The Milk Diaries: Leftover Love

“I succeed very well, by not looking at the world around
By not looking at myself
Going on, moving, constantly.”

Dyva - Leftover Love

I felt a desperate need to listen to this song, lying across some seats on a local bus to Cirencester. It was some years ago and I was with my family. We were all stuck in traffic and I felt lousy. I knew only emotional early Italo Disco would assist with whatever ailed me. I sought out the bouncy bass and cloudy vocals and I wailed along under my breath:

“People can’t invent,
Their lovers and friends,
It’s life which gives these
And also takes them away sometimes.”

It’s not the most articulate of lyrics, but it reminded me of a friend who once described the appeal of Italo Disco. He said it was the language barrier which makes for more pure, expressive lyricism. It was an insight that, for me, added so much to a genre that is so commonly dismissed as disposable. Leftover Love is lyrically clunky, but it captures a desperate level of sincerity:

“I want to say yes,
Want to say yes to life!”

It's been a long time since that bus ride in Cirencester, but I occasionally think of Leftover Love and how meaningful lyrics needn't be particularly poetic or articulate. There can be something in the simplicity of expression which can make a song quite profound, even though it is hard to believe such meaning was ever really intended..

The proposition for the RPM Challenge seemed simple enough: for the month of February, you are to write and record ten songs and/or 35 minutes of music. In other words, your album. The creators likened the challenge to a kind of musical NaNoWriMo, where participants are required to write a 50,000+ word novel in the space of 30 days. In both scenarios, the idea is daunting but doable. Even if you failed to accomplish the task at hand, you would still hopefully emerge with some creative work that you wouldn't have attempted otherwise. This positive reasoning does little to beat the ongoing sense of resistance and confusion as to why they had to choose the shortest month of the year to do this.

I'm no stranger to the idea of establishing creative parameters. Paul Weller discussed it himself during his episode of The Mastertapes, locking himself up in an office, attempting to churn out tracks for the 1982 Jam album, The Gift. Perhaps the idea of working to a deadline diminishes from the romance of the creative process, but it's intriguing how quickly the mind can generate ideas with such firmly set limitations. It needn't be time restrictions either, you might only need a single word that resonates with you and if you allow yourself to take a few moments to explore the concept, something will invariably emerge. Using the methodology of Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg, it's necessary to write fast, write without thinking and block out the voice that says you cannot do this.

Both these challenges draw upon this compounded appeal of not only being creative, but also being prolific. It carries this implicit hope that you've managed to sort out your doubts, motivations and work in an almost mechanised fashion. It's entirely possible, you need only to listen to the impressive claim of Severo Lombardoni, the producer of the iconic Italo Disco label, Discomagic: "My setup allowed me to produce 50-60 albums a month. I even did 5-6 albums a day!" We're talking about pop music that was manufactured on the largest scale imaginable, but the sheer breadth of its catalogue does little to detract from its creative merit. It's much like an archaeological dig, where people are still searching and uncovering this music, they're making mixes and dance tracks. Their love of it is ultimately inspiring a new musical culture.

I'm drawn to analysing the nature of creativity, but I know for some that understanding creativity spoils the magic somehow. I'm often reminded of Joe Strummer's remark to Melody Maker's Caroline Coon: "If I told you how I write, when I next do it, my words will haunt me and destroy me completely..." There was a process, there must have been, yet the artist's reluctance to discuss it makes the music-making process even more mystical than it probably should be. I'm also wary of the fact that a lengthy dissection of the music-making process can be an act of procrastination. After all, it is much easier to get fired up by a TED Talk than to go through the grief of picking up a guitar and actually working out a new song.

