The Juke Joint

It has been slightly less than a year since I returned to Singapore and as the requirements of urbanisation and capitalism dictate, the city-scape of buildings continues to evolve and mutate. However, as was the case in the X-men saga, it appears that a quantum leap has occurred.

The flash point seems to have been the staging of the Formula One night race in Singapore, starting off an obsession with bright lights. The advent of LED technology has brought on a massive onslaught of candela, much like how an 8 year-old learns a new profanity and peppers every other sentence with it in a craving for accelerated acceptance into adulthood.

I watched this event unfold on my laptop during an uncharacteristically warm afternoon in Manchester. I had hoped to find some bottles of Tiger in the local supermarket to make me feel closer to home while watching, but that was not to be and I had to settle for an indulgently-sized packet of Indian Delights aka muruku, in eager anticipation of seeing the sights of home.

In-between ogling at grid girls (let's face it, that's what they're there for) and a palm-to-forehead moment involving our Prime Minister and an esoteric weather prediction, my first observation was that nearly everything in sight was bathed in coloured light of some sort. Apart from the usual urban illumination from familiar skyscrapers, everything from historical colonial buildings and bridges to the pirated version of the London Eye glowed an odd spectrum of colours like how I'd imagine a chemically-enhanced Alice in Wonderland screenplay to be. Perhaps that was the intention.

Fast-forward to the present time. A much-vaunted overhaul of the shopping district we know as Orchard Road seems to have centered on the elaborately-designed facade of Ion Orchard, yet another shopping mall with the lofty, if unoriginal claim of revolutionising the shopping experience. A large metal framework forms a contoured surface that serves as a ceiling for the area immediately outside the entrance, towering about 4-5 floors above ground level. At first sight, it looks like a crude wireframe rendering of a 3-D surface in CAD software but its futuristic aesthetic quality comes from the glowing LEDs at the nodes of the wireframe. These extend across the sides of the building to complete what looks like a very organised battalion of fireflies marching across undulating terrain and changing colour on cue.

Another example is Wilkie Edge, along Selegie Road. It sticks out as a curious oddity at the corner of the cross junction, a shiny glass exterior and an obscenely bright LED screen incongruously juxtaposed (I've always wanted to use those two words together!) against the adjacent old-school gaudiness of neon-lights proclaiming the dominance of dodgy KTV lounges and the Chivas and Hennessey they serve in the dated Peace Centre. On the opposite side of Selegie Rd, a row of grotty shophouses goes about their usual business of serving soyabean curd and chicken rice, oblivious to the glare and din of advertisements screaming for attention like a spoilt pre-pubescent heiress. A short distance down Selegie, this show of modernity comes to an abrupt stop as the sights and sounds of Little India beckon.

Up at Bugis Street, the facade of Iluma reminds me of Space Invaders, but this time with aliens intent on forming up to spell words like a National Day Parade rather than destroying the Earth. Situated beside what used to be a hotbed of activity for women and food of dubious origin and hygiene, this mall is an attempt to bring back the tourism heydays of those licentious times with more socially acceptable forms of commerce and night life. At times, I wonder if the facade lights are a nod with a sly wink to the sequinned outfits of the early-day proprietors of that street. In terms of sheer luminosity though, they certainly represent a step forward.

Seeing these examples come into being, as well as similar efforts at Clarke Quay and along the Singapore River started me wondering about what drives the design of our urban landscape. It might be that in order to plug into the increasingly globalised world economy, our city has to give the impression of vibrancy 24-7 and piles on the light show in typically Singaporean kiasu fashion, the long-standing traditions of Geylang notwithstanding.

On the other hand, perhaps it reaches into our deep-seated primitive instincts. Like magpies to twinkling trinkets, we humans have not evolved beyond being fascinated by bright and shiny objects.

My academic jaunt lasting slightly more than a year ended a few afternoons ago with the unspectacular act of mailing in my dissertation. The lapse in blogging activity is directly correlated to the intensification of the dissertation work, which lasted up to several months after my return to Singapore.

On top of that, being on Facebook seems to have siphoned off some creative juice and reduced the impetus for writing beyond a single sentence. A somewhat addictive yet hollow form of self-expression, perhaps the fast-food equivalent of maintaining an online presence. It is definitely useful for pictures and its' real-time nature helped enhance online interaction to make up for the shortfall in physical interaction with folks back home, but now that most of the people on my friend list are a phone call away on the same tiny little island, I'm once again yearning for that little spot of cyberspace where I present myself as a distinct entity rather than in relation to a whole slew of comments, friend networks, groups and whatnot. Where people actually click on it to see what I have to say, implying intent and free-will rather than to have it shoved into their feed (chances are one can probably edit some settings to sort it out, but I'm one of those that find life more exciting in analog). It might be slightly narcissistic or I could be doing everyone else a favour, depending on how you look at it.

