Thursday, August 28, 2008
The backstreets of Manchester
Apologies to all, it's been a long while. My blogging instinct seems to have been dulled, perhaps by the depressing weather. Nevertheless, here's one I started a while back and recently got around to finish to get things back on track.
Since coming to Manchester I've had to look high and low for places to get my fix of live music and jamming, often taking me into the less-ventured parts of town. Often it is for good reason that they are less-ventured, but being the intrepid adventurer that I am with Danger as my third middle name I go forth where no Singaporean has been before, led by my partner in musical crime who goes by the alter ego Junkhousedog.
It all takes place in a seedy little pub at the corner of a road junction. The paint has peeled to reveal portions of brick wall and the carved wording in the outdated facade proclaims the sale of fine ales, wines and spirits. That's outdated as well. The whole building containing the pub is oddly shaped like a triangle, its sharp corner pointing out to the street where the entrance is located with a single streetlamp for illumination. Cigarette butts, cans and other concomitant litter lie amongst the puddles in the street, swirling with the myriad colours of leaked motor oil.
On one of the flanking streets is an open field dotted with abandoned furniture and car parts. Beside that, construction is under way for a spanking new condominium which would appear rather incongruous in the area. The opposite street going down the other side of the junction is lined with terraced housing which, while showing no signs of abandonment, is always strangely quiet and unlit, even at 2100hrs.
Stepping inside, one encounters the slightly more endearing interior. The usual wooden detailing on the walls and booth seats are de rigueur for an English pub as is the fireplace, which has been largely reduced to ceremonial duties. The carpeted floor is at present an indistinct amalgamation of purple, red and brown, attributable more to spillage than to intent of design. This is perhaps just as well, given the hints of garishness that remain in the corners.
The first thing one would arguably notice is that the clientele is markedly different from that of other pubs, with a greater representation of the minorities in the Manchester population. Still, as is usually the case I'm the odd one out, though in this particular establishment it warrants nothing more than the usual glance to see who's just stepped in.
At one side of the triangular interior a space has been cleared for the band, making the best of tight circumstances. This is where the usual jammers get up to do random songs ranging from Hendrix to CCR, as well as where my partner in crime and myself get up to make our little bit of noise. The area in front serves as a both a passageway connecting the entrance to the bar and a makeshift dancefloor for punters. More often than not they are in various states of modified consciousness brought about through the intake of liquid or gaseous substances. Enough said.
As is the nature of jams it is at times brilliant, though just as often it ends up a pedestrian, lacklustre affair. However, there is one character whom I find particularly intriguing whenever I'm there.
Meet Kenny, long-time regular and jammer.
His mess of white curly hair peeks out from underneath a faded fedora, below which a worn-out jacket hangs on his stooped shoulders, covering an indistinct T-shirt. Streaks of dust and little holes punctuate his pin-striped trousers and a pair of ratty trainers completes the ensemble. Sitting at his favourite spot in the corner of the booth chair just in front of the playing area and nursing a pint glass of what appears to be plain water, he's usually grooving along to whatever is being played, swaying in his seat, nodding his head or clapping his bony hands. Occasionally in between songs, he'll break out into one of his own or a conversation to no one in particular and every once in a while, he'll get up to go around collecting glasses and return them to the bar.
I reckon he must have taken a liking to my playing, having pulled me aside after the jam on one occasion for a chat. At least, that's what I gather from the 20% I understand of his Jamaican/African-accented English. As he speaks, a certain enthusiasm belies his aged face and when we attempt to discuss guitar playing, he'll demonstrate imaginary chords with his left hand on his right arm substituting a guitar neck. Of course, this is accompanied by him singing out whatever was meant to be demonstrated, interspersed with running commentary.
On the bandstand he's seated in front of the drum kit in regal fashion. He doesn't call out the songs, simply starting them and letting the band come in as and when. Having played them countless times, the backing band doesn't take much prompting to know what's being played, though one gets the feeling Kenny would still be playing on even if they didn't. Using only his right thumb to flail downwards at the strings, almost like a drunken Wes Montgomery and fretting simple chords with his left fingers, he manages to churn out surprisingly jazzy progressions. In his characteristic, raspy voice he belts out songs in that same accented English, slightly more in-tune than Mick Jagger is on a good day. The lyrics are indeterminate (to me at least) but the chord progressions are reminiscent of some jazz standards, of which I have precious little knowledge.
His solos are similarly primitive, being neat single note runs not more than 8 notes to a bar, played either slightly behind or ahead of the beat but always ending on the right spot. They're probably not going to impress any cork-sniffing jazz cats, but there is a certain melodic quality in its simplicity that is somehow captivating. In comparison, there are probably players out there who would play more notes in one solo than he would play in a month's worth of jamming. To put it simply, he comes across as something like the John Lee Hooker of jazz.
When he's played enough, he'll put the house guitar back on the stand and shuffle back to his seat, immediately settling into his routine as described earlier with a freshly poured pint of water. At evening's end someone will inevitably remind him of his taxi waiting outside, following which he'll make his way out into the night.
