gimme a pig foot (and a bottle of beer)

A couple of evenings ago I struggled with my blog, trying to find a way to trace it without using the full URL address. No search engine recognises Pooter Dodman, despite the addition of tags and sundry other investigative devices. Then I was distracted when I heard feline strangled mews drifting through dividing walls - Amy Winehouse on television.

BBC4 screened a 2007 concert, undoubtedly a “second opportunity to catch…” I know this blog is about jazz, and Amy is not, but the woman fascinates me. She was on typically insouciant form. Her words were slurred and all but unintelligible. Her superbly synchronised dancers compensated for her inability to move rhythmically. The band was competent, professional and harmonic. And Amy herself spent most of the concert slurping from a beaker of something presumably highly alcoholic – appearing to become progressively more intoxicated as the concert drew to a close. Interestingly, she actually improved as the alcohol seemed to take effect.

I was reminded of Louis Armstrong, who was reputed to supply his sidemen with viper in the belief that the drug allowed them to play more cohesively relaxed. Despite this, he became an international ambassador for jazz and a global household name as a showman. Allegedly, Amy was supplying herself with liberal doses of alcohol; it augurs well for her future.

Possibly my eyes and ears deceive me though. I have a sneaking suspicion that Amy is actually a teetotaller, drinking nothing but Pepsi Cola. Knowing that we all love fallen angels, spin doctors have spun a bibulous myth. In reality, Amy was just pretending to be drunk all the time; it’s good for publicity, you see. I fancy she’s really a sober, determined and resourceful singer with an ambitious plan to conquer the music world in her own way.

If I’m right, then Amy is on to a winner. I truly believe the woman has the capacity to be the greatest ever British songstress. Her voice is pure golden-weave original Amy, although I think I detect faint needle-pointing from Nina Simone, Dinah Washington and Billie Holiday. She is one of those illustrious and mellifluous rare talents bordering on genius.

If I’m wrong, I hope she’ll soon realise what she’s doing to her anatomy and voice. To lose what she has would be a tragedy, all the more felt by the likes of Pooter Dodman (yours truly - mediocre, untalented and grey), an elderly man who abhors unrealised potential and the squandering of natural gifts.

Would it help if she changed her name to Amy House? A poor pun to finish on.

Dream Band

I spent a night in an old-fashioned jazz club in London, the alcohol-free but sweet-substance and heavy-haze variety I used to frequent as a youth. It might have been Ken Colyer’s Jazz Club in Great Newport Street. It certainly wouldn’t have been Ronnie Scott’s; that was too upmarket for the likes of me, for whom a good night out and home on the first Sunday morning train needed to be had for the pre-decimal equivalent of 75p, including breakfast.

The music was almost beyond credible. It was rhythmic and driven. I was leaning against a slightly damp wall being assailed by wave after wave of jazz I could not only hear but actually feel, taste and see. Notes and phrases came like hailstones, bouncing off a crowd of jigging and bobbing devotees, cheering and hollering fans, all gathered on a tiny patch of shiny linoleum serving as an occasional dance floor.

On trumpet was Wynton Marsalis. Next to him stood Lester Young on tenor sax and Gerry Mulligan on baritone. Shafi Hadi played alto, Bechet soprano/clarinet and J. J. Johnson trombone. Around the edges were Dave Brubeck on piano, Charles Mingus (bass), Charlie Christian (guitar), and Art Blakey (drums).

Never before or since have I heard live music with such raw-polished verve. Ten individual musicians coalesced into one harmonic organism, each nerve end playing perfectly with the other. I shall never forget the precious experience. Unfortunately, I missed the last two numbers because I woke up.