i just can't get started

My blog posting rate is diminishing. It’s not that I have nothing to say. On the contrary, words and phrases tumble around inside me like lottery balls in a drum. My problem is getting the words to form sensible phrases and then converting them into something intelligible.

My typing skills are failing. A short paragraph now takes me three times longer than it used to because I’m committing so many errors needing to be corrected as I proceed. Too many times I find myself forced to retrace my metaphorical steps and retype a word, or check a spelling, or even amend grammar. I try to type slower but inexorably my speed increases and with it the incidence of error. Fingers will not hit the right key, or more likely I hit two keys at once and interpose an unwanted character into an otherwise perfect construction

The order of letters sometimes defeats me. I type the word “disestablishmentarianism” and it comes out “disestaboishmenttarianism.” Another problem is I forget what I’ve typed, so I’ll preview what I’ve written and see that I’ve used the word “nice” repeatedly in one paragraph. I could rewrite it all but finding synonyms is much quicker.

“We had a nice time the other evening. Dinner was nice and the company was nice. How nice to be among nice people enjoying nice conversation in nice surroundings with your nice dog nipping my ankles.” So I consult my copy of Bradford’s and effect changes as expeditiously as possible, resulting in: “We had an accurate time the other evening. Dinner was nine-pence and the company was precise. How fastidious to be among French city people enjoying pat conversation in dainty surroundings with your finical dog nipping at my ankles.”

My faculties are on the wane. The tides of my creative and functional abilities are ebbing. My literary last bus has left the stance. The stumps are being drawn and I never even got to bat.

Time is short so this jazz blog is brief: nobody plays the soprano saxophone like Sidney Bechet. Discuss.

one sweet letter from you

Christmas and New Year are immediately followed by my birthday. That’s good, because it means all pointless celebrations are out of the way in one single prolonged orgy (metaphorical – at my age how could it be otherwise?). But I have to admit this year the occasions were fruitful and warming.

For one thing, I discovered that at least three people read this blog (one of whom is the blogger of whom I am he). Very good friends stayed over New Year and they admitted to looking in from time-to-time. They even left a polite comment. That makes it all worthwhile. Thanks to J&A.

Birthdays have always been a bit of a mystery to me. I’ve never been able to decide whether each anniversary marks the placing of another domino in the timeline of experience or the removal of one from my allotted pool. I suppose it’s the same as pondering whether my glass is half empty or half full. All I know is that the scales of my life are definitely weighted in favour of what has been, rather than what will be. I’m 63 by the way and am due to die when I’m 80. That’s 63 down and 17 to go.

However, let me not be melancholy. Over Christmas I discovered a wonderful charity shop in Boston (Lincolnshire). The British Heart Foundation store has an upstairs devoted to books and music, all laid out in Dewey order and categorised according to genre. There, in a corner of the room, I found a magical heading: jazz LPs. Leafing through the albums, I was able to avoid the inevitable Klaus Wunderlich and Best of Motown offerings. My fingers touched solely jazz. True jazz, that is. The real stuff – no Kenny G.

Bob Crosby, for example (Bing’s brother for the unitiated). And Benny Goodman. Both were recordings of US radio broadcasts in 1939, when smoking was apparently good for us and famous people effectively endorsed Camel cigarettes. True, most of the tracks are mediocre, except for an exhilarating version of “Little Rock Getaway” with Joe Sullivan in front of Bing’s brother’s outfit and a driving rendition of “I’ve Found a New Baby” with one of Goodman’s small sets including Lionel Hampton and Teddy Wilson. And tucked in the middle of several Chris Barber albums, I found the real treasure.

“A Rare Batch of Benny Goodman & His Orchestra” was the title. In the mid 1940s, the USA produced a series of V-discs, recordings made by the stars of the day specifically for the armed forces. Performers gave their services free to support the war effort. This album is a putative collection of just such benefic recordings by Goodman and his sidemen. I’m a little dubious about it, because the sleeve claims all selections were recorded in 1943/1944, whereas I’d wager half my remaining dominoes that Charlie Christian is playing on at least three of the tracks. He died early 1942. Unfortunately, recording details are missing from the liner notes, so I’ll probably never know for certain.

But I just enjoy the music. Seven Come Eleven, AC-DC Current, Gone With What Wind – this is stomping good jazz that swings like a kitchen door in a gourmet restaurant. Production is not the best, but a war was on. And my old record player crackles and hops cheerfully. I’m convinced the gramophone was invented for jazz. Or maybe jazz was invented for the record player – now that’s a thought!