If anyone else were to ask me whether they should take part in the RPM Challenge, I would say "Do it, create, because it's the most important thing." I'd be sure to add the words of a fellow singer who recently said to me, "Your work only exists because of you." I'm yet to fully appreciate why those words reassured me as they did, but it somehow goes to the heart of what it means to honour your ideas and will them to existence. Sure, there may be some vain component in the whole creative process, there may exist some hope that someone else will connect with your work, free of obligation or personal association. Yet, I maintain that it's the most important thing because you can never truly appreciate the breadth of your influence. Create, because you will ultimately inspire others to create.

Behind the scenes of Ratcat's That Ain't Band videoclip (via)
Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Mod Podcast #62
Au Pairs - You
Screaming Tribesmen - Ice
Ratcat - Skin
Spivs - Boys of Desillusion
Rotjoch - Too Many Weirdos
Ricky and the Teendreams - Alison, Please
Mood Six - Memories
Uncanny X-Men - I Wanna Be Your Baby
Gyllene Tider - Tuff Tuff Tuff (Som Ett Lokomotiv)
Various Artists - She's a Machine

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I was in the completely unrelated location of Takayama when I was confronted with the dream-like scenario: "Queen", that being Brian May, Roger Taylor and some potato I'd never heard of were coming to my home town of Melbourne to perform over two nights at Rod Laver Arena. It wasn't a matter of simply getting a ticket, no. I was compelled to spend a late night and rainy morning surveying the options, the vast array of "Official VIP Experiences" which included fancy laminate cards, t-shirts, stubby holders, important people parties and even a specialist telephone helpline, reserved for confused Queen fans. I squinted over the options...

The "We Are the Champions VIP Experience" was priced at AUD$600 while the "I Want It All VIP Experience" cost AUD$750. The most expensive package, the AUD$1,300 "Ultimate On Stage Experience" would get you within tripping distance of Brian May, yet there was no prospect of any meeting, no chance of any awkward banter or hysterics. The whole set-up made standing a metre away from Avril Lavigne for USD$400 seem like a real bargain. So, without the promise of any encounter, I reserved plebby pre-sale Fan Club seats for my best friend and myself, a considerable distance away from the stage.

It was difficult to justify the expense, after all that I had seen Brian and Roger ham it up with that other potato in Hyde Park for a mere GBP£30 in 2005. Had I existed in 1976, I could have seen Queen (with Freddie) in the same place for nothing. However, this whole experience of "having to choose an experience" forced me to consider the phenomenon of the VIP experience and how it is now possible to grade your level of fanaticism in such precise increments. There is the conscious consideration: "Is this really worth it? Do I like them that much to fork out this money for a single night?" You're left to think about value of a moment that will ultimately slip through your fingers.

I strongly believe that the VIP experience manages to thrive due to the way that we document our lives online. I think it got to a point where that ridiculously distorted audio and familiar low-res blur shot from an iPhone at the back of a venue became totally ubiquitous and stupid. It makes sense that this scheme developed where you could distinguish yourself from the ordinary punter in such a way that you could document everything with such enviable clarity. Where I'm coming from, it's easy to survey the once-in-a-lifetime antics of those who are arguably more faithful and less stingy than I.

The morning after Queen, everyone asked what it was like. I was stunned, overwhelmed and genuinely quite incapable of describing what had just happened. I kept on repeating, "I should have just given them all my money, I should have been closer, I should have been on the stage..." Saying that, I'm still suspicious of my ability to appreciate a moment as it's happening. I need to think about it, I need to sit down with a notebook, I need to listen to a bootleg or in the case of last Friday afternoon, I need to wade through cardboard boxes full of 2014 Queen tour memorabilia. My kind, new resourceful friend in the merch division of my company examined the description on the boxes:

"Do you want a t-shirt? A tour program? A stubby holder? It's all going to be destroyed anyway..."

I smiled.

"Yeah, yes please. I want it all."

