Parky At the Pictures (15/5/2026)

(Reviews of Northern Soul: Still Burning; and Sailm nan Daoine (Psalms of the People))

NORTHERN SOUL: STILL BURNING.

Few local phenomena have been fawned over as much as Northern Soul. Since ace musicologist Tony Palmer rocked up in town best known for Rugby League to film ` The Wigan Casino' for Granada's This England programme in 1977, there has been a glut of nostalgic remembrances. Following John D. Moore's The Way of the Crowd (2004), Wayne Allen and Alan Byron made such an impression with Keep on Burning: The Story of Northern Soul (2012) that The Culture Show felt the need to leap on the bandwagon with `Keeping the Faith' in 2013. The banner year, however, was 2014, as James Maycock's documentary, Northern Soul: Living For the Weekend, was joined by Elaine Constantine's drama, Northern Soul, which took us back to 1974 to show how Lancashire teenagers Josh Whitehouse and Elliot James Langridge dreamt of travelling to the United States to unearth the rare discs that would make them star DJs. Steve Coogan plays their teacher.

Only completists sought out The Strange World Of Northern Soul (2023), a six-disc set offering 24 hours of footage of mixed quality, while only the muddled sought out Sean McAllister's A Northern Soul (2018), a profile of Hull in the wake of Brexit, in the expectation of hearing thudding syncopated beats. But Alan Byron clearly feels the time is right for an encore, as hits the dance floor one more time in Northern Soul: Still Burning.

As Steve and Lee Jeffries describe their pursuit of Frank Wilson's ultra-rare 1965 single, `Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)', journalist Paul Mason seeks to define `Northern Soul', as the mix of music, fashion, and club life created the ultimate cultural underworld in North-West England in the 1970s. Various attendees hark back half a century to wandering the deserted streets around Wigan Casino in order to dance themselves to a frazzle during a 2-8am all-nighter. Venerable DJ Tony Blackburn marvels at the moves that he couldn't do then, let alone now.

Author and record dealer Tim Brown and fabled club DJ Ian Dewhurst recall the buzz of going out when everyone else was tucked up in bed and others recall the excitement of bursting into venues without bothering to queue in order to hear tracks they couldn't hear anywhere else. Many still attend events today in Blackpool and other towns across the region, with veterans and Gen Zers dancing together from what DJ Levanna McLean recognises is the unifying love of the music.

Rooted in the industrial decline of the early 1970s, Northern Soul was soundtracked by mid-60s Black American songs that had been recorded by labels like Tamla Motown and discarded when they hadn't been chart hits. In many ways, the movement grew out of Mod culture, with Manchester's Twisted Wheel club being a key venue, and was largely seen as a backlash to the Glam Rock that was dominating the UK charts. DJs travelled to the States to trawl through studio dump bins to find the next big number, with obscurity being something of a badge of honour.

David Nathan remembers how football fans used to come to Dave Godin's Soul City record shop in London and seek out up-tempo tunes that he branded `Northern Soul' because they were in demand with this Saturday away-day clientele. Author Stephen Riley and academic Keith Gildart note that amphetamines chimed in with the beat of tracks like Tobi Legend's `Time Will Pass You By' to create the energy and euphoria that fuelled the muscularly lithe Northern Soul dancing style (and the occasional punch-up).

Julien Palmer and Kev Roberts recall how rarity value played a big part in earning DJs a following, a people would travel to hear tracks like Ronnie McNeir's `Sitting in My Class' that couldn't be heard anywhere else in the days before the Internet. Ian Lewis reminisces about the 4000 promo discs he once picked up in a charity sale from a radio station in Miami and shook up a scene that had migrated from The Golden Torch to the Wigan Casino in 1973. Russ Winstanley and Frank Orrell fill in background about the evolution of the 1916 dance hall that had been designed to bring a bit of sprung-floored modernity to a mining town. Richard Searling credits manager Mike Walker with taking a chance on the all-nighters and editing the Northern Noise magazine that helped reinforce the sense of a special community that DJs Brian Rigby and Dave Evison recall with such fondness. We hear about the noise, the view from the balcony, and the sweat dripping down the walls, as well as the three songs that usually closed the show - `Time Will Pass You By', Jimmy Radcliffe's `Long After Tonight Is All Over', and Dean Parrish's `I'm on My Way' - before everyone tumbled out to go to the local baths for a swim.