Anyway, I don’t know who manages the British Heart Foundation charity shop in Boston, but I hope they keep up the good work. Unlike many of its malodorous and scruffy competitors, the place is a pleasure to visit. Happy New Year. And by the way, I think I have a 4th reader, a fifth if I include Mrs Dodman. 2010 could be great year.

it don't mean a thing

University Challenge has stopped asking questions about jazz. I’m not suggesting that’s deliberate policy but I have a feeling that the maxim “out of sight, out of mind” applies. You don’t miss what you got until it’s gone.

A few weeks ago, though, Mr Paxman did mention an issue I’ve never been aware of. Apparently, in the world of classical music it’s a well known fact (albeit hearsay and anecdotal) that composers write 8 ½ symphonies and then die. This could be no more than an intellectual myth, but it could explain why the sonata, fugue, concerto and folk tune are so popular; the inference is that composers can write as many as they like of those without detriment to their health. Medical advice and common sense is, therefore, to stop at the eighth symphony otherwise the ninth could be unfinished.

Another well-known fact about death is that we all have about 3 billion heartbeats and then we die. I think I mentioned this in an earlier blog. By extrapolation (or some other statistical device) I calculate that one symphony is equivalent to 333,333,333.33 heart beats if the nine are finished, or 375,000,000 if the composer is wise enough to quit while he or she is ahead.

We all know the phrase “See Venice and die.” If the aphorism is true, then Venice must be the equivalent of 3 billion heartbeats or 8 finished symphonies. This means that 1 symphony is worth 1/8th of Venice, or more appositely, 20 square miles. By interpretation, 1 square mile is worth 18, 750,000 heartbeats, or 1/20th of a symphony.

Take it one step further. The City of London is one square mile, making it worth no more than 1/20th of a finished symphony. So we can state an equation: City of London = 1/20th of a symphony.

As a rough estimate, the City of London financial industry must employ some 30,000 bankers. This means that 1 banker is worth a single note of music (and that’s being generous by rounding up). Arithmetic has never been my strength, so I could have the odd decimal point in the wrong place but I think my theory is proven – it would take 600,000 bankers to be worth Eroica. As a final thought, one banker is, therefore, worth no more than a few flakes of skin excoriated from Napoleon’s backside.

Still feel good about your job, Mr King?

Jazz returns on my next posting. Happy New Year to all my readers (me).

darn that dream

After much deliberation, I have decided to accept the recently offered position of CEO of the newly formed Lincolnshire & Norfolk Recorded Jazz Appreciation Society. In the past I have sought to avoid such commitments, reasoning that time generally is too short, and my remaining time specifically is even shorter; I have had many other things to achieve before my allotted span reaches its natural conclusion.

Just lately I’ve had the inclination to reassess values and priorities. A review of my life so far revealed that my total of achievements stands at nil. Here is not the place to dilate on reasons why, or what, I have not achieved. Suffice to report that my sole achievement throughout my 60-odd years is to be the only likely candidate for the dubious accolade of “lifetime non-achievement award.”

When it was mooted that I should be the leader of LANRJAS, my first response was to refuse politely. However, I realised that the role would not be so much a burden to be endured during my declining years, but more an opportunity to redress the balance of failure and success. I looked deeply at the litany of unrealised ambitions, the metaphorical library of unwritten novels and orchestra of musical instruments unlearnt, and I experienced an epiphanical moment. I re-organised my list of things to achieve before I die. Right at the top, I wrote: become the CEO of a jazz appreciation society. Ergo! I have finally achieved.

Membership currently stands at one. I am that one. The decision to appoint me as CEO was unanimous. The work now ahead of me is alarming. First, the membership must meet to define objectives and codify a mission statement. Working as a team, I must formulate a modus operandi and produce some form of Memorandum of Agreement defining how the society is to be managed. The society’s newsletter needs a punchy banner heading and I’m not good at anything demanding pith and brevity. Then I should commence garnering articles and reviews to go into the newsletter, interesting snippets and comments from among the membership. Policy decisions must be made. Do we, for example, accept advertising in the newsletter? Will the newsletter benefit from having a crossword? If so, how often? And what about a Christmas competition? And these are just a few of the important decisions to be made. And I haven’t started the Christmas shopping yet.

