at the forthcoming local elections

What baffles me about modern-day democratic politics is how anyone with lesser wealth than that possessed by a billionaire could possibly vote a billionaire into a position as premier of a nation, be it a president, prime minister or ‘statesperson.’

Have you ever heard of a rich politician becoming poorer as a result of serving the nation? In modern days, almost invariably anyone entering politics ends up much wealthier than when they started. With few exceptions, repeatedly our leaders have proven they are very proficient at one aspect of public life – making money for themselves, even when they already own obscene amounts.

Bear in mind that wealth cannot be created or destroyed – it can only be converted or transferred, so when one person makes a mint, another loses a mint. And guess who loses? Not the rich politician. So the richer our leaders become, the deeper into poverty the rest of us must sink. Yet we vote for them, time and time again! Isn’t that astounding?

On the other hand, look at the majority of jazz musicians. How many of them are able to boast of vast wealth? I bet lots of them are hardly making a living other than by taking a job during the day and playing during their ‘leisure’ time. Maybe a few can command hefty appearance fees, or plump royalties, but I reckon they’re few and far between. Unarguably, jazz musicians bring far more pleasure to our lives than any of our self-serving, self-aggrandizing politicians, many of whom I’m sad to say are liars, cheats and fakes.

So – in future elections, vote for the impecunious, and to make sure your interests are served, vote for a jazz musician. They are more creative, honest and civic minded than any of the corrupt and smug self-satisfied rich we have in charge at the moment.

radio three jazz podcasts

Lagging behind as usual, I’ve finally stumbled over ‘Jazz Library,” a luscious series of over 100 podcasts produced by BBC Radio 3, most episodes featuring the output of individual musicians or a specific genre or area of jazz.

Each episode runs for about 30 minutes and the format is a narrative by the modestly-spoken Alyn Shipton interspersed with representative extracts of relevant music usually augmented by recorded interviews with the featured musician or by the sometimes lively comments of well-known jazz commentators (my favourite of whom is a sporadic contributor, Brian Priestly).

Apparently as these are podcasts they’re unable to play full tracks, although I’m not sure whether that’s because of intellectual rights or time restrictions, but that doesn’t matter because bear in mind the object (achieved brilliantly) is to whet the appetite with delicacies – and all vital recording details, including album titles, line-ups and dates, are cited during the podcast, and can also be found on the BBC Jazz’s website, so nobody need complain about not being able to track- down treasured pieces if wanting to hear more.

No infuriating adverts, pop-up or otherwise; no lengthy messages from sponsors – and it’s all free. Just download the BBC Radio iPlayer onto your computer or tablet, search for jazz, scroll down to ‘Jazz Library’ and browse through the listings to select your morsel of choice. Oysters and pearls, spring to mind.

epiphany on the road to oblivion

Since my last post, I've had a revelation. It came to me in the middle of the night probably because I'm currently reading a semi-biographical novel titled "Austerlitz" written by W.G. Sebald. It perhaps kindled a dream, although I can't remember what about, yet I know I read a phrase which must have triggered something in me.

Background to this post: I once tried to learn to play the alto saxophone. After two years I still produced what sounded like distant mournful echoes of how Charlie Parker might have sounded on the very day he first put the reed to his lips as a child. That discouraged me because I twigged that after over 104 weeks of learning I'd never play like Shafi Hadi or Art Pepper, so I abandoned my dream of becoming a jazz musician and sold the saxophone.

The same with writing. All my life I've written. No day goes by without me putting pen to paper, or latterly tapping on a key-board. I've had a dozen or so articles published in magazines and a few short stories printed as a result of competitions going back to 1990 and much later, but I've never felt myself to be a writer. I was no more than a publican who writes, primarily because what I write is crap, or at best is mediocrity personified. My reasoning has always been that whereas I enjoy writing (just as I enjoyed playing the saxophone) the world is too crowded with sunlight to permit the shade of mediocrity. We desire genius; we need brilliance and if I was unable to achieve it, my writings should not see daylight except perhaps in ramblings under a pseudonym. So in comparing my stuff with the likes of Sebald, Woolf, Morton and other luminaries, I found it painfully wanting and tucked it away in disbelief that I could ever have considered myself capable of good, never mind genius. What use does this world have for more of the mediocre?

Now for the epiphany sparked (I think) by Austerlitz. We can view all the art we can reach, we can read edifying and inspirational writing, we can listen to the best of music be it Dexter Gordon or Mozart - but when we dare to balance our own personal aspirations and needs against pleasures of the external, nothing is quite like producing our own. Even though I can't match the dazzling beauty of maestros of the craft, or the thought-provoking elite at their art, what I have created is mine, my original work, and nobody else can claim it. Anyone can take their art vicariously, in galleries, libraries and concert halls, and rightly be awed by the senses evoked, but what beats that thrill of finishing your own painting, writing your own story or blowing sounds which link together to make music? Nothing! Slap your hand on your thigh and repeat aloud - NOTHING.