Anyway, here's one from memory:


My first adventure to The Jolly Angler was distinctly off the beaten track for any foreign student. A dimly-lit, maze-like grid of small back roads behind Manchester Piccadilly station had me wondering who on earth would open a pub in such an obscure location, flanked by warehouses and workshops on one side and relatively upmarket residences on the other, both of which were eerily quiet at 2100hrs. The fact that this was smack in the middle of town where everywhere else was bustling with people being or getting drunk was even more baffling.

It all started from a chance encounter with a brochure detailing the activities for St Paddy's Day, which included a list of pubs with traditional Irish music. Being a sucker for new musical quests and never one to pass up on a good pint of Guinness, I duly embarked on an expedition to seek out these venues, starting with this one near a central train station.

In the darkness of the street there stood a solitary lamp post, illuminating the perpendicularly-mounted pub signboard which has become synonymous with the presence of a watering hole, a welcome sight for thirsty travelers in dire need of refreshment. As I walked up to the entrance in anticipation of respite from the biting chill of evening wind, the muffled strain of fiddles from behind the curtains meant that the session (an informal gathering of musicians to play, what most other musicians would know as a jam) was already in full swing.

While it wasn't quite the proverbial pin-dropping silence as often dramatised when an out-of-towner steps into the local joint, a few curious glances above pints were cast my way as I stepped in, perhaps wondering how lost a wayward tourist could get. I walked up to the bar counter with steely resolve, trying my best to exude a sense of purpose that proclaimed my presence here to be no accident. Naturally, I ordered a pint of Guinness from the bespectacled elderly gentleman, presumably the landlord.

“That'll be 2.50 please.”, said he as his aged, trembling hands threatened to ruin at any moment the immaculately formed head of creamy off-white foam, the product of the perfect pour just slightly mushrooming over the edge of the pint glass and held in place by liquid surface tension. In this instance (and all future instances) the Guinness prevailed, with shamrock intact. I then sat down at a table next to the one around which the musicians had gathered, squeezed in with various other punters conversing with much lilt and flanked by a wall covered with black and white photos of Manchester United teams dating back to before they were anywhere close to the Premier League.

Thus began my introduction to traditional Irish music and the Irish community, enthralled by melodies and rhythms played on fiddles, tenor banjos, bodhrans, tin whistles, flutes, mandolins, guitars, Uilleann pipes, accordions and concertinas by musicians both much younger and older than myself. To the uninitiated, the entire session lasting several hours might have as well been just 2 different songs repeated ad nauseum but me being terminally curious about music of humble folk origins, attentive listening revealed a myriad of (I'm usually loathe to use this tired cliche – these days an excuse for excessive processing and over-production – but perhaps the most technically accurate in this case) musical textures and melodic inventiveness. Even when stripped down to a single instrument, the lively tunes being played never failed to evoke highly-spirited foot-tapping or energetic dancing when space permitted. It didn't even matter sometimes if space didn't permit.

What impressed me even more than the music was the genuine friendliness extended to me by the Irish community. Conversations were easily struck up and upon learning that I played guitar, the musicians insisted on some music from me. I obliged with some initial apprehension, not quite sure how the sounds of African-American blues being reproduced by an Asian chap from far away might come across. Suffice to say, though I never did join them at the table for sessions (not for a lack of asking, but more out of my own prudence), whenever I stayed on after it was over I was always asked to give a tune or two, a request I could never turn down.

It was also through these conversations that I gained insight into the early life of the first generation of Irish to come to England. Chris was approaching 70, a short, stout gentleman whose bespectacled face was ruddy from years in the sun, occasionally enhanced by the day's earlier festivities. He walked with a slight hobble, his knees worn out by long hours of manual labour in his teens. A bricklayer by trade, now retired and a proud father of several musicians as well as a passionate owner of 3 Alsatians, he was never short of narratives of the difficulties an Irish immigrant faced in England. However, there was nary a trace of bitterness as he related these events, something which I always bore in mind as I encountered some trying times of my own as a foreign student, even if they paled in comparison to those of Chris's.

I didn't get to talk much to James, but he always had a ready grin and a thumbs-up for you if you weren't within hand-shaking distance at the pub. Gaunt with the slight hunch that comes with more than seventy years of age, his greying hair with streaks of black was neatly parted in a wavy fashion. He was always dressed in a simple white short-sleeved shirt and black trousers, the most flashy item on his person being the slightly tarnished watch on his hand. However, what struck me most about him was the energy with which he hit the dance floor, exceeding that of someone a quarter his age. His nifty footwork bore some resemblance to the traditional Irish style of dancing, though perhaps not as technical and more a reflection of his free-spirited, uninhibited approach to enjoying the music, always bringing on cheers and hoots of encouragement as he skipped and darted across the floor. I used to think that I would love to be like Mick Jagger at his age, but James has since taken this position in my aspirations.

