Ash

We all lose things from time to time: our wallets, our car keys, our marbles. However, two years ago I lost my iPod. I say lost: despite the fact that I couldn't find it, I know where it was. You see, I'd lost it in the car. One minute it was there, the next it had slipped deep into a nether world usually inhabited by loose change and travel sweets. And in much the same way drug enforcement officers systematically take a car apart at the Mexican border, I looked everywhere for my beloved shiny thing. But it had simply disappeared. So, after shedding a few i tears, I moved on and, with a heavy heart, replaced her with a new model.

Fast forward to yesterday and the car's been with the grease monkeys all day for a big service. And as I'm pulling off the forecourt, what do I see staring at me lovingly from the confines of the cup holder? I couldn't believe it; not a scratch on her. She was low on juice so I gave her a quick charge and she was ready to go. Again.

And when I hit shuffle, this was the first track. It's even, vaguely, topical.

Hang 'Em High

Before you ask, today's blog title is not a reference to the future fate of our MPs or MPs in waiting. No, it's far more serious than that. We had friends round for lunch this Bank Holiday Monday just gone and, as is the norm, I appropriated the CD player, iPod, Spotify and turntable; well it is my house.

So far so good - the lamb curry and cold beers were hitting the spot and the Blue Note compilation was very agreeable. What happened next would, in the normal scheme of things, not raise an eyebrow. And indeed, had I not said something, nobody would have been any the wiser. Next up on the wheels of steel was the album Soul Limbo by Booker T And The MGs. A fine platter I hear you say, and I would have to agree with you. Were it not for Track 3. The third track on this splendid album is a cover of the Hang 'Em High soundtrack. Whether in its full cinematic pomp or this Hammond driven variation it conjures up images of Clint Eastwood righting wrongs and a landscape drier than a pet shop floor. Well it used to. That was until a few years back when Mrs M heard it and erased any such images from my mind. No, she said, when I hear this I see a trapeze artist from a cheesy '70s circus wearing a spangly body suit with only a safety net below her. She might also, Mrs M informed me, be riding a unicycle. Well that did it. Try as I might, whenever that track has come on since, I don't see Clint: all I see is the big top, dancing horses and the high wire. Damn you, Billy Smart.

Booker T & The MGs: Hang 'Em High

Gordon Brown & The Lower Third

After a heavy night out with Mondo on Wednesday, I was going nowhere last night. So, along with another ten million souls, I watched the Final Countdown. How very, very dull.

Unlike this beautiful David Jones/Gordon Brown mash-up.

When Ziggy met Pug.

My Aim Is True

I found myself listening to Fi Glover's Saturday Live on the radio yesterday morning. I must admit, since Peel left us, Home Truths has proved a difficult act to follow but I guess Glover has persevered and made the Saturday slot her own. This week's Inheritance Tracks were chosen by author Tracy Chevalier; her first choice was Alison by Elvis Costello. Always one for a barbed lyric, what you hear with EC is not always what you get - a little like Paul Heaton, the aching melody and soft tempo belie what's really going on in there. Alright, I know this is meat and two veg to Costello acolytes, but what I wasn't expecting was Chevalier's take on the lyrics: she was reading the 'My aim is true' refrain as an implied death threat. Is she right? I'd not entertained the thought before, I must say, and wading through Costello quotes down the years he's always denied such an interpretation. Here Tracey Thorn all but improves on the original.

Everything but the Girl - Alison (1992)

[fast fwd to 12:06]

Plastic Soul

The term Plastic Soul has been bandied around virtually since white dudes have been picking up microphones. Jagger had the term thrown at him, while Bowie called his own Young Americans album the definitive plastic soul record.

Anyhoo, it being that time of the week when I give you 3 minutes of pseudo soul music, today it's the turn of Tom Wardle: hope your guitar turns up Tom.

Tom Wardle: Let Your Love Shine Out