5 July 2013
Am sat waiting at Platform 8 at Euston on the slow train to Bushey on this fine sunny Friday Afternoon, after a sweltering hot jazz session down at the Spice Of Life Friday Lunch shift. It is a new train, and thus it is air-conditioned. This is good news for me, as I am known for being prone to suffering from a mild bout of light perspiration here and there. In fact, at the first sign of moderate watery sunshine I can usually lightly perspire buckets. As it’s been a hot afternoon, and I took the healthy option of walking down into the West End and back rather than the Full Summer Horror of the tube, I now feel that we’re there to be a sudden Nook And Cranny inspection, I would fail with flying colours, and be taken off for a good old to-do with the wire brush and detail. Bon Appetit,
In fact, all in all its been quite a week for jazz and sweating. Last Saturday saw a really nice, if rather sweaty wedding go past, in which the cardinal law of nuptial music was transgressed to such an extent that I have been lying awake at night waiting for The Knock On The Door. All we were doing was innocently playing a spot of cocktail Jazz, which should, if the grand Book Of Rules is being adhered to, the correct procedure for the audience is to ignore us completely, at a safe distance of thirty feet, at which distance we should be in audible anyway. The only times a member of the general public may breach this rule is to- A- tell us that we’re too loud
B- desperately dance with one or more knee-sliding toddlers, making trombone gestures at any member of the band operating any wind instrument. Back to last Saturday, and no sooner had we started trying to break the world record for the quietest ever version of Satin Doll, than a huge crowd had formed, not only to listen, but to-wait for it-applaud. They even asked for more volume, and someone at the back requested some Cannonball Adderley. After having taken a quick look out of the window to see if there were lollipop trees, or a rainbow trout who was directing traffic, or something else to indicate that a breach had occurred in the time-space continuum. Alas, all seemed normal, there were teenagers smoking on the croquet lawn, a woman in a pink dress was weeping drunkenly to her chum. All as it should be. The inevitable conclusion was that all the stuff going on indoors was real as well, and our punters really wanted jazz.
What a brilliant night that was-got jazz being played and a room full of people dancing and clapping. Good topsy-turvy stuff. In keeping with the topsy-turvy feel, upon leaving afterwards drummer Bill and I noticed that we’d got something of an early bath on our hands, and so found our way to the nearest Indian for an inevitable curry. So, to briefly take stock, people liked jazz, curry after work, not before. Should be enough to put us away for years.
Thanks to the miracle that is the iPhone, I’m able to write this on the train, the air-conditioning in which has now mellowed the Nooks and Crannies to a more acceptable level. Pulling out of South Kenton station as I now am, I have remembered that as I left for the Station, Her Indoors was threatening to get a paddling pool from Argos and have her lady friends over for an afternoon of lovely sunny aquatic self-improvement and yoga. Will it be harmony vocals on “Keep Young And Beautiful” whilst gaily throwing the beach ball from fair hand to fair hand, or will it be Vodka and All Men Are Bastards?. It could be carnage. I’ll keep you posted.