Righto, let's have a crack at this.

 This week we'll be focussing our attention on Greenwich Village. Actually we'll probably do that most weeks, until I lose interest. It's the part of town that contains most of my haunts, and these days is the centre of activity, jazz-wise. Also popular with the transvestites. 

 Monday night the band played a relatively new club which will remain nameless. The owner took exception to a couple of gentle cracks I made at his club's expense in a group email I sent out promoting the gig, so it might be wise not to inflame the situation. The venue is situated on a block of 8th street inhabited almost solely (sorry) by shoe shops- the major difference between the club and it's neighbours is that the club has fewer shoes, and the shoe shops have more atmosphere. The gig was musically passable, but financially disastrous, and considering the apparent acrimony between us, I don't suppose we'll be back. Another one to cross off the list.

 Later in the week I ventured into the Village to make an appearance at Fatcat and Smalls. At Fatcat I met up with a good friend and fellow Aussie just returned from several months at home. She seemed fairly depressed to be back, so I decided to help by filling my skin with stout. Cheered me right up. For those unfamiliar with Fatcat, it's quite a bizarre place- a massive basement, one quarter of which contains a stage and couches. They usually have a band on the stage, and people sleeping on the couches.  At times, the unconscious can be the more entertaining. The remaining space is filled with pool/pingpong/shuffleboard tables- it's an odd combination, but it seems to be working. It's become quite the trendy hangout, and certainly this night it was packed with aggressively chino'd NYU frat types drinking PBR (think Fosters and water) and whooping. 

 Then Smalls. When I'd dropped in earlier I'd found it too was full of teenagers- most of them on the stage. This caused a bout of curmudgeonly muttering about young whippersnappers and ankle-biters and the like. But by this stage, the grownups had shown up- R K was onstage and killing. Quite a feat considering how tired and emotional he appeared. As a fart. 

 I wasn't far off myself, so I said my teary goodbyes and shuffled off. Next week the plan is to catch Italian piano great Dado Moroni. Cheers.