Marie Gillespie remembers girls feeling safe because the music mattered more than dating and the lads were protectively respectful. Paul Mason claims that there was a homoerotic element to Casino nights, as 66% of punters were male and their dancing had a muscular masculinity that came from them being free to express themselves without judgement. But the all-nighters offered a release from the three-day week crisis that Thomas Hassett recalls and designer Wayne Hemingway chips in that the music was a bigger driving factor than the fashion because the Fred Perry shirts, vests, and baggy trousers were never really inteneded to be a uniform.

Roberts and Searling claim exclusivity among DJs was key to their success, as people followed them to hear what was in their boxes. But there were breakout hits like Gloria Jones's `Tainted Love', which Searling had found on the floor of a Philadelphia warehouse and went on to be a No.1 for Soft Cell. Even so, this didn't bring about a nationwide knock-on for Northern Soul, which remained a self-contained, working-class movement that looked back rather than forward and refused to draw attention to itself by making political or fashion statements - especially as few realised that the vogue for wearing single black gloves had initially been to support the Civil Rights campaign and the anti-war crusade in America.

Much to Tim Brown's disapproval, Dave McAleer recalls his A&R mission to create indigenous Northern Soul and their differing attitudes to `Footsie' by Wigan's Chosen Few says much. Yet Brown is forced to admit through his dislike of Wigan's Ovation's `Skiing in the Snow' cover put Northern Soul on Top of the Pops and allowed non-doorstep audiences to experience it. The Casino set up its own record label to release popular tracks. One cut was Tony Blackburn's 1969 version of Doris Troy's `I'll Do Anything (He Wants Me to Do)', which was issued under the name `Lenny Gamble' and no one seemed any the wiser.

This lurch towards commercialisation came as a taste war broke out between the Wigan Casino and the Blackpool Mecca about what kind of music could be played under the Northern Soul banner. Around this time, Tony Palmer brought his cameras to film with supplementary lighting that appalled the die-hards. But Christine Fiddler agreed to be interviewed and most regulars now are grateful to the show for capturing the authentic 70s dancing with such integrity, even though it brought day-trippers and numbers of dancers and record collectors started to dwindle. Eventually, the council decided to extend the civic centre and the lease on the Casino was terminated. Photographer Francesco Mellina covered the last night for the New Musical Express on 6 December 1981, as DJ Ross Winstanley played the 3 Before 8 three times before closing with `Do I Love You?'. Only then was it discovered that the Casino was a listed building and couldn't be demolished. However, it was badly damaged in a fire in March 1982 and Frank Orrell took a picture of a piano on the stage of the burnt-out shell. Within two years, Mike Walker would take his own life and the Casino story would be well and truly over. Or would it?

Punk erupted in 1976 and brought a new anger to British music that came with its own style. This fed into the New Romantic phase and the spirit of Northern Soul hived off into rave culture. But it has revived in recent times and the film wraps up by interviewing some of the young shavers keeping the flag flying (albeit in Deptford), including Jordan Wilson. Lewis Henderson, and Levanna McLean. The hardcore survivors also admit to being glad they are more accepting of new songs like Brooke Combe's `How Can I Tell You? (To Love Me More)' rather than just sticking to mid-60s playlists. Whatever taps your toes.

Alan Byron knows his stuff and he has assembled a cast of genuine Northern Soul legends for this affectionate, but far from sentimental or pompous celebration. He and editor James Fowler make impressive use of the limited period footage available to them, as well as Francesco Mellina's archive. But the enthusiasm of the talking heads also provides momentum and an an irresistible lived feel.

Everyone waxes lyrical about the music. But it gets rather short-changed. Not a single track playing behind the speakers is identified on screen outside the closing crawl. No one discusses why these cast-off cuts caught on with a generation that was also being tossed on the scrapheap following the decline of the region's traditional industries. Most frustratingly, however, nobody talks about the artists whose work they adored. How did they feel about being revered in a corner of Northern England where their music played without air-play fees or royalties because the labels had washed their hands of it?

Did any of them ever tour the UK on the back on Northern Soul or did they either struggle on in the US or have other hits that failed (because of their success) to have the same appeal? We also learn nothing about the canon of classic tracks (if such a thing even exists), as only about half a dozen are mentioned by name and three of those formed the Casino's weekly closing medley. Thus, while this is a highly enjoyable snapshot that is deeply poignant in its exposé of today's culture of immediate gratification and artefactual ownership, it also leaves a lot unsaid about the relationship between the revellers and the artists they danced to and about the musical direction(s) the Casino crowd took after the party ended.

SAILM NAN DAOINE (PSALMS OF THE PEOPLE).

Anyone seeking information about the history and cultural significance of Gaelic psalm singing will need to go outside Jack Archer's Sailm nan Daoine (Psalms of the People). However, if you simply wish to experience the glory of the human voice, then this beautifully made documentary is hard to beat.