That is, until he next returns to hold court in his humble kingdom on the backstreets of Manchester.
Since coming to Manchester I've had to look high and low for places to get my fix of live music and jamming, often taking me into the less-ventured parts of town. Often it is for good reason that they are less-ventured, but being the intrepid adventurer that I am with Danger as my third middle name I go forth where no Singaporean has been before, led by my partner in musical crime who goes by the alter ego Junkhousedog.
It all takes place in a seedy little pub at the corner of a road junction. The paint has peeled to reveal portions of brick wall and the carved wording in the outdated facade proclaims the sale of fine ales, wines and spirits. That's outdated as well. The whole building containing the pub is oddly shaped like a triangle, its sharp corner pointing out to the street where the entrance is located with a single streetlamp for illumination. Cigarette butts, cans and other concomitant litter lie amongst the puddles in the street, swirling with the myriad colours of leaked motor oil.
On one of the flanking streets is an open field dotted with abandoned furniture and car parts. Beside that, construction is under way for a spanking new condominium which would appear rather incongruous in the area. The opposite street going down the other side of the junction is lined with terraced housing which, while showing no signs of abandonment, is always strangely quiet and unlit, even at 2100hrs.
Stepping inside, one encounters the slightly more endearing interior. The usual wooden detailing on the walls and booth seats are de rigueur for an English pub as is the fireplace, which has been largely reduced to ceremonial duties. The carpeted floor is at present an indistinct amalgamation of purple, red and brown, attributable more to spillage than to intent of design. This is perhaps just as well, given the hints of garishness that remain in the corners.
The first thing one would arguably notice is that the clientele is markedly different from that of other pubs, with a greater representation of the minorities in the Manchester population. Still, as is usually the case I'm the odd one out, though in this particular establishment it warrants nothing more than the usual glance to see who's just stepped in.
At one side of the triangular interior a space has been cleared for the band, making the best of tight circumstances. This is where the usual jammers get up to do random songs ranging from Hendrix to CCR, as well as where my partner in crime and myself get up to make our little bit of noise. The area in front serves as a both a passageway connecting the entrance to the bar and a makeshift dancefloor for punters. More often than not they are in various states of modified consciousness brought about through the intake of liquid or gaseous substances. Enough said.
As is the nature of jams it is at times brilliant, though just as often it ends up a pedestrian, lacklustre affair. However, there is one character whom I find particularly intriguing whenever I'm there.
Meet Kenny, long-time regular and jammer.
His mess of white curly hair peeks out from underneath a faded fedora, below which a worn-out jacket hangs on his stooped shoulders, covering an indistinct T-shirt. Streaks of dust and little holes punctuate his pin-striped trousers and a pair of ratty trainers completes the ensemble. Sitting at his favourite spot in the corner of the booth chair just in front of the playing area and nursing a pint glass of what appears to be plain water, he's usually grooving along to whatever is being played, swaying in his seat, nodding his head or clapping his bony hands. Occasionally in between songs, he'll break out into one of his own or a conversation to no one in particular and every once in a while, he'll get up to go around collecting glasses and return them to the bar.
I reckon he must have taken a liking to my playing, having pulled me aside after the jam on one occasion for a chat. At least, that's what I gather from the 20% I understand of his Jamaican/African-accented English. As he speaks, a certain enthusiasm belies his aged face and when we attempt to discuss guitar playing, he'll demonstrate imaginary chords with his left hand on his right arm substituting a guitar neck. Of course, this is accompanied by him singing out whatever was meant to be demonstrated, interspersed with running commentary.
On the bandstand he's seated in front of the drum kit in regal fashion. He doesn't call out the songs, simply starting them and letting the band come in as and when. Having played them countless times, the backing band doesn't take much prompting to know what's being played, though one gets the feeling Kenny would still be playing on even if they didn't. Using only his right thumb to flail downwards at the strings, almost like a drunken Wes Montgomery and fretting simple chords with his left fingers, he manages to churn out surprisingly jazzy progressions. In his characteristic, raspy voice he belts out songs in that same accented English, slightly more in-tune than Mick Jagger is on a good day. The lyrics are indeterminate (to me at least) but the chord progressions are reminiscent of some jazz standards, of which I have precious little knowledge.
His solos are similarly primitive, being neat single note runs not more than 8 notes to a bar, played either slightly behind or ahead of the beat but always ending on the right spot. They're probably not going to impress any cork-sniffing jazz cats, but there is a certain melodic quality in its simplicity that is somehow captivating. In comparison, there are probably players out there who would play more notes in one solo than he would play in a month's worth of jamming. To put it simply, he comes across as something like the John Lee Hooker of jazz.
When he's played enough, he'll put the house guitar back on the stand and shuffle back to his seat, immediately settling into his routine as described earlier with a freshly poured pint of water. At evening's end someone will inevitably remind him of his taxi waiting outside, following which he'll make his way out into the night.
That is, until he next returns to hold court in his humble kingdom on the backstreets of Manchester.