For a while I was quite proud of myself because I’d actually succeeded in producing a membership list, but somehow I contrived to close the computer without saving it, so now I must start all over again. Organisation is not my forte – and yet suddenly I find myself catapulted into a key organisation role. I have obviously taken on more than my fragile constitution is able to stand. I see only one choice ahead of me – I must resign as CEO of LANRJAS.

I’ve written myself a letter and have accepted my resignation, with regret of course. The Lincolnshire and Norfolk Recorded Jazz Appreciation Society has reverted to being purely a figment of my imagination. As a child, my dreams were so vivid and consistent that I began to wonder which life was real. I worried: what if my dreams are the reality and the reality is actually a dream? Do I have my own Hornby 00 train set or is there merely space in the cupboard where one should be? LANRJAS was a dream and for a scintilla in time could have been a reality. Now there’s just another space in my toy cupboard.

too close for comfort

Back-to-Mono is an imprecisely named little shop in a tiny arcade off the High Street in Lincoln. It sells pre-owned 12” LPs, a few in stereo, hence my opening line. Here I fell upon a hoard of inexpensively priced jazz albums. I bought two, thereby trebling my collection.

One was a Gerry Mulligan compilation, a series of duets with what were at the time (1957 – 1960) more famous saxophonists, specifically Paul Desmond, Johnny Hodges, Stan Getz and Ben Webster. True, I already had most of the tracks on CDs, but one in particular caught my interest. Mulligan and Getz swapped instruments on a slightly muddy version of “Too Close for Comfort.” Both obviously took the title literally; they sounded uncomfortable in their new environment. Mulligan lost his immediately recognisable phraseology and Getz sounded as if he was being asked to play while climbing Steep Hill. Rather than delivering superb examples of the art, these doyens of their trade produced a curio. But I like the tune. I treasure the version by Art Pepper.

The second album was “T for Trombone” by the Jack Teagarden Band. The cover lauds the name of Ruby Braff (t), but I bought the album because it includes Lucky Thompson on tenor. To Associated Recordings’ eternal shame, no recording date is listed, and I can’t find the information on line. If you know, please leave a comment. Needless to say, the album includes “A Hundred Years from Today” and “St James Infirmary Blues.” These two are not listed in my top 100 jazz numbers, but they are entwined with Teagarden’s name – and the man does play wonderfully soulful trombone to match Thompson’s bluesy horn blowing.

Of essence is that I’ve discovered Back-to-Mono. The two albums cost me £8.50 and I could have bought lots more but the mobile rang to say our table was ready at Pizza Express, a few yards away. The proprietor told me he’d only just started trading but expected to be able to change his stock of jazz albums frequently. I shall visit whenever I’m in Lincoln. I recommend you to do the same.

And if you’re lucky, you’ll encounter the busker. Is he a Lincoln regular? He played the tenor sax in front of a recorded backing track. He’s no Lester Young, but he was well worth the couple of pounds I tossed into his pot. I like buskers. On Saturday we had the jazz man in black leather gloves, a bagpiper with frost-bitten knees, the Salvation Army brass band and a guitar man named Joshua Meek.

These buskers were vastly more entertaining than that execrable Christmas music now mandatory in every shop we entered. We need a campaign – abolish piped music in shops, especially at Christmas, ESPECIALLY Wizard and Cliff Richard.

Looking back on my blog postings, I can see how grumpy and intolerant I appear, but I’m consistent.

do you know what it means to miss new orleans?

Suppertime is never really good for philosophical debate. This could be because antacids and digestive juices react chemically with abstractions. Or maybe it’s the fact that our suppers tend to be excuses for quaffing copious volumes of red wine, port and single malt. Either way, as evenings process into late nights, supper conversation tends to become a little more intense, pensive and irrational in nature.

Here is the question from a recent bibulous encounter over plates of stilton, brie “Rustica” and Jacob’s cream crackers: if jazz were a language, which would it be?

One diner thought Spanish, reasoning that Spain’s fiery national traits were a strong parallel for the evolution of our favourite music. It’s a large country of diverse landscapes and enough land to allow very different forms of culture to co-exist happily, without unduly restricting parochial and regional aspirations. It can be at once introspective, romantic and exciting – this is all reflected in the language. My Spanish vocabulary is limited to calling “Hola!” across a road so I nodded sagely without attempting to contradict. Somebody did start to relate the Basque separatist cause to the history of Jazz, but by then the stopper was out of the whisky. “Mingus is to jazz what the Basques are to Spain,” explained my friend, as if I had a chance of understanding what he meant. Was Mingus a Basque separatist? “It’s an analogy,” he despaired as I poured myself a large tumbler of malt.