 Squints

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #61
Borneo - Let's All Dance
RAF - Self Control
Hubert Kah - The Picture
Telex News - Forever
Lame - You've Got The Night
Julie - Tora Tora Tora
Riccardo Maggese – Boschima
Fockewulf 190 – Gitano

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I have just made the most startling discovery: a vast majority of the songs I love feature the chord progression Bm G A. You may think I'm joking, but seriously, The Beat, Girl You Know It's True, Listen To Your Heart, Hate You, I've Been Thinking About You, Lost in the Night and about 70 other songs I fail to mention (but can now play on guitar) follow this musical sequence. It compels me to ask, in a style not too dissimilar to a question that may be posed by Carrie Bradshaw: Am I just falling in love with the same song over and over again?

Yes, quite possibly, but it isn't a question that particularly offends me. Sure it might get a bit awkward if you realise that you're not looking for the perfect song, you're only looking to subliminally reinforce an already-existing musical quality. This notion of subliminal reinforcement is hardly surprising within the confines of a genre such as Mod Revival or Italo Disco, where, to a new listener "everything sounds the same". What's interesting is the idea that an already-existing musical quality can transcend genre and the very thing that attracts you to Garage could be the same thing that attracts you to Eurobeat.

Perhaps it is a far-fetched theory, but I think there is definitely something in it. The phenomenon is central to the practice of those friends who have the ability to accurately predict and recommend songs I would love, with almost 100% accuracy. It's quite possible that they, too, have somehow tapped into that key and that chord progression, that sound which is going on far back in the bassline. It's a worthwhile thing to remember, when listening to the most disposable of pop or the grittiest of metal, when you strip it down to its most fundamental level, it's all the same... and to be loved, it really needs to contain Bm G A.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #50
Costas Charitodiplomenos - Lost in the Night
Mike Rogers - Just a Story
Dyva - Leftover Love
Stage - Ocean of Crime
Radiorama - Fire
Hiroko Murata - Valentino
Kay Franzes - Shadow in the Night (Special Club Mix)
Modern Talking - Atlantis is Calling (SOS for Love)

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It was my kind friend, Adam of Pretending Life is Like a Song who suggested the proposition: "There's an argument that The Smiths' best song is Back to the Old House on Hatful of Hollow (1984) and their worst song is Back to the Old House on Louder than Bombs (1987)." I was more than willing to agree with him: Hatful of Hollow > Louder than Bombs. There is something remarkable about that acoustic interpretation, the resonance of Johnny's guitar, Morrissey's breathtaking vocal delivery, I'm sure many others would agree. Yet, it surprises me to admit that, because I heard the version on Louder than Bombs first.

You never knew how much I really liked you, because I never even told you - oh, but I meant to.
The realisation made me reflect upon that unspoken tendency to prefer the first version of a song we hear. The "first version" manages to become the more definitive interpretation with every repeated listening. This may occur even though the "first version" may, in actuality, be the more illegitimate. It may be a cover, demo or in the case of New Order's Brutal (2000), unduly sped up and distorted to shit. Familiarity with the "first version" may result in a difficulty to accept the qualities of another version. We come up with irrational pronouncements, like Mito's epic Italo anthem Droid (1982) cannot begin to compare with its cover by Hypnosis (1987): the cover is that much better.

A part of me thinks that musical familiarity has much to do with the subconscious. So often, I find myself inexplicably drawn to specific Italo tracks, only to discover I had heard them years before, included in DJ Zyron's Classic Italo Mix. I recognised Catcall's track, Swimming Pool (2010) during her support performance of CSS, not because I had heard the song on the radio, but because my sweet friend Louise of Eton Mess Life sang it in passing, well over a year before. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there exists this subconscious desire to find a version, a "first version" in an attempt to obsessively revisit and ferociously defend.

