Endless Endless

I've been delighted by some recent reissues of material by one of my favourite bands from the late 80s/early 90s. I'm reminded, amongst many other things, of one warm, balmy summer evening back in 1987, as I was listening in the front room back at my parents' house to John Peel (surprise surprise) on the radio.

I can easily forget just how frustrating it could be at times, listening to his show. There were frequent "bad"nights in which he played little or nothing which I enjoyed or was amazed by. I would keep listening though, just in case: the other side of the coin was the glut of "good" nights in which there was a whole embarrassment of musical riches.

On this particular summer evening, I recall becoming greatly enthused and excited by a track he was playing: I didn't know who it was by or what it was called, but it demanded my attention more and more. It was all on the same note, a constant, repeating single-note fuzz-guitar line over a more melodic but equally repetitious bass riff, all underpinned by a basic but highly propulsive drum beat. Above this were some vocals, heavily reverbed, alternating with multilayered but gloriously simple lead guitar lines.

As one "verse" ended, the guitars kicked in, then the next verse, then more guitars, and so on, all underpinned by this primal, mono-toned rhythm section. The net effect was that it became more and more mesmeric, gaining momentum by sheer repetition, and I was immediately hooked. Peel subsequently announced (in typical lugubrious style) that it was called Spinning, and was by a band called Loop.

So, right now, I'm in the middle of a marathon session of listening to The World In Your Eyes, a career-spanning 3cd compilation which brings together all of their singles, b-sides and so on.

This compilation, in addition to their three studio albums - also reissued with various extras - seems to be affording Loop a bit of a critical reappraisal: thoroughly deserved, in my opinion.

Early on (and to some extent, throughout their lifespan), they were frequently compared - usually unfavourably - to psychedelic drone merchants, Spacemen 3. It's not hard to see why, since their respective sounds had many elements in common - drones, feedback, elemental and repetitious riffs, fuzzed-out wah-wahed guitars in abundance, and a clear nod to the likes of the Stooges, Velvet Underground, MC5 and many distinctly more esoteric purveyors of spaced-out, hypnotic music.

Spacemen 3 were seen by many as being the more authentically trippy, out-there experience.

In retrospect, I think that's a fair summation, though one which does no disservice to Loop: their sound developed (not entirely smoothly) away from the dense slabs of psychedelic guitar sound of their first album, Heaven's End, into something different and more distinct: refined, darker, and yet more satisfyingly powerful than these earlier efforts.

The second album, Fade Out, is a transitional affair which has greatly improved with age, to my mind: I gave away my vinyl copy at the time, it seemed rather patchy and uneven, though it had clear standout tracks - yet the album makes much more sense in retrospect. It paves the way for their later work, veering in places into more experimental ideas and expanding their sonic palette, whilst still grounded by crunching, monolithic riffs and a minimalist ethic.

By the time of their third and final album, A Gilded Eternity, they had progressed from operating very much within a "rock" template, and more towards using the elements common to "rock" music as a point of departure: a means to explore much more esoteric, textural, but also dissonant and jagged territory. Some of the song titles are telling: Vapour; Afterglow; From Centre to Wave. What remains are the elements which render them hypnotic, mesmeric: the repetitious riffs, rhythms and drones, now sitting within a more finely-considered, almost glacial soundscape. A soundscape which still, somehow, emphatically rocks.

In fact this final album is their strongest work, an excellent album by any standards, and it contains perhaps their most complete moment - the epic melancholy of Be Here Now. Ten minutes of richly evocative music - all interlocking guitars hinged around a haunting central riff, pinned down by drums and bass, but which positively soars.

It makes that first track, I mentioned, Spinning, sound rough and primitive by comparison: but the common thread between them is that insistent, irresistable sense of repetition which serves to propel it ever onwards, spiralling upwards.

That memory of hearing Spinning for the first time remains just as vivid, just as exciting.

Review

I finished reading The State of Me by Nasim Marie Jafry earlier this week. I'd read the bulk of the book (save for roughly the last 100 pages) a couple of weeks ago, but I quite deliberately put it to one side because I didn't want to finish it just yet.

On picking it up again, I expected that I'd finish it in two or three sittings, but as it turned out I quite easily got through the rest of it in one go.

If I had any hopes or expectations beforehand, it was that at the very least I would find the book engaging, interesting and informative. I found it to be all those things. But what I didn't expect was that I would find a novel about ME - the illness, myalgic encephalomyelitis - to be not just compelling, but to be such a sheer delight.

But I'll add a correction to that: it's not about ME, it's about a person (the central character, Helen Fleet) with ME. In other words, it's a novel about a life - one which becomes severely disrupted by a whole cluster of debilitating, bewildering, frightening symptoms, which in turn are potentiated by the attitudes and assumptions of others and by a huge raft of uncertainties.

Which from that brief description might make it sound like a joyless trawl through tales of illness and suffering: far from it. ME is - necessarily - one of the constant themes here, and it's there throughout. As I progressed through the pages I felt so much more informed and aware about the condition - about what it is and what it isn't, and so on - but the beauty of the book is how this is interwoven into the fabric of Helen Fleet's life, friendships and relationships, frustrations, aspirations and observations.

What makes it so readable and compelling is the deftness with which it's been written, and the keen observational eye and wit as transplanted into the narrative voice of the main character. There is simultaneously a descriptive richness and an economy of expression throughout which can be playful, poignant, sad, laugh-out-loud hilarious, and many other things besides. The key is that the narrative never stoops to sentimentality or demands sympathy or pity from the reader. Rather than effectively say (for example), isn't this terrible, the text instead says this is how it is, and leaves it up to the reader to respond or empathise.

Where the pace of Helen Fleet's life is painfully slow due to her having pretty much been completely floored by the illness, this is brought into sharp relief thanks to glimpses of her friends and fellow students getting on with their lives - flirtations, sexual encounters, parties, studies - again all with a keen and witty eye for telling detail in terms of situations, atmosphere and dialogue.

Similarly, her relationships with friends, family members and with boyfriends are examined as much in terms of how they have to be reorganised or accommodated (or not) afresh, as they are in terms of loss or limitations. Again, all done with a refreshing frankness and straightforwardness: much of the power here though is in terms of what is not said, but is largely implicit.

While there can be seen to be a political element (in the broader sense) to The State of Me - rightly putting across a strong case against all the doubts and misconceptions that have surrounded a now more-understood but still-controversial illness, the strongest aspect of it for me is that it could be -in fact, is - a novel which stands up in its own right as being about so many other things besides.