dance of the infidels

Now less than a year away from OAPism, I realise that I’ll never be an expert in anything. Take jazz, for instance. My random ramblings here are about what I enjoy or perceive of the subject. Nothing I write should ever be taken as a pretension of expertise or even knowledge. I’m entitled to my opinion and the essence of blogs is that I can express that and the reader can take it or leave it. Perhaps that’s why I peruse numerous blogs but follow just two fairly regularly – one by a Lincolnshire photographer and the other by an American biographer writing a book about Roland Kirk. They both talk sense.


A couple of weeks ago I was in a shop leafing through a low pile of jazz LPs. It contained the usual selection of Magenta Haze and misplaced Klaus Wunderlich, but nothing I wanted. A man pushed an album across to me and said “That was in the wrong pile. It should be with jazz.” The record he referred to was “Dixieland Dance Party” by Eddie Condon, starring such luminescent names as Rex Stewart, Bud Freeman, Cutty Cuthsall and George Wetling (Quote: suggested personnel Unquote).

“I’ve never considered Eddie Condon as Dixieland, though,” the donor added. I leapt in with both feet splayed. “I don’t know. I always think of Condon and Dixieland together, although perhaps he rather leaned towards Chicago.”

What utter bosh I speak sometimes! Where did that comment come from? I’ve always been a Condon fan, ever since I read his book “We Called it Music” about five decades ago. I think I can say that Eddie played wonderful Dixieland jazz, but I’m not sure he was actually Dixieland. It’s a little like saying Jeremy Clarkson is an oaf because he behaves like one from time to time.

We chatted for a few minutes. The man obviously suffers from withdrawal symptoms caused by a dearth of people willing to talk about jazz. It turned out he was a member of Ken Colyer’s club in Great Newport Street, London, as was I in the middle 60s. Whenever I went there the club was virtually empty beyond 1am and yet almost everybody I know claims to have been a member. The place should have been heaving every night. Of course, those were in the days before jazz became an art form.

Those for whom that amorphous entity ‘the arts’ is a way of life forget one simple fact: the word ‘art’ is derived from the same root as artificial, artifice and artisan. When jazz became an art form, it began to leak the quiddity of the music. If you doubt the truth of this, review some of the old Steve Race presented BBC2 jazz nights and take a look at the implacable and statuesque bodies of the audience. And some of the musicians went so far up their own backsides I’m surprised they managed to walk off the stage.

What appealed to me about this album of Eddie Condon is that it contained the word ‘dance.’ It’s purely symbolic because I can’t dance; my four left feet keep colliding with my five right. But the inclusion of the word, especially linked to ‘party’, takes jazz back to where I’m convinced it started – out of a desire to make people dance.

Much of today’s jazz is sweet, melodic and anal. It seems to be only the old Dixielanders going out to enjoy themselves and being bothered to actually entertain the audience. Others seek deep meaning in their art and turn inwards, thus losing the precious link between instrumentalist and listener. Here’s a philosophical question: if a jazz musician plays an instrument but there is no audience to listen to it, does he still make a sound? Perhaps the question should add a corollary: if they hear sound, do they care?

My many records, CDs and downloads include cherished albums by Charles Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Wynton Marsalis, Joe Harriot, Don Rendell, Sonny Rollins, Gerry Mulligan, Art Pepper, Cannonball Adderley, Art Blakey and loads more proponents of jazz from a wide range of genres. So I’m not actually the mouldy fig I probably seem.

But I do wish there were less (should that be fewer?) bollocks talked and written about the subject. And on that note, I’ll heed my own wishes. After all, what do I know?

Kith & Kindle

The 21st Century has taken me by the scruff of the neck. Even as I search the charity shops and second-hand stores for a record player with a crank handle and a 78rpm setting, I’ve invested in an Amazon Kindle.

It’s lovely. It’s compact and as slender as Mr Creosote’s ‘wafer thin mint.’ The software is so easy to use even I can operate it without having to call for my wife’s help (she is, incidentally, the technical manager of our little partnership, as well as CEO, treasurer, social secretary, head chef etc etc – I have yet to find my true role but I’m tolerated on the board because I own 50% of the shares).

The Kindle came with a ‘leather’ cover (optional extra). I chose the red so it stands out in a crowd, but the limelight never suits my complexion so I swapped it for Mrs Dodman’s more modest tan version. Sitting in the palm of my hand, with the ‘leather’ cover open, the Kindle feels almost like a real book. It’s a virtual book, a sort of solid textual hologram. If I want, it will even read the story to me, albeit in a voice that comes across the way Prof. Hawkins would sound if he had no idea about English punctuation and word modulation.

My first Amazon download was “The Finkel Question” by Howard Jacobson. The initial chapter is so witty and clever that I shall probably never write again. Who needs mediocrity when excellence can be had for the same price? I’m enjoying the author’s writing immensely.

BUT – I’m not reading a book. I’m reading a lot of dots on what is in reality a computer screen. Although I can pretend it’s a real book, I can’t smell the paper; I can’t turn the cover back and forth to skim quickly to see when it was written. I can’t indulge in little fantasies about he or she whom last held the book, or imagine the true meaning behind the coded message hand-written in blue ink on the frontispiece (I love second-hand books with inscriptions). And it looks very lonely on the book shelf, although it purports to be capable of holding more volumes than Sleaford library.

Worst of all, I dare not fall into a doze lest the thing crashes to the floor. If that occurs (and it does frequently I’m afraid) to a book, I’ll have the inconvenience of finding my place again but at least the spine and cover will be intact. How many times can I drop a Kindle before it takes umbrage and shuts down for ever? Manufacturers should cover such inevitable events under modern-day guarantees, but I bet they don’t.

I searched Kindle Store for books on jazz. The selection is very disappointing and the one or two which could be of interest are priced far too high for my meagre pocket.

So, the upshot is that Kindle will form a vital (but secondary) tool in my literary armoury. That’s a terrible metaphor but read paragraph 4 again. However, it’s like a Citroen C8 compared with the Citroen Dolly 2CV. It has Teutonic-style efficiency, but warmth, charm and character have somehow fallen by the wayside. Kindle will be my new friend, but it will never subvert my 60 years’ or so love affair with printed paper, board and spinal glue.