Yet, it is somehow more vindicating to discover a "second version" which far surpasses the first. It obliterates the comfort that comes from musical familiarity, however conscious. Such a discovery suggests that there continues to be a process of engagement, a process of assessing a song on its merits. Sure, it may never be possible to emulate the dizzying high: that initial moment where an interpretation becomes the first and absolute definitive. But, in spite of all attachments, it may be possible to fall in love with a song, over and over again.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #39
Big Ben Tribe - Tarzan Loves the Summer Nights
Michael Bedford - More Than a Kiss
Hysterical Fit - Come and Make Me High
Albert One - For Your Love (Another Version)
Buzzer - Complications (Moar Cowbell Mix)
Hot Cold - I Can Hear Your Voice
Mozzart - Malice and Vice
Ken Heaven - The Calling

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I've been getting swept up in Italo Disco, listening to mixes and compilations, reading forums and living on Discogs. Yet it seems no matter how many songs I listen to, there appears to be tens of thousands of songs to go. It is easy to be overwhelmed by the sheer number of songs produced in this musical era, inasmuch as it is easy to be confused as to why this genre has never been properly analysed or adequately documented. If you spend enough time with it, it's possible to garner an impression of the most significant dancefloor anthems, but much of the my personal enjoyment of this genre is predicated on taste. The act of actually listening to the songs, far removed from its original context, and finding that moment of perfect resonance.

For others, it is the act of collecting Italo records which is the most enjoyable thing. For any noob, detecting what is obscure in a genre full of obscurities is somewhat problematic. However, the knowledgeable Italo collector never seems to have any difficulty in that respect. I've known of their plight for a long time, the risks they take in pursuing vinyl obscurities. In their pursuit of the Holy Grail of Italo Records, the collector would sometimes part with hundreds of dollars in the hope that the record would arrive safe and intact in their letter box. However, the seller's account would duly disappear, along with the collector's money and any hope that the record ever existed in the first place. How I felt for them.

50 Works Project
My search for perfect Italo had largely taken form in MP3 format, so I never had to deal with unscrupulous dealers. However, as my obsession with these songs dramatically increased, I considered how cool it would be to have Dharma's Plastic Doll, Alexander Robotnick's Problèmes D'Amour or Jimmy & Susy's Come Back. No doubt my desire for these records coincided with my longing to hold a club night for the masses, where we would all dance to such songs (imagine, Rose's clip for Magic Carillion). Yet, still cautious and wary of the many horror stories of experienced Italo collectors, I only ever opted to click on the very cheapest records available. I didn't wish to be another casualty.

Ashamedly, my collection shows few signs that I've become so entrenched in this genre. There's a shamefully small handful of records; a Michael Bedford 7", a Den Harrow 7", a Laserdance 12", a Tom Hooker 12", a Fuzz Dance compilation, a ZYX boxset purchased from Stockholm. I still look on Discogs, not only to shop, but to research. For in a genre so free of narrative, it offers much insight into what is rare and valuable. When I have come across one of those records, 1 for sale from €800, I feel compelled to stake out that song and listen carefully. I attempt to assess its musical value and whether it correlates with market forces. It is a great relief to find the song is average at best and any chance of completely surrendering my bank account to this obsession can be laid to rest.

I present to you a podcast that will convert your bedroom into a darkened discotheque from the back alleys of Genova, circa 1986. I hope there, free of any external influence (ahem, aside from my own), you can fall in love with the sound of Italo and its unique pop immediacy.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #34
Clio - Eyes
Mania - Shine Shine Shine
Mister Black - Monnalisa
Scotch - Pictures
93rd Superbowl - Forever and a Day
Joy Peters - Don't Loose Your Heart Tonight
Swan - Don't Talk About It
Ross - Coming Up

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It was one curious afternoon, months before I cancelled my gym membership. I was half-heartedly ambling on a treadmill, listening to Paul Artrocker's radio show on my then-intact iRiver. I had made the habit of listening to Artrocker in places that were completely incongruent with the Artrocker credos. This music was clearly intended for the emaciated cool kids of Camden. I had visions of them in their dimly-lit squats, hungover and hungry, sniffling and sitting on green milk crates. I wanted a place to sniffle and sit with my own fold of Camden cool kids. Instead, I could only listen to songs and details of their antics, as I ambled alone with an alarmingly high heart rate, half a world away.