Over the course of the year I imbibed many a pint of Guinness at the Jolly (a more affectionate abbreviation), all cheerfully served by the landlord Michael or his wife Sheila, who always keep some guitars in the pub for ad hoc musical sharing and appreciated my renditions of blues.

I've also been invited to a baby-christening ceremony for a daughter of Jean-Louise - a mean accordion player with some of the sharpest looking boots I've ever seen – held at a Catholic church, complete with some fabulous food, drink and tunes at the family home after.

I've also shared many a pint and tune with Grace, a fiery red-headed tin whistle player and fiddler whose wild-child tendencies belie an intense passion for both music and life and intense loyalty to her friends and family. I credit her with some of the most lurid jokes I've ever heard and committed to memory. Ask me.

I've also tried some of the strongest alcohol I will ever taste in my life, from an unlabelled bottle taken out of a personal stash that never sees the light of day. Poteen.



Fast forward to my very last evening in Manchester, fittingly at the Jolly after a hearty Italian meal with some of the afore-mentioned characters. After the session, I was roundly serenaded with Danny Boy, a song regarded as a tired old chestnut in some quarters and pigeonholed into Irish culture along with four-leaf clovers, leprechauns and Guinness, about as much as Asian culture gets stereotyped by kung-fu, slanty eyes and General Tso's chicken. It happens a lot more often and blatantly than you might imagine.

However, sung in this context with its original intent, the song bore much more meaning and significance than all the other times I'd heard it. Rounding it off with a healthy swig of Jamesons and heartfelt goodbyes, I stepped out of the Jolly and lingered for a few moments under the solitary lamp post.

With the Irish hospitality of being welcomed into homes and lives etched in my memories and fiddle tunes playing in my mind, I walked down the dark backstreets of Manchester from where I came, this time no longer a stranger. Or wayward tourist.

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.

Manchester hasn't turned out to be quite the hotbed of musical happenings that I expected, but nevertheless there have been bright moments.

One such occasion was on Monday. After having handed in an assignment desperately concluded over the weekend, this was to be an evening of repair and recharge before ploughing into the next assignment. Yeap, that's the postgraduate life.

The venue was the Manchester Bridgewater Hall, considered to be one of the top performance venues in the region, a crowning glory in what is otherwise a rather drab part of town just a little out of the city centre that still bears the trademark architecture of the Industrial Revolution. Sharp, clean edges and a pristine glass facade stood out against the backdrop of brickwall ex-factories, next to a canal which was used to transport cotton and its finished goods before the advent of the combustion engine but now relegated to being a watery decoration, albeit a rather brackish one.

Next to it sat GMEX, an 1800s train station that is now an exhibition centre while in the background, the imposing silhouette of the Hilton towered over most of the city, a glass-clad sentinel standing guard and giving refuge to weary but well-heeled travellers. Topping it off was a curious sculpture in front of the halls' entrance, which was simply a huge, roundish rock. An overgrown pebble, perhaps the beginnings of a VW Beetle sculpture that was never quite finished.

I stepped into the venue with some time to kill, not wanting to spend it waiting outside in the cold. Briefly surveying the well-dressed, wine-sipping sorts who occupied the cafe, for a moment I felt a tickle at the back of my throat requiring the ease of some cool liquid. However, given the proliferation of delicate wine glasses and the occasional bottle of overpriced, under-brewed lager with not a healthy looking pint glass in sight, this tickling feeling was somewhat suppressed. A quick glance at the menu confirmed that this was indeed, just as well.

Out of curiosity, I then headed on to the gift shop tucked away in a little corner under the stairs leading up to the circle seats, and amused myself by looking at the price tags of the miniature instruments locked away in a glass cabinet like a Stradivarius at Sotheby's. The last time I saw anything similar was in a shoe storefront display at Peninsula Plaza. The various other trinkets on sale were a brutal assault on my fiscal and engineering sensibilities, their assigned value being hugely incongruent with their simple nature and attendant low cost of manufacture. Ah, the wonders of gift shops and the patrons who keep them sustainable.

Enough of that.



Stepping into the hall itself, my inner geek eagerly partook of its design in an attempt to correlate it with my area of study, which occupied me in a somewhat meaningful manner until the support act Jhelisa started. A jazz-influenced singer with a powerful voice and some interesting takes on the genre, she and her tastefully minimalist band gave an engaging performance. At times though, yours truly was pre-occupied with identifying the features and subtleties of the hall acoustics, the beginnings of an occupational hazard. It was, nevertheless, a good start to the evenings musical proceedings.

