Definitely a Cat

It is raining. It often is in Melbourne these days. As I look out the window, I can see a cat on the roof: it isn't hot, it isn't tin but it is definitely a cat. There were jazz cats at the Leinster Arms this week: they probably weren't hot, it may not have been jazz, but it was definitely the Leinster.... and all for a Sunday arvo jazz jam session...

 

I got there late, after a gig in sunny salubrious Warrandyte, to hear young Emily singing up a storm as well as up an octave on Summertime, Bob at the piano, Frankplaysbass, is -Don -is -good on guitar, Peter on sax and Captain Col stressin' at the helm - in other words the usual state of mellow chaos, in a variety of keys and tempos (tempi?).

 

Debbie sang, Lailah sang (but not whilst I was there), Sandro sang, Malcolm played the sax (but not whilst I was there) and then got on the drums, in the absence of Al (I want to be Bluddy Rich) who wasn't there, possibly one of the greatest drummers in the Western world, possibly not. Get better soon. But I digress.

 

The afternoon then took on a slightly surreal flavour with the arrival of a combination Hen's Bucks party, staggering in to the key of inebriate. Some fine singing ensued, almost  in the right key, and occasionally with the lyrics and melody of the same song, at the same time.

It doesn't get any better than that, does it? We all wish it did, but you can't have everything.

 

Why do we do it?

 It has been a funny old week in Godzone (1): St Kilda Festival to the South, Halls Gap Festival to the West, bugger all to the North unless you count Bendigo (2), and why would you want to do that? So no-one is going to turn up for a little ole Sunday session de jam at the Leinster Arms in the Melbourne salubrious suburb of  Collingwobble (3), innit? 

Wrong, as it turns out - Keef, Frank the Indefatigable and meself had a fine time amusing ourselves, and, peripatetically, a slightly confused lone drinker at the Leinster for quite-a-while, until singers Maria, Lisbeth, Malcolm the saxophonost, Alan the nearlytheworlds greatest drummer (4) and a whole bunch of listeners fronted for an afternoon of casual ballad mangling interspersed with white wine and malicious gossip. Pleasant - it really , really was.

Where did they go?

Over the four and a half centuries, or whatever, since the Melbourne Jam sessions started back at the original Dizzy's Jazz Club, there have been a considerable number of jammers (well over 500),  some of whom have gone on to bigger and hopefully better things. Where did they go? A quick survey this week came up with the following names

Whilst Captain Col probably sat in with every band in Halls Gap (I wouldn't know, I wasn't there), one time jammer Kate Vigo graced the stage at the St Kilda Fest, jam session maestro  Adam Rudegair launched his CD (catch Black Wax on PBS FM if you can - he presents an increasingly eclectic mix of jazz: http://www.pbsfm.org.au/blackwax ). One time jammer Amanda has stopped  sulking because her band got balloted out of Halls Gap, and is going to play Inverloch Jazz Festival with Rory Clarke (reputedly a close relative of the nefarious Sir Roger de Coverley whose mediaeval exploits and bebop proclivities are legendary)  Occasional singer Cathoel is reading this in New York, one time jammer Sam Izzo is too busy, also in New York, to read this, (but is dropping some mighty fine names of acts he has got to see there) and the rest of us are too busy either gardening or just feeling envious of all of the above...

Normal service will be resumed shortly, once the medication kicks in. In the mean time, stick to the black notes, they're cheaper.

Lost in translation: 

(1) Godzone: as in godzonecountry: Australia

(2) You may not have heard of Bendigo. Lucky you

(3) Collingwobble: aka Collingwood. The suburb was named after Samuel Pepys, who was named quite some time before

((4) Alan could definitely be the world's greatest drummer - its only the lack of ability as a drummer that is holding him back.

The Jam Sessions: Rotten Ronny and his part in Hortense's story

It is a little known fact, quite probably untrue, that all saxaphone players have the same level of appeal for the ladies. Not much. Rotten Ronny the Gippsland cad was one such, before his unfortunate demise. He was descended from a semi famous father, Ronnie senior, who made his name playing the Invisible Man in a silent movie, having passed the audition with flying colours by not turning up and saying nothing. Sent his agent to collect the dough whilst sunning himself on the Costa Del Backbeach at Portseadarling for most of the 1920's. Poor Rotten Ronny was left to languish as third sax in the house band of Mme Trixie La Belle's Academie de Danse back in Altona West. He played a mournful saxaphone, to little effect. But I digress.

 

Sometime ago, Ronny caught the eye of the notoriously  promiscuous Hortense one night, whilst she was dancing wildly to a reggae version of Darktown Strutters Ball, or something. And promptly returned it, so he wasn't entirely a cad after all. One thing led to another, and soon he was saxaphonically serenading her from the street below her bedroom window, a musical enterprise which eventually earned him a ticking off at the local Magistrates, three demerit points for failing to stop after fourteen choruses of Footprints, and the partial admiration of the aforementioned Hortense, who was trying to sleep it off. I am not sure which it was being slept off.

 

If you have read this far, you will realise I didn't attend a jam session this week. I am sure it was fabulous. Might be a coincidence.