Rob MacNeacail likens Gaelic psalmody to the way geese fly through the air, as they take it in turns to lead. The son of Gaelic poet Aonghas MacNeacail, he lives in the Scottish border town of Carlops, where he's seen playing the flute and clambering up a tree to record sounds in the local woods. He agrees with Fionn mac Cumhaill (aka Finn McCool) that `the finest music is the music of what happens' and he has set up a group to keep the psalm singing tradition alive.

Some of the members don't speak Gaelic and not all of them are religious or know much about a form that dates back to the Reformation. But they enthusiastically follow MacNeacail, who acts as the precentor to whose refrain they respond while adding their own vocal embellishments. Mostly, they sing a cappella, but he occasionally accompanies them on a harmonium on psalms that can last for up to 10 minutes. He also encourages the other members to lead out, as several of his neighbours are musical, with Morag Brown being a renowned fiddler and Guy Walters having an impressive collection of wind instruments, including the Alpine horn that prompts MacNeacail to attempt a little throat singing.

He works at the Garvald care home, where his sister Galina lives, and uses music to interact with the residents. But he often takes singing and research trips and, following a short guided tour of his poet father's shed, he heads to the Isle of Lewis to meet with singer Calum Martin, who he considers to be his Yoda. They strum through a Louvain Brothers bluegrass song before getting down to rehearsing the psalm that MacNeacail is going to be leading in the church at Back. Wishing his father could be there to witness the event, he is warmly thanked by members of the congregation, although he confides to Martin that he had been swept away by their singing. We see views of the island, as MacNeacail records the sound of birdsong and the crashing waves. But it's the memory of the poignant communal connection that he will take away.

He crosses to Skye to visit the Uig grave of grandparents Catriona Stewart and Alasdair Nicolson before reuniting in Kilmuir with Dinah Rankin, who had taught him to precent, and her daughter, Eilidh, who is Gaelic development officer. MacNeacail joins them for a service, at which children are entrusted with leading out the psalms and he confides to Eilidh that he would love to live here, as the tradition is very much alive rather than being merely upheld by handfuls of enthusiasts. While out walking, he lingers by a waterfall to sing about an apple tree, with the beauty of the locale reinforcing the idea that the song has echoed down through the ages.

Arriving in the very different landscape of East Belfast, MacNeacail meets Aodán Jaff Mac Séafraidh, a maker of Uilleann pipes, who introduces him to a singing group at Turas, a Protestant community project based in the shadow of the Harland & Wolff crane that celebrates the connection between Irish Gaelige and Scots Gàidhlig as a means of reconciliation.

Venturing south, MacNeacail samples the Féile na Laoch festival of traditional music and culture in Coolea, County Cork. Having discussed the scurge of nationalism with poet Paddy Bushe, he recalls the legend that every cow in Ireland is descended from three creatures that emerged from the sea, with the red one (Bó Rua) going north, the white one (Bó Finn) settling in the midlands, and the black one (Bó Dubh) staying in the south. Fittingly, he rehearses an impromptu choir at the gate to a cattle-filled field before singing at a church service that brings him closer to his father because he would be so thrilled to know that the culture he treasured is thriving. On his way home, MacNeacail detours to a wet Argyll to sing at his father's grave.

With music as sublime as the scenery, this is a niche treat that will probably find its biggest audience on television. Indeed, Archer and MacNeacail met when the latter did the sound design on Bill Douglas: My Best Friend (2023), an account of the relationship between the pioneering film-maker and Peter Jewell that is currently on the BBC iPlayer. However, the fact that the film was commissioned by Alba means that those unfamiliar with psalm singing, the cultural links between Scotland and Ireland, and the literary significance of Aonghas MacNeacail (who changed his name by deed poll from Angus Nicolson) may feel a little short-changed by the amount of background information.

Archer, however, is right to focus on Rob MacNeacail and contrast his day-to-day geniality with the seriousness with which he takes both his music, his father's legacy, and the language that he sometimes feels is decolonising his brain. He also correctly leaves the psalms to play out in full with restrained cuts among the faces of the singers and to the surrounding landscape. The switch from the wind-blown rusticity of the Highlands and Islands to the multi-muralled sectarianism of East Belfast is highly astute, especially as Archer alludes to how psalm singing is being used to heal division after it had crossed the Irish Sea during the Plantation of Ulster. But historical and contemporary politics are kept in the background and there's precious little religion, either (perhaps because Aonghas was an atheist). This leaves more room for the spirit-lifting music, although it might have been fun to devoted a little more time to the quirky musical gifts of some of the other Carlops psalmodians.