Maybe what I do is not very good. But I do it, all on my own, and it's mine, including intellectual rights, copyright, ownership and pride. That's a cause for celebration and for making renewed efforts to improve. Because once I've learned that my writing and craft has incontrovertible value if only for me then I can start to accept that I can effect improvements, even at my late stage in life, and that I'm able to match and surpass what I've done in the past and can better it, thereby hiking me up a rung or two on the ladder of personal satisfaction and pride in achievement.

I suppose the coda is this: I take immense pleasure from what I do, and if it's not good enough for the proverbial you, I don't give a fuck. I've done something; I've produced. And that's an achievement. Slap hand on thigh and repeat aloud: ACHIEVEMENT!

Of course, nobody writes like Sebald.

fad of the day

The English language is a flux. It flows from one place to another and back again, according to the fad of the day. This phenomenon is especially noticeable with those irritating linguistic devices which allow conversationalists to avoid the need for an extensive vocabulary.

For example, a popular phrase was until fairly recently: "you know." In fact, many people still use the term frequently because it's so useful for avoiding the bother of expressing themselves properly. Instead of reaching for the right word, they'll simply break off mid-sentence and say "you know" heedless of whether or not the listener does actually know.

Another example is current and ubiquitous - a pet hate of mine: "like." All manner of people use it and it's so popular the young seem to employ it several times in  one short sentence, such as "Like, I went to the pictures, like, and it was, like, awesome, like funny, like."

"Basically" was used for a long time (perhaps still is) by those called upon to explain the working of something. They can't get their brain in gear without first prefixing every sentence with the word "basically" as in the phrase "basically what we're doing is..."

The latest I've noticed is even more annoying - beginning every explanation with the word "so."
"How many cows do you graze on this farm?" asks the presenter on TV and almost invariably the farmer stops, thinks for a fraction of a second and then launches into the answer. "So - we keep 200 head of Holsteins..." What does "so" mean in this context? How has it become so endemic?

Finally, one of the most infuriating devices is perhaps the cliche of our time: "It's not rocket science." It applies to anything from writing blogs through resolving political issues to sending satellites into space, except the last one could be deemed rocket science.

Let's have a little more imagination please.

shafi hadi - update

Regretfully I have no more news on the fate of Shafi Hadi.
This post is purely to bounce him to the top of the metaphorical page so my quiet quest is not overlooked by jazz fans across the world.
While writing though, I'd mention that I've started to write poetry. Actually, I've been writing poetry since I was 15 (with an intermission of nearly 60 years) but I've never considered myself any good at it so it's never seen the light of day. My aim with this renaissance was to see whether this semi-century or so of additional experience and acquired learning has improved my lyrical ability.
It hasn't. I'm still crap. Scansion is erratic; rhyme slack; meter fractured; and I can never find the right word or the right language or the right "voice" - not that I even know what "voice" means. And what the heck is an iambic foot?
Thus my poetry will remain unsung, unspoken and will accompany me to my eventual funeral pyre.

a jazz centenary

100 years ago today (today being 12 February 2018) what is believed to be the first ever jazz concert in Europe was staged by a US military orchestra in Nantes, France, the country taking the music to the nation's heart and never looking back.

For details read:  https://www.ndtv.com/world-news/100-years-ago-today-jazz-broke-loose-in-europe-1811763

nunc est bibendum

I’ve discovered a new house-of-welcome-refreshment to add to my list of places to visit when in town – Nip & Growler in the High Street, King’s Lynn, Norfolk. It’s probably a micro-pub (micro-pubs being the latest craze to sweep dust away from the nation’s traditional image of what a tavern should be). I can’t be sure, though, because nobody seems to be able to tell me what makes a pub ‘micro.’ Perhaps it’s like love – impossible to define but you know when you’re in it.

It’s small, being about the size of a Jessop’s shop (which is exactly what it was before the camera retailer went out of business), yet it sells a frequently changing minimum of 12 real ales and cider brands on tap, a fair percentage of which describe themselves as ‘vegan” which presumably means they’re not clarified using fish bladders. Four glass sizes are on offer: the usual pint and half pint, and 1/3^rd pint and 2/3rds pint. Most of the brewers are either local or localish. Beers are dispensed using the key-keg system, a sort of bag-in-flagon system which pumps compressed air between the flagon and the inner bag to deflate the bag and thereby send the beer through to a waiting glass.

I like the place. It’s quirky and shabby and unpretentious. The proprietor was friendly and only too pleased to explain the way it all works. Background music was as it says in the title – in the background. King’s Lynn pubs are a bit grim generally – this is a pleasing addition to the available options for those wanting to drink decent beers in the town centre. Lots more information is on their website: http://www.nipandgrowler.uk/ including translation of the Latin epigram and what I’ve forgotten to mention.

While on the subject, another of my favourite pubs has had a makeover, The Bull at Market Deeping. It feels cleaner than it used to be now it’s decorated in chic-trendy shades. Before the work was carried out it felt like a pub; now it feels like a pub pretending to be able to combine pub and restaurant. I know which pub I’d rather be in – live long and prosper, Nip & Growler.