What I'd be playing if I weren't going to Glastonbury

Tom Ravenscroft's music blog: listen here.

As it's Glastonbury this weekend it means I don't have a radio show to do. Someone in a similar position may regard this as a good opportunity to take a break, but for me it means I have a week's worth of records I don't know what to do with.

I guess this is where having a blog comes in handy.

I would have opened the show with Electric Wire Hustle - "Again (Scratch 22 remix)" which features on K7 records' new DJ Kicks album, compiled by the Motor City Drum Ensemble. There are no two ways of putting this; it is deep house and normally the sort of thing I'd hate but it is frankly sexy as hell and it would have made for a great opener.

Electric Wire Hustle - Again (Scratch 22 Remix) by Scratch22  

To show I wasn't turning into a deep house kind of guy I would have then stuck on Maria and the Mirrors - "Travel Sex" to restore my cool. MATM are from East London and are very East London. I saw them play live a couple of years ago and they were awful, really awful; they looked interesting and weren't. Their new EP, though, is really good; noisy as hell and the kind of thing I wish British bands would make more often, a welcome escape from indie schmindie windy. Listen to it here.

At the end I would have left you with "Sabbath Moon" by MsTrS, off their new album Acid Witch Mountain, a film score to a movie that doesn't exist. It will leave you scared, while I jump into a cab to a fashionable East London venue that I won't be let into.

Sabbath Moon (mastered version) by MsTrS 

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"Samphire": a poem by Alison Brackenbury

"Yet how it waved, in coast’s late light. . . ."

My grandmother could cook it, for
she grew up by that dangerous shore
where the sea skulked without a wall

where I have seen it, tough as grass,
where silent men with rods trooped past
its salty ranks, without a glance.

Lear’s gatherer hangs perilously.
Why? So much is closed to me.
Did Shakespeare ever hear the sea?

Once, said my father, far inland,
from friend or stall, one clutch was found,
steamed, in my grandmother’s great pan.

Once, a smooth leaflet from a shop
claimed they could “source it”, but they stocked
bunched, peppered cress – Another gap.

Yet how it waved, in coast’s late light,
stalks I will never taste, could make
tenderly dark, my coast’s sly snake,
salt on my tongue, before I wake.

Alison Brackenbury is an award-winning poet. Her ninth collection, Skies, will be published by Carcanet in March

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle