded like a message from the future. It's an old record now, probably basic by today’s standards, but to me it still sounds as if it was beamed from a mysterious alien place.

Since it's almost Christmas, I'm sharing a song that was an annual fixture during my childhood in the 1980s. It was so ubiquitous at the time that it supplanted traditional Christmas songs. For me, it brings back memories of bitter cold winters, snorkel parkas and flares, sledging in the park, and Only Fools and Horses.

My earliest memories include rooting through my parents'—who grew up in the 1960s—vinyl collection. The Beatles featured heavily, along with a whole load of Motown. The elegiac In My Life, with its Bach-inspired piano solo and lyrics reflecting on memories of people and places from the past, reminds me of childhood and makes me homesick for a time and place it's impossible to return to.

I'm not sure there's a song that presently makes me feel part of something bigger. But when I cast my mind back to the nineties, I can think of a few, one in particular, where a Union Jack–emblazoned guitar used in a live performance on Top of the Pops symbolised something hopeful and defiant. It made me proud to be British—part of something exciting happening in that time and place. Compared with how I see that emblem used nowadays, and by whom, I can't help but feel disappointed by what we've become.

This isn't my favourite song about friendship, but it reminds me of a time when I was lucky to have a group of friends who were a lot of fun to be around. The song's giddy energy and insistent refrain summons a series of blurred snapshots from memory of all the good times we had together. You can't stay young forever, I guess.

My all-time favourite book is The Secret History by Donna Tartt. While the plot—revolving around the spiralling descent of a group of Classics students—doesn't obviously suggest this association, something about the mid-eighties setting and cool, angular precision of the prose brings to mind Talking Heads.

Blue skies, a warm sunny day, perhaps near the beach—that would be bliss. Doesn't seem likely where I am, it's cold, dark, and wintry. But wouldn't it be nice?

The lyrics aren't easy to decipher, and you have to wonder what an audience singalong would sound like—but the ethereal quality of Cherry-coloured Funk by Cocteau Twins allows the mind to disconnect and float away from everyday concerns.

One of my favourite songs about growing up from a teenage perspective is Caught by the Fuzz by Supergrass, which hurtles through a cautionary tale of youthful indiscretion and regret.

Here comes my mum
Well she, she knows what I've done

I guess this song is about love and longing—feelings that can be arresting in themselves. The languid vocal delivery and wandering slide guitar create a hazy, hypnotic effect that, for me, makes time feel as if it's standing still.

I thought about picking a song from the 1990s or 2000s—when I was a teenager or in my twenties, living in London. But why did I make the decisions that led me there? To find a song to dedicate to that person, I need to rewind to my childhood in suburban Birmingham in the 1980s—too young to go out and watch bands live or buy records. From that perspective, listening to music meant BBC Radio One or Top of the Pops: a band who were huge at the time and a song about crossing class boundaries, escape, and nightlife.

I'm taking a liberty and hijacking this prompt to share a track by The Stone Roses, whose bassist Mani sadly passed away yesterday at only 63 years old. In that context, listening to Fools Gold doesn't particularly make me feel magic right now—but it's a song that blew my mind the first time I heard it as an impressionable teenager. At the time, its infectious sound signposted the way to make my exit from a negative childhood friendship group.

This is a lovely, thought-provoking question. I think there must be at least one song—if not more—that reminds me of each old friend I'm still in touch with, people I could easily start a conversation with today. What's sadder are the songs that remind me of friends I've lost touch with over the years, people I seem unlikely to ever hear from again. Those hit harder as you travel further down the road.

I'm going to dodge this one and instead choose a song someone once said reminded them of me: Dedicated Follower of Fashion by The Kinks. A bit of a backhanded compliment, I think, but an observation not entirely without merit.

Lots of songs about loneliness immediately spring to mind, but choosing one of those wouldn't really answer this question. What do I listen to when completely alone? It could be a record I know annoys other people—there are a few of those. Or it could be something suited to quiet, solitary contemplation, in which case Autechre's Amber, which slips past glassily, is the perfect companion.

