Thursday, November 29, 2007
All that jazz
Having just completed a mind-numbing round of assignments, I decided to head out to town and recharge my musical soul at a jazz club called Matt and Phred's near the city centre that everyone told me about.
There was a jam going on tonight and I was seriously contemplating whether I should bring my guitar to get up and play. The jam was touted on their snazzy website as having some of the best talent in the city and they spared no effort in listing the big names who had come to jam after prior engagements. My prudent sense of self-preservation told me that jazz was way out of my league and that I should really just sit there and have a few pints. Even though I have a significant appreciation for several jazz players, I never really got into playing it as I've always found it much too technical and cerebral for my primordial musical sensibilities. The most I've ever done was just a couple of fancy chords and cliched lines, and those were learnt by proxy from blues players with a slight tinge of jazz influence. As a blues-wannabe who's as comfortable in a 12-bar progression as a hog in mud, going up on stage with a bunch of jazz musicians was like racing on said hog at the Royal Ascot.
My reckless sense of self-abandon decided to nudge into the monologue in my head to get a word in sideways and irreverently declared, “What's the worst that could happen?”
I slung my guitar over my shoulder and headed out into the freezing cold.
Even though it was in the city centre, it was located along a forgotten street away from the noisy traffic, tram lines, Christmas festivities and all. A persistent drizzle speckled on my face like minute ice particles as I walked on the uneven pavement past a few garbage dumpsters and wall after wall of graffiti. Strangely bright flourescent lights punctuated the darkness but still left some little nooks and crannies to the imagination. This would have made a classic fedora-trenchcoat-cigarette moment, right before a Morris Minor screeches round the corner and a Tommy gun sprays the street with lead.
A red neon sign that spelt out the barely legible words JAZZ CLUB hung above the door. I stood outside to pause for a while as my breath turned into mist in the cold evening air. After a moment's hesitation and the briefest of contemplations, I went up the steps and through the door.
As was fitting of a jazz club, the lights were dim and even though the no-smoking rule had been in force for several months already, there still seemed to be a certain cloudiness in the air but without the characteristic lingering stench. Quite possibly it was an extrapolation on the part of my mind. The obligatory framed black and white pictures of various jazz people hung on the walls in what was otherwise a minimalist look. Bright lights were reserved for the stage, which was deservedly the focal point of the room and certainly a good sign of a music-focused venue. A neon sign brightly proclaimed the name of the club through a window into the street outside, a fitting backdrop for the stage, half of which was occupied by a shiny black grand piano.
After introducing myself to the person in the charge of the jam, I took up a spot at the bar (as is usually the case), got myself a pint and got down to observing the crowd. A good number of them were sharply dressed though not overly so, and the atmosphere remained relatively casual for a venue of this nature. In the dark I managed to pick out some eye candy for discrete observation in between quaffs, though maintaining this discretion was slightly more difficult when they came up to the bar to get drinks.
Nature called and as I headed down the stairs to the gents, the timbre of a saxaphone rang out in the narrow stairway, much louder than the average hotel toilet piped-in music. When I entered the toilet, I saw a tall guy facing the mirror with a soprano saxaphone and he looked at me rather sheepishly.
I asked rhetorically, “Getting all ready for the jam?”
After realising the redundancy of that question, I braced myself for a wise crack I would have given like “No, they hired me to provide music while people take a dump. You know, to hide the splash and all.”
“Yes, I am doing some warm up before playing” came the reply in an accent that betrayed European origin.
As I went back up I thought to myself; man, these jazz guys really take their jams seriously.
The set started soon enough, and to put it briefly I was mightily impressed as well as mightily intimidated. Self-doubt started to creep in...no, actually it was banging away at the door and telling me to wake up get the hell out of there as if there were a raging fire. I started to question my judgement in throwing myself into a genre that I was rather unprepared for and I had a distinct feeling of inadequacy that wasn't measurable in units of length.
The last time I actually felt this way was a long time back, when I first took the stage at Roomful of Blues and made the transition from bedroom jammer to playing in public. Since then I've taken to several stages and played for crowds of various sizes in all sorts of circumstances, but I never had a rush of nerves of that magnitude. Not till now.
