Friday night I went to a jazz club with my trumpet playing friend Michael to a place on Swan Street in Richmond lovingly and generically named Dizzies. Prior to the show we and a South African mate of ours ate at a family Greek place across the street and had lamb, hummus, calamari, and some kind of salad I wouldn’t traditionally call Greek, but everything was good all the same. The owner would listen to our accents and guess were we were from. Australia, American (or Canadian), and South Africa. He then shook our hands and when our bill rolled around the other very heavy and sweaty Grecian man sat down at the table with us and talked to us about our meal. Although it was a dodgy neighborhood, it was a nice meal that was followed by a night of good music.
Jazz it seams is bigger in Australia than the tiresome scale fest of what I remember it in California. This night we enjoyed a 5 piece band made up of a Frenchman, Russian, Italian, Australian, and his younger brother on piano. Jazz to me has always been heavy metal music with different instruments. Its often all just scaling and ego. Some of it I do enjoy though. The Frenchmen sang Green Sleeves…in French and the Russian man sang a rendition of My Funny Valentine that was a good effort, but probably my least favorite I’ve heard.
Speaking of which, there is a very small place downstairs from the movie theatre on Fitzroy Street around the corner from me. One night I was walking by the theatre as I often do and for kicks I stopped in and watched a random movie. Turned out you get your movie tickets at the bar. I thought this was delightfully strange. “Would you like anything to drink with your movie?” Asked the lovely African American girl from Boston. “American?” I asked in shock. “Yes, I am a lovely African American student from Boston”, she asked in a lovely descendent of Africana sort of way. “Uhh, what do you mean a drink? You mean” I lean forward and whisper “Drinks with alcohol?” She laughed lightheartedly or slinked away in terror, I forget which, but she said yes. I ordered a black Russian, double, as I sometimes do hoping in this case she didn’t take any offense to it, and received a tall ice cold glass of vodka and Kailua clinking full of delightfully cold ice cubes. “I can go into the movies with this!?!” Asked the scared American boy. “Yes”. So I went and saw a movie, giddy, and sipping a glass, a glass, of tasty drink in a crowd of people watching and laughing at a movie.
Getting back to jazz, when I walked downstairs this night in question, there was a three piece jazz band playing. A male drummer and bass player, and what 20 minutes and another black Russian later turned out to be the most beautiful girl in the world to me playing some of the best jazz guitar I have ever heard. It was just the 5 of us counting the bartending. So I sat and listened, amazed. It was a very small place and I was feeling, well, for once in my life a little blue. So I asked the lovely siren of strings if she knew any Chet Baker. “Yup” she said in her little Jazzstralian way. “You don’t know what love is?” I asked. And she did. And she and her two music mates went into the best rendition of the song I have ever heard. I stuck around for another 20 minutes and then left, leaving my heart to her as a tip.
Michael and I went to another jazz club called Bennett’s Lane in Melbourne Central maybe two months back. This is apparently a big jazz place that most big American players come and play at. This particular night was “The International Woman’s Jazz Festival Night” so I had to go to this. It turns out it was a four piece and only two of the players had woman body parts. (The other two were male) There was a Chinese girl on bass that was amazing and a terrific guy playing drums. The theatrical fake modest woman singing however ruined the show and a $32 black Russian later (I was going through a phase okay) I was over the place. Bennett’s Lane is a famous jazz club in Australia, but unfortunately I didn’t see a band to match it.
Brisbane? Let us not forget about Brisbane. There is actually a really good jazz bar in Fortitude Valley on Bowery Street that has some great music. I went with some work mates for an annual meeting the managers have and some of us went there. It was a very cool and dark older setting, the band played right amongst the crowd and then one of us, not me, got us all kicked out because he was wearing shorts. I guess jazz people don’t like the site of legs. I think they were too classy for their own good in this case. So although this entry may or may not contain some mild sarcasm, I actually really like going to see these bands play even if at times they rip you off. She didn’t though. Oh mistress of the jazz guitar. Oh mistral of the woven melody. Thank you for playing the way you play.
Have you ever woken up at 4 in the AM and decide to completely rearrange your apartment or home? Well I did. My eyes opened a few minutes shy of my favourite 4 mark on my clock and BAM! it hit me. I want to be a black piano player! So I figured moving a few things around and listening to Jaco Pastorius just might get me there. (I know he’s not black or a piano player but I didn’t have any Thelonious Monk) I am getting older so I feel it is time to abandon my dream of becoming a Japanese business man and move on to some more achievable goals. I just don’t have the mind for business and have to face the cold reality of it. I guess I am just one of those people who always falls short of his goals. I don’t consider myself a failure, but sometimes I just don’t go that extra mile to get that desired result. I’m working on this and let me tell you here and now, you are going to see a completely new man this time next year. You won’t even recognize me. So everyone, if you are at a restaurant a year from now and all of a sudden an African American, or should I say African Australian (they just call us black here actually) walks in and starts tickling the ivories for you, it just might be me.