I'd have to say Life on Mars, which starts fairly innocuously—especially when quoted in isolation from the rest of the lyrics and without the soaring musical accompaniment—but acts as a way of drawing you into strange, dream-like territory as the song unfolds.

It's a God awful small affair
To the girl with the mousey hair

When I need to feel invincible, I turn to Metallica. This connection formed while trying to get by working a job in a nightmare corporate environment, but nowadays it usually means washing the car, mowing the lawn, or tackling other household chores. Pretty much anything from the first four albums will do, but Holier Than Thou always hits the spot.

Almost anything from Beck's Sea Change does it for me, none more so than Lonesome Tears. Such a beautiful, melancholy record—full of songs that resonate with heartbreak and loneliness, and for me, charged with bitter memories of a crushing break-up.

After their first two albums, I lost interest in Oasis. I don't own any of their later albums on CD or vinyl, but since they hit the road and the news again this summer, I started listening to Time Flies…1994–2009, a compilation of all 27 of their UK singles. To my surprise, I actually liked most of the later tracks, especially I'm Outta Time. Were they misunderstood, or did they just want to be? Whatever the case may be, it's a song I identify with right now, and have played enough recently to qualify as anthemic in my book.

This isn't so much a song that sounds larger than life—though it arguably does—but one where a live version outshines the studio recording. For whatever reason, the studio process didn't capture it, and something essential about the artist or song gets lost. So for me, the version of Timeless Melody recorded for the BBC session hosted by Nicky Campbell will always be the definitive one.

It would have to be something by the Stones, wouldn't it? Rebellious songs were their stock in trade. The menacing-sounding Jumpin' Jack Flash fits the bill, but I think another song exemplifies it better—one sung by Keith Richards, who in his 1970s guise must surely be the ultimate emblem of rock 'n' roll rebellion. So Happy it is—not about rebellion for its own sake, but in pursuit of happiness and living in the present moment.

In the early 2000s, I got interested in Brian Eno and picked up his first solo album, Here Come The Warm Jets. I had a hard time with it at first, so it sat on a shelf unloved. Over the years, though, it grew on me. I always liked the way Dead Finks Don't Talk sounds, but couldn't make head or tail of the lyrics—what they meant or what I should think about them. It wasn't until later that I got right with the ambiguity. You can't know everything or always be right. The lack of obvious meaning leaves space for listeners to draw their own conclusions.

Long-term relationships have their periodic ups and downs—the rough and smooth patches as the wheel turns. So it would have to be Over My Head by Fleetwood Mac. I got hold of the album this song is on around the time we bought our first house in London, right at the peak of the housing market before the financial crash of 2008.

Visiting Japan in 2018 was probably the most overwhelming travel experience I've ever had. I'd always wanted to go there, and it exceeded my expectations. It felt like the closest thing possible to visiting a futuristic alien planet and civilisation. Listening to Sakura by Susumu Yokota brings to mind the same juxtaposition of tradition and modernity. One day, maybe, I'll be lucky enough to go back.

I suppose people might find it strange for someone to consider this as their biggest accomplishment. And there are probably more practical things I've done with my time on earth. But getting a little dog, looking after him, and letting him look after me stands out. He's got spiky red fur and bad teeth now. His name is Ziggy, so the choice of song is obvious.

It would probably be something from Out of Time by R.E.M. It's one of the first records I bought for myself. My family had recently moved to a different area, triggering three school changes in as many years. That was hard going for a shy, introverted child. It's a strange record because it incorporates musical styles and arrangements that often sound exuberant and uplifting, but beneath the surface, the lyrics explore darker themes I identified with at that time. Over the years, it's remained a record I turn to for comfort.