Before I knew it, the bright lights glared at me and obscured my view of anything beyond my immediate vicinity on stage, though on the bright side (haha) it was perhaps the warmest I've ever felt since arriving in Manchester. The band kindly obliged me with a straight blues, and I played along as best as I could without being able to hear myself, being right next to the grand piano with the lid open and the soundboard in full swing of infinite vibrational modes (There you go, I've actually learnt something while I was here).
They dropped to a deathly silence as my turn came for a solo, and so did the crowd. I took a deep breath and plunged in, playing what came to mind as I always did. In retrospect, I played it rather safe instead of going at it full force, much rather like how a tentative and nervous first date would go. Trust me, I know all about those.
As I built up the intensity and volume towards the end of my solo, the rest of the band and jammers followed along until it all culminated in a sharp hit of the snare. The silence continued for what seemed an awfully long time save for the bass plodding along unobtrusively and the high hat fizzing quietly in the background. There was enough time for a few thoughts to run through my head, that I'd done what I could and the next thing was to hope for the best from a jazz crowd. At least no projectiles....please.
To my immense relief there was a good show of appreciation that was markedly more than polite, a sign that I had hit the (mostly) right notes. I somehow felt a few pounds lighter and went back to comping the rhythm, content in the fact that I didn't embarrass myself. The next two songs were a blur; I sort of cobbled together a face-saving solo over one of the standards that I really should have known while for the song after, I was thankfully spared from playing one. After that was done, I excused myself from the stage before the jazz fur started flying but not before expressing my gratitude to the guy in charge of the jam for having them do a blues number for me.
I went back to my pint and resumed my earlier course of action of being amazed by the music that was going on. By the time the night was through, I felt a sense of satisfaction at being able to keep up, while feeling humbled as well and resolving to at least work through some standards. Once again I had thrown myself into the deep end, something that I am wont to do, and come out none the worse. Thank goodness.
The last swallow of my pint went down quickly and I headed out into the now even more freezing cold, with my guitar slung over my shoulder. Back to the woodshed.
There was a jam going on tonight and I was seriously contemplating whether I should bring my guitar to get up and play. The jam was touted on their snazzy website as having some of the best talent in the city and they spared no effort in listing the big names who had come to jam after prior engagements. My prudent sense of self-preservation told me that jazz was way out of my league and that I should really just sit there and have a few pints. Even though I have a significant appreciation for several jazz players, I never really got into playing it as I've always found it much too technical and cerebral for my primordial musical sensibilities. The most I've ever done was just a couple of fancy chords and cliched lines, and those were learnt by proxy from blues players with a slight tinge of jazz influence. As a blues-wannabe who's as comfortable in a 12-bar progression as a hog in mud, going up on stage with a bunch of jazz musicians was like racing on said hog at the Royal Ascot.
My reckless sense of self-abandon decided to nudge into the monologue in my head to get a word in sideways and irreverently declared, “What's the worst that could happen?”
I slung my guitar over my shoulder and headed out into the freezing cold.
Even though it was in the city centre, it was located along a forgotten street away from the noisy traffic, tram lines, Christmas festivities and all. A persistent drizzle speckled on my face like minute ice particles as I walked on the uneven pavement past a few garbage dumpsters and wall after wall of graffiti. Strangely bright flourescent lights punctuated the darkness but still left some little nooks and crannies to the imagination. This would have made a classic fedora-trenchcoat-cigarette moment, right before a Morris Minor screeches round the corner and a Tommy gun sprays the street with lead.
A red neon sign that spelt out the barely legible words JAZZ CLUB hung above the door. I stood outside to pause for a while as my breath turned into mist in the cold evening air. After a moment's hesitation and the briefest of contemplations, I went up the steps and through the door.