Mavis Staples took to the stage with aplomb. Amidst the intense tremolo-drenched guitar work, a trio of backup vocals and the hypnotic grooves of the rhythm section, she preached to a rather lacklustre audience a strong sermon that made clear in no uncertain terms what she stood for and what her lifelong passion was.

In between songs she spoke of a time and place where segregation and discrimination ruled the day, and a recurrent theme was her affection for her beloved grandmother, whom I reckon was a strong guiding force in such a tumultuous period. She spoke of her time in the family band The Staples Singers, led by her father Pop Staples and of their travels with Dr Martin Luther King on his journey to spread his seminal message. She spoke not with a sense of bitterness, but with a sense of purpose and a good dose of humour.

Perhaps the definitive moment of the evening for me was when she recounted how, in defying a restaurant owner's request for them to leave the premises and in the face of impending police action, a group of them linked hands and sang a song which she then launched into, “We Shall Not Be Moved”. Though this song has been appropriated for various other causes of similar or less worthy note, her heartfelt rendition made it sound like it was purpose-written and it was certainly an excellent cap on a set-list of gritty blues-influenced spirituals and protest songs.

And a gracious front-lady she was, giving her backup singers lead duties as she backed away from the microphone and her guitarist prime stage time to dazzle with blistering fretwork as she took seat at the back, perhaps a concession to age as well but not without clapping along and shouting encouragement. However, at no point of time was it ever in question who was presiding over this court. Though the passage of time had taken its toll on her vocal range and timbre, there was no denying the power and intensity of her performance. She exuded an aura of charisma that only comes with decades spent on the road, borne out of a genuine love for her craft and true dedication to her cause. Absent were the vocal acrobatics that characterises most practitioners of a certain genre that bears little resemblance to its original namesake. Instead, with her earnest, earthy baritone she put the blues back in rhythm and blues, and the soul back in soul.

An evening of repair and recharge it certainly was, although there was still that little tickle at the back of my throat. That was easily resolved.

Dear fellow residents,

On this occasion I would like to address certain individuals:

To whoever pissed in the lift:

The acrid smell of your urine might be an indicator of disease in the urinary tract or kidney failure. Possible causes are prolonged exposure to or abrasive contact with areas highly contaminated by bacteria and/or yeast infections. The recommended treatment for such a diagnosis is complete removal of the urethra, urinary tract and all accompanying organs. You need not be concerned about the cost of such a medical procedure, as the services of a skilled butcher have already been procured on your behalf to carry out the surgery with the maximum precision achievable with a meat cleaver. To obtain greater cost savings for you, unnecessary expenditure such as anesthesia and sterilisation have been excluded.

To whoever kicked in the glass door at the entrance:

The glass used in this instance is laminated glass, which consists of two layers of glass with a polymer layer in between. This same material is used in car windshields and gas mask eyepieces and in the event of impact, the polymer holds the shards of glass together so as to prevent injury to innocent bystanders due to extreme acts of stupidity. By adding more laminates and using thicker glass, it will be able to withstand larger impact forces such as bullets without breaking up into pieces. Your investigation of its impact resistance properties using your foot clearly demonstrates its feasibility for use in domestic housing inhabited by a minority of individuals incapable of civilised self-expression. However, you may like to further investigate this aspect using various blunt implements such as your cranium. Should you fail to achieve sufficient impact velocity, assistance will be duly rendered until enough samples are taken to be statistically conclusive.

To whoever is shouting “OOOOEEEIIIIII” in the courtyard between 0100 to 0500 hrs on random weekdays:

The author was conscripted to military service for 2.5 years, during which he was attached to the shooting team for several months. This team undergoes training to take part in the annual AARM (ASEAN Armies Rifle Meet) and he trained in the rifle category, achieving a respectable personal score within that short period before being recalled to his unit for operational duties. There was a time when if given an M16-A3, he would be able to shoot 20 rounds within a Figure 15 (approx. 0.5m by 0.5m) from 300 metres.

If, by some remote chance, the author should come into possession of an air rifle with sufficient range, you will be the first to know about it. He also gives his personal assurance that from that point onwards, you will be walking funny and setting off metal detectors for the rest of your life.

Thank you for your kind attention.

Yours truly,
Disgruntled Resident

I recently completed an assignment on Leslie speakers (shown on the left), the amplifier used hand in hand with the Hammond organ in jazz, soul, R&B (the real one) and sometimes appropriated for novel purposes by guitarists. To put it simply, it consists of a rotating sound source to add a "swooshing" effect (for lack of a more descriptive term) to the input signal. Some of my favourite players of the Hammond are shown below:



















Jimmy Smith:



Jimmy McGriff:



Booker T and the MGs:










The whole point of this post? Apart from the musical content, it is to showcase the exquisite sense of humour exhibited by my British lecturer in marking my assignment. Behold.

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.