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We Actually Love…

 
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When it comes to modern music of love you cannot fuck with D'Angelo. Men will try and play it all cool and pretend that I'm talking shit, but do a gender demographic at a D'Angelo gig and then hush your mouth, because women love him. And to be fair, so do I. The Voodoo album in particular, the very point in time where R&B went all Dilla esque and shifted into a bumpy, hot mess of gloopy funk. This one's the tune of the album for me. For the haters out there, keep playing your harsh electronic shit to try and woo the women and see where it gets you – they may pretend they're alright with it, but only until a man comes along who listens to D'Angelo in the bedroom – then you're history. Love Joe. xxx

 

Another empty masquerade of rampant consumerism or an excuse to listen to alluring solicitations of soul-sensualism, slighted-lover vendetta’s or ‘conventional’ balladry concerning an unfulfilled romance with a cleaner. Going for the latter come Valentine’s, instead of a sorry plod down to Clinton’s. Just call me Valentino.

Black Fur – When We Get Together Soon (Numero Group, Eccentric Soul Omnibus)
 
Funded with just $300, apparently the majority of their other work was lost in a fire (too tempted to speculate it was too ‘hot’, too downright arousing the world would have fucked itself into oblivion)
 
 
Symphonic Four – Who Do You Think You’re Fooling (Now Again, Loving on the Flipside: Sweet Funk and Beat Heavy Ballads 1969 – 1977)
 
It’s bad enough being schooled by one vengeful ex, but by a ‘symphony’ with pitch-perfect backing vocals apparently provided by the Parliament/Funkadelic crew?
 
 
The Cleaners from Venus – I Fell In Love With A Cleaner (Blow Away Your Troubles, Reissued by Captured Tracks)
 
Martin Newell’s warbling, histrionic croon, (almost)-sub-dub bedroom fidelity, and snatches of nonsensical, polyphonic dialogue. Here’s my favourite back-and-forth between The Cleaners:
 
‘You look different this evening, dear’
‘(said in a flat, monotonous male voice) No, I always wear this dress’. 
 
Ballads are best when they're this bizarre.
 
 
(Love, Tim. x)