The Last Town Chorus cover David Bowie’s upbeat single Modern Love and improve it by turning it into a melancholy country ballad.

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Fifty years ago this week Gram Parsons died in Room 8 of the Joshua Tree Inn in California, filled with morphine, barbiturates and alcohol, at the age of only 26.

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Hank Williams would have been 100 years old on Sunday. Instead he died, on New Year’s Day 1953, at the age of 29.

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Last night I went to see these guys, Dead Writers, at a goth-filled Camden pub with the apt name The Black Heart, on my way back from cricket at Lord’s. And I had a very good time.

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There was no escaping this song in the summer of ’77, though I was far more interested in the Pistols and the Clash than chart-topping disco tunes.

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Maybe I’ve got a bit soppy because I’m feeling a bit sad and fragile but Mereba’s haunting electro-ballad hits me right there. Especially its lyrics.

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Here we are on the hottest day of the year and I’m reflecting on the hottest gigs I’ve ever attended. One of them, on a night like this, was by Nas at the 100 Club.

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I don’t know how I forgot this one when I was trawling through the songs of my childhood. It wasn’t a big hit but back in 1974 it seemed to be everywhere.

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Alarming news – in my old age I may be starting to like jazz. Yes, I’m afraid a lifetime of jazzophobia may be under threat after I heard this dude, Yussef Dayes yesterday. On a sunny day on my car radio, his music blew my mind.

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Four white men in black suits and white shirts. One black man in a shiny gold suit. And two classic Northern Soul tunes. That’s The Epitome Of Sound.

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