As was fitting of a jazz club, the lights were dim and even though the no-smoking rule had been in force for several months already, there still seemed to be a certain cloudiness in the air but without the characteristic lingering stench. Quite possibly it was an extrapolation on the part of my mind. The obligatory framed black and white pictures of various jazz people hung on the walls in what was otherwise a minimalist look. Bright lights were reserved for the stage, which was deservedly the focal point of the room and certainly a good sign of a music-focused venue. A neon sign brightly proclaimed the name of the club through a window into the street outside, a fitting backdrop for the stage, half of which was occupied by a shiny black grand piano.
After introducing myself to the person in the charge of the jam, I took up a spot at the bar (as is usually the case), got myself a pint and got down to observing the crowd. A good number of them were sharply dressed though not overly so, and the atmosphere remained relatively casual for a venue of this nature. In the dark I managed to pick out some eye candy for discrete observation in between quaffs, though maintaining this discretion was slightly more difficult when they came up to the bar to get drinks.
Nature called and as I headed down the stairs to the gents, the timbre of a saxaphone rang out in the narrow stairway, much louder than the average hotel toilet piped-in music. When I entered the toilet, I saw a tall guy facing the mirror with a soprano saxaphone and he looked at me rather sheepishly.
I asked rhetorically, “Getting all ready for the jam?”
After realising the redundancy of that question, I braced myself for a wise crack I would have given like “No, they hired me to provide music while people take a dump. You know, to hide the splash and all.”
“Yes, I am doing some warm up before playing” came the reply in an accent that betrayed European origin.
As I went back up I thought to myself; man, these jazz guys really take their jams seriously.
The set started soon enough, and to put it briefly I was mightily impressed as well as mightily intimidated. Self-doubt started to creep in...no, actually it was banging away at the door and telling me to wake up get the hell out of there as if there were a raging fire. I started to question my judgement in throwing myself into a genre that I was rather unprepared for and I had a distinct feeling of inadequacy that wasn't measurable in units of length.
The last time I actually felt this way was a long time back, when I first took the stage at Roomful of Blues and made the transition from bedroom jammer to playing in public. Since then I've taken to several stages and played for crowds of various sizes in all sorts of circumstances, but I never had a rush of nerves of that magnitude. Not till now.
Before I knew it, the bright lights glared at me and obscured my view of anything beyond my immediate vicinity on stage, though on the bright side (haha) it was perhaps the warmest I've ever felt since arriving in Manchester. The band kindly obliged me with a straight blues, and I played along as best as I could without being able to hear myself, being right next to the grand piano with the lid open and the soundboard in full swing of infinite vibrational modes (There you go, I've actually learnt something while I was here).
They dropped to a deathly silence as my turn came for a solo, and so did the crowd. I took a deep breath and plunged in, playing what came to mind as I always did. In retrospect, I played it rather safe instead of going at it full force, much rather like how a tentative and nervous first date would go. Trust me, I know all about those.
As I built up the intensity and volume towards the end of my solo, the rest of the band and jammers followed along until it all culminated in a sharp hit of the snare. The silence continued for what seemed an awfully long time save for the bass plodding along unobtrusively and the high hat fizzing quietly in the background. There was enough time for a few thoughts to run through my head, that I'd done what I could and the next thing was to hope for the best from a jazz crowd. At least no projectiles....please.
To my immense relief there was a good show of appreciation that was markedly more than polite, a sign that I had hit the (mostly) right notes. I somehow felt a few pounds lighter and went back to comping the rhythm, content in the fact that I didn't embarrass myself. The next two songs were a blur; I sort of cobbled together a face-saving solo over one of the standards that I really should have known while for the song after, I was thankfully spared from playing one. After that was done, I excused myself from the stage before the jazz fur started flying but not before expressing my gratitude to the guy in charge of the jam for having them do a blues number for me.
I went back to my pint and resumed my earlier course of action of being amazed by the music that was going on. By the time the night was through, I felt a sense of satisfaction at being able to keep up, while feeling humbled as well and resolving to at least work through some standards. Once again I had thrown myself into the deep end, something that I am wont to do, and come out none the worse. Thank goodness.
The last swallow of my pint went down quickly and I headed out into the now even more freezing cold, with my guitar slung over my shoulder. Back to the woodshed.