The Maestro thought that he could detect a clear Teutonic influence. “We like to pretend jazz is one original phrase after another, but in reality proponents tend to adhere to quite strictly established formats. Pass the whisky.” I obeyed. “The Germans are like that,” he continued. “Hitler tried to ban jazz, but that’s only because he didn’t understand the music.”

“It’s Italian,” proclaimed a visiting marine biologist. “Totally mad, chaotic and undisciplined,” he argued, but then the man is a self-confessed devotee of Ornette Coleman.

“Probably Latin,” I ventured.” Laughter rippled around the table. “A dead language,” said the cello player. But Latin is not a dead language; it’s an immutable language. That’s the great strength of Latin. No interfering scholar attempts to tinker with it and send it careering towards that oblivion where pedants while away idle hours writing letters to ‘The Times’ about the inexorable dilution of the English language, totally ignoring 2000 years of linguistic history. “You know where you stand with Latin,” I explained. “It’s cast iron.” The port came round again, closely followed by whisky “You see, there’s only one true jazz – New Orleans. All the others are scions, off-shoots, hybrids, but they are never true original jazz. New Orleans is THE jazz – it can’t move or change. Time and idioms marched on, leaving New Orleans unchanged. Like Latin.”

“It’s all double-Dutch to me,” chipped-in Mrs Pooter Dodman. “The X-Factor is just about to start. Shall we go through to the lounge?”

The Maestro and I stayed at the table, gently swirling whisky. “Bad year for mushrooms,” he slurred.
“Is that an analogy?” I asked.
He peered at me through the bottom of his glass.
“No. It’s a Bunnahabhain,” he said.

yesterdays

A couple of days ago I made a prize acquisition. A charity shop in Sleaford had for sale an old Panasonic record player. A label on the dusty black casing read simply “PATS tested. Pooter. £5.00.” The machine even had my name on it. How could I resist? I bought it and carried it home.

The record player dates from the days when the original Dansette and Bush portables were in decline and manufacture was switching to places like Japan to produce a new breed of sleek, smoky-dark, Perspex-rendered modernistic products. It predates Euronics (whatever they are) and I suspect the anatomy of my new acquisition has more mechanical parts than a 1950s Meccano kit. It was produced when the word “digital” meant you used fingers to press buttons.

Mrs Pooter was not too impressed. I’m from the era of 78rpm and she’s more of your 45rpm age. “What do you want with that old thing?” she queried. The answer was obvious to me. So I can play my old albums on it, of course. “You’ve only got one,” she grumbled and left the study to stir the contents of the Remoska. She’s right of course. I do have only one album – but what an album! It’s Charlie Christian live at Minton’s in May 1941. I bought it on E-bay some years ago and have been waiting for this opportunity to play it on a genuine old-style record player. I also have a single – Hard Work by John Handy, but I question whether this latter disc can be regarded as jazz. It’s more R&B-cum-funk.

Despite uxorial reservations, the search is on. I want to buy old jazz LPs and EPs. Modern CDs are too clinically pristine for me, even the re-mastered ones. Reproduction is perfect to the extent that even Kid Ory sounds as if he recorded the track yesterday. All those atmospheric clicks and crackles have been digitised out. My tasty pig’s ear has been turned into synthetic yet expensive silk

Those for whom youth is still an anchor to their perceptions will probably not understand what I mean. But I was brought up on the then radically different and glorious Radio Luxembourg (hissing and fading) and warped shellac 78rpm disks that wobbled on the turn table and scratched irremediably the first time they were played. My original Bud Freemans never sounded as if he was standing next me in a synthesised and antiseptic recording studio; they sounded as if the band had performed on toy instruments in a noisy tin-lined club on the floor below. I’m conditioned to expect jazz to be enjoyed with socks in the ears and rusty nails being used as a stylus. Wonderful stuff.

Now, my new-old Panasonic turntable allows me to relive my youth. Charlie crackles and clicks, and clatters and claws, as only true and genuine jazz can and should. This is jazz with a capital C. I’m in my element again. I have jazz with the C-Factor. And I love it.