Rock 'n' Roll Star by Oasis must be a good shout. Not the song that reminds me most of when the band rose to prominence—that would be their first single, Supersonic—but what an opening salvo for a debut album. A snarling statement of intent that perfectly captures the swaggering confidence of youth.

Oh, this one is wicked. Somewhat predictable, but Last Goodbye by Jeff Buckley will always remind me of heartbreak and its aftermath—the unpleasant memory of living alone in a tiny, grim bedsit in West London. On Saturdays I'd hop on the tube to Covent Garden and spend the day mooching round record shops. I bought loads of CDs during that period, and Grace was one of them. Listening to it now still stings a bit, 20+ years later.

Well, the bells out in the church tower chime
Burning clues into this heart of mine
Thinking so hard on her soft eyes
And the memories offer signs that it's over

I'd be hard-pressed to remember a single favourite childhood summer. Looking back from where I now stand, they are a blur of jumbled memories. But every year without fail, my family spent a couple of weeks somewhere in the Med on a typical British package holiday. Kids from various European countries awkwardly thrown together around resort swimming pools, expected to make friends and have fun. Girls and Boys by Blur came out in the year of probably the last of these family summer holidays and brings back memories of sticky dance floors and holiday flings. Du bist sehr schön, indeed…

I'm picking a song to set the happy energy I want to feel today. And what's happier than a Golden Retriever? A glammy stomper by Super Furry Animals with a wonderfully silly video to boot.

From time to time, The Changingman by Paul Weller resonates with me. Thinking about where I am and how I'm feeling right now—in truth, perhaps over the last couple of years—I might need to pay heed to the song's message: when you're stuck in a rut, you need to shake things up.

I love listening to demos. For anyone doing any remotely craft-related work—even in the commercial sphere—they're a reminder of how artists gradually build an idea from the ground up. What you see or hear in the final version isn't something that arrives fully formed and polished to a high sheen. It's the result of change and refinement over days, weeks, months, or even years. Alongside that process comes the gradual accumulation of skill and mastery. There's a vulnerability there too: demo recordings occasionally capture someone struggling with an unfamiliar or temperamental instrument, or the camaraderie between players. Real people, not gods after all.

That's why, among all the demos I've listened to, the ones I love most are those collected on The Beatles Anthology series and Esher demos—particularly the various recordings of my all-time favourite song, While My Guitar Gently Weeps. The evolutionary steps between takes as the band moves through the gears toward the final shattering realisation are evident. While people often seem to agree about little else, surely one thing they do agree on is The Beatles' genius—the greatest musical artists of the twentieth century, if not all time. And here they are, providing taped evidence that—despite what some might want to believe, or have everyone else believe—this sort of thing isn't available at the snap of a finger or the outcome of an effortless prompt. There are no shortcuts in this game, only ones that take you round in circles. Sorry, it just doesn't work that way, bro…

I'll probably need to wait for this prompt to come around a few times—there are so many great picks just off the top of my head. But top of my list must be the sinister-sounding performance of Half Day Closing from Portishead's Roseland NYC Live album, building and swirling to that extraordinary eldritch howl. The audience response at the end says it all. They knew they were party to something special that night.

In the days, the golden days
When everybody knew what they wanted
It ain't here today
Dreams and belief have gone
Time, life itself goes on

I have no confidence in statistical accuracy here—I've long since abandoned tracking what I listen to and how often. Instead, I'll go with my gut and choose something by Bowie. He's influenced many bands I love and is a presence in childhood memories, but it wasn't until I saw his performance at Glastonbury 2000 (via an unorthodox entry to the festival) that I started properly paying attention. The thing about Bowie is that you could ask someone repeatedly over time which song or album is their favourite or best represents him, and each time the answer would be different. Sometimes it could be something off Hunky Dory, other times Low, but right now I'll go with Station to Station—the record of his I've listened to most over the last couple of years. A record and song for heavy times.