Quite aside from my desire for a milk crate, Paul Artrocker happened to indirectly touch upon a frustration which I felt so keenly, one that was so relevant to my own isolated listening practices. Paul was to report of all the goings-on for the week in London. He was to detail all the gigs, instore appearances, club nights and related musical antics, but alas there was nothing to report. Nothing was going on in London town. As he appealed to the good listeners of Resonance FM to email with their forthcoming events, I couldn't help but detect that hint of dissatisfaction in his tone. It made me wonder whether it was even possible that my favourite city could be completely bereft of musical activity. Perhaps Paul had grown weary and disenchanted with the scene? It made me wonder: what can we possibly do when we think we're over it?


The prospect of getting over music is commonly brought up by those who don't really care about anything. Occasionally the words getting over would be replaced with the words growing out of, almost to suggest that engagement with pop culture has something to do with being a hormonal adolescent. It is a fearful and offensive prospect, to imagine that something so central to our existence is merely a phase. After all, to those who really care about music, it dictates who we spend our time with, how we spend our time and how we spend our money. Perhaps even more obviously, it is a sign of heartfelt allegiance. It is an indication that we identify with a gang who shares our tastes and ideals. We can wear badges on our blazers, indicating that we're a mod or a punk or even an artrocker. We can protest that this allegiance will be forever, but there is a part of us that can never truthfully guarantee it will always be this way.

I admit now, as I have admitted on previous articles on C&CM that there have been genres I have grown weary of. There have been times where I have lost my direction and focus. I can see now that my loss of passion had nothing to do with the scene, as such, but my unwillingness to further explore the recommendations of others. I know, particularly from the construction this week's Italo Disco podcast, that a scene need not have local gigs or club nights. It may be a scene that could be accurately described as "extinct", but even still, the mere act of discovering undiscovered music can be one that is so exciting and so thoroughly stimulating. The prospect of discovering the undiscovered is one that we should hold onto, tightly and to our chests, when we ask that question: what can we possibly do when we think we're over it?

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #30
B.W.H. - Livin' Up
Hugh Bullen - Alisand
Barry Leitch - Lotus Turbo Challenge II
Grant Miller - California Train
Jimmy & Susy - Come Back
Savage - A Love Again
Rose - Magic Carillon
Esavu - Sia Siou (Breaking Up)

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Dear Italo Disco,

Never have I been so totally besotted and bemused by a single genre. I scarcely know what to say when people ask what's going on between us, because the fact is that it's impossible to define what we have. It's not that I am ashamed of you... well, OK, yes, I am ashamed of you.

Don't be downhearted, I think you're still great. I still want to stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning, listening to Italo megamixes. But I just don't know what people will say when they find out the truth about us. I used to have some credibility endorsing jangly guitar music on the interwebs, but I seem to be endorsing more and more music of a dubious quality.

I know that fans have been talking about you behind your back. They say that your music is tacky and disposable. They say that your singers don't understand what they're singing about. They say that the entire thing was engineered by recording labels. It's not fair that they should treat you so bad, Italo.

There's still hope for you yet. There could be a revival, you gotta believe me. Pitchfork could write a hyperbolic endorsement and you could be ironically adored by scenesters the world over! Then I could get all aggressively and territorial and claim that I loved you first! El stylee!

Now, I don't want you to act out but I think it's best we don't see each other for a while. It's nothing personal, Italo, I've just sort of overdosed on you. I leave you with C&CM Italo Podcast #21 in your memory.

Arrivederci,

Eleanor xx


Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #21
Alexander Robotnick - Problèmes d'Amour
My Mine - Hypnotic Tango
Facts & Fiction - Give Me The Night
Miko Mission - The World is You
Eddy Huntington - USSR
Sally Shapiro - Save Your Love
Ali Renault - Cuffs
Hipnosis - Droids

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