Not my favourite track on I Should Coco, then or now, but Alright—an unabashed hymn to the joys of being footloose and fancy-free—never fails to remind me of university days in the capital of Devon. The peculiarities of that place and time come rushing back: scrumpy cider, square pizza, bar billiards, being affectionately addressed as "my lover" by strangers, and most of all, my buddies Steve and Al.

As a teenager in the 1990s, I often felt split between two identities—part indie kid, part raver—with one foot in each tribe, going to gigs and festivals with one group of friends and all-nighters with another, never quite fitting into either world. So the Chemical Brothers' Let Forever Be, from right at the end of the decade and my own teenage years, where both musical styles merge, forming a composite, seems fitting. It also has one of the best music videos ever made.

Being a professional athlete with a walk-up song is a role I have a hard time picturing myself in, but Queen's Another One Bites the Dust seems to fit the bill.

Let's go!

At the beginning of my second year at university, I constantly played C.J. Bolland's DJ-Kicks mixtape after returning from a summer break well spent partying at Birmingham clubs like Atomic Jam and House of God. This caused my new housemates—none of whom seemed to particularly care for techno at the time—a good deal of irritation. Sorry, guys!

There isn't a particular song that reminds me of my first job. But I do remember when I first moved to London, which I suppose was, in a way, for work and trying to get used to how people would sit in deathly silence on the tube. All eyes darting around, scanning the ads above or fixed down in concentration on free newspapers. I just listened to music on a portable CD player the whole time, and one of the records I played a lot was 13 by Blur—in particular No Distance Left to Run, whose lyrics held significance at the time.

The lyrical meaning of the song may be ambiguous and open to interpretation, but that's not what really puts a smile on my face. It's that astonishing lead guitar, and yes, I admit the handclaps too, that never fail to put a swing in my step. God bless The Beatles and all the wonderful gifts they gave the world, including And Your Bird Can Sing. Excuse me while I now go and put Revolver on the turntable.

In the mid-nineties, I was away from home for the first time at university in southwest England. At that time, the music scene there was having a bit of a moment. Portishead's Dummy—and particularly Roads—captured the loneliness and isolation I felt while I found my feet and connected with people who ultimately became lifelong friends. Listening to it now still transports me back to that piece of time.

Storm in the morning light
I feel
No more can I say
Frozen to myself
I got nobody on my side
And surely that ain't right

The oldest record (by release date) in my collection is The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, so I'd have to say Blowin' in the Wind—an obvious choice perhaps, but a timeless classic nevertheless.

It was a gift, so technically I didn't pay for it — but someone else did! A lovely record from start to finish by a great band who keep on going in the face of adversity, but this track stands out for me by combining the contrasting vocal talents in the band.

This one is difficult. So many songs to choose from, and it would be easy for anyone growing up in the UK around then to pick something obvious by, say, Oasis. And there would be nothing wrong with that—except the whole 1990s now seems compressed into a snapshot with one of their songs playing, overlooking everything else going on that made those years brilliant. Instead, I'm picking this song by Orbital. I first heard it at a club called Oscillate in Birmingham, and it conjures up a different memory of the decade for me. Victorian halls draped with parachute silk, the tang of strawberry incense, nights starting with gentle ambient sounds morphing imperceptibly into something else—and suddenly everyone was up on their feet, dancing together with merry abandon through a riot of sound and colour. Good times. How I miss those days and ache to go back there.

The Wonder Stuff, August 14, 1990, Aston Villa Leisure Centre. I was 13 years old, but this didn't pose a problem at the venue's bar where I was still able to order up a pint of M&B mild ale.

I don't get to gigs much nowadays (thanks, anxiety), but this track reminds me of the last gigs I really enjoyed. Three consecutive nights where a band I grew up with and have always loved dearly played their entire Creation Records era catalogue, to the obvious delight of all in attendance. This song from their seventh studio album shows a band still capable of pulling from the top drawer.

I need the ways and means to get through
I need an open heart to look to
Nobody sees the same way I do
I need direction to get through