Five and a half months! It has been a while between drinks, hasn't it? And I probably would have continued in my slack-arsery had it not been for the messages, emails, phone calls, and billboards of complaint that have both come flooding in. O.K already! Like you, I can't say no... Obviously, too much has transpired in the last few months for me to bore you with all of it, so let's pick a few recent highlights, shall we?  

 In our continuing series "New York Neighbourhoods: A Stumbler's Guide", we turn our attention to the Lower East Side. This is a terrific part of town- Flight of the Conchords is shot here- dingy and crowded, full of cool bars and restaurants, a bit trendy, but with enough realism to separate it from it's grunge-lite neighbour, the East Village. It's Nirvana to the EV's Nickelback. AC/DC to its Matchbox 20. Huey Lewis to its  Hall and Oates. No, wait... So we went out for a night on the tiles with visiting Aussies Dapper Dan and the Horn, and local Aussie Passiona- an energetic and entertaining crew. We started at a big, open, stool-and-bench-y restaurant with a truly astonishing beer menu. We made the most of the summer weather by sitting in the open windows and pouring them in- I only discovered I was on 12 percenters when I got lost trying to stand up. This was just the start of a top night rambling from one overcrowded bar to the next, fish tacos and chili margaritas at a Mexican joint (that was an excellent idea), ending up at one of NY's famed after-hours joints. Dark! Sadly, most of the night is lost in the inner mists, but I woke up in bed, so all's well that ends well. Or something.  

 In music news, famed alto player Lee Konitz made a rare NY appearance at Smalls. I've never been a fan, but swung by out of curiosity, and the lure of a great bass and drums combo in the form of the Stand-Up cooker on bass, and Luca Santaniello on the tubs. Got what I expected- he was ordinary, and the lads were swinging. Could have listened to them all night on their own.

 Did a gig at a joint called Sweet Rhythm (formerly Sweet Basil) with an octet and trumpet star RH. Gig is ongoing so maybe something about it next time, but for now I'll mention the star stealing the show in the loudest, plaid-est suit and bow tie combo outside a 5o's used car lot. We're talking Rodney Dangerfield  in Caddyshack. He played the gig, jumped in his golf cart, yelled "FOUR!", and he was off. As am I.

 I realise this one's reading a bit creaky, but the next one will be dynamite. You'll see. Righto.

 May 1st and it's cold and wet. Not surprising New Yorkers are such jerks. I didn't mean that.

 Last week the band made one of it's biannual appearances at smalls in Greenwich Village. We'd love to do it more often, but apparently they have to work their way through everyone who's ever looked at a musical instrument. In alphabetical order. Still, mustn't complain. At least they don't take offense at my constant slandering of their club in mass mail-outs. Brilliant night to be out- spring made it's most concentrated assault to date, and in the village one couldn't move for Yuppies and Transvestites. I'd like to take some of the credit, but the weather was probably the reason for a very healthy turnout. The band put on a good show, my tired patter was justly ignored, the audience listened, we got paid- what more do you want?

 Beer with Aussies- that's what! Australian guitar ace JM was in town, and playing around the corner at the 55Bar. Didn't manage to hear him play, but did manage to get around a number of beers with him after our respective shows. Good times.

 A few days prior to the gig, the band got together for a rehearsal at the Cooker's apartment (or the home of the Range). The Cooker lives in relative opulence on Prospect Park in Brooklyn, and after two hours of struggling to remember my own compositions, I was convinced by the Attorney to pass some time in the out-of-doors. Glad I did, of course. It's a singularly ambiguous name for a park, promising the likelihood of neither good nor poor fortune, but presumably one or the other.  Or maybe it explains all the panhandlers, and luck to them. Although much smaller than Manhattan's Central Park, Prospect park is no less glorious. It's always a shock to find yourself confronted by such an exuberant display of springtime greenery, when only metres away some old bloke's pissing on the subway tracks. We also couldn't help but notice an apparent trend of attractive girls with astonishingly well-trained dogs. Every time we caught a peek at a sunbathing beauty, her massive Doberman would position itself in optimum view-obstructing position. Considered distracting the beasts by smearing the Attorney with Liverwurst and rolling him down the nearest hill, but it did seem like quite an effort.

 In about ten days, the Voice of Reason (bartender at the Manor, great friend) will be leaving the Apple and returning, after 17 years, to the frigid and windswept land of her birth. Sad days indeed, and had I started this fairly pointless endeavour earlier, I would certainly have devoted considerable post space to this most estimable individual. However, this week we're having a going-away bash, the band's playing, I'll be getting stuck in, so next week I should have a story or two. That's it for now. Righto. 

Had a mate in town this week. He was staying with friends in the part of town now known as the East Village, so our various excursions, as well as this post were, and are, focussed on this enclave. Up until the late 1980s, part of this area- Alphabet City- was one of the most dangerous spots in NY. It was largely Puerto Rican, and poor, and whiteys were not advised to venture there alone. Nowadays your biggest worry is having an eye taken out by an expensive haircut, or being smothered in ironic T-shirts. On the surface it's all very artistic and alternative, and is indeed a great place to spend an evening, but stay too long and you might start taking yourself very seriously. Anyways, over the course of two nights, we managed to cover the Irish faux-dive bar, the trendy American bar, the Israeli Jazz bar, the genuine-dive rock bar, and the Horseshoe. At the rock bar the assembled were regaled with the opinions and stories of my mate's American cousin. Gosh, the young fellow swore like a burning sailor in a swearing contest. And the descriptors he used when opining on Presidential hopefuls Obama and Clinton I suspect are rarely heard outside the more mountainous regions of old Alabammy.

Fortunately he then extinguished his cross long enough to give me a fairly graphic description of home butchery. It was about this time I jumped to my feet and screamed "Look! The Crocodile Dundee Bar!!" 

 The Horseshoe bar is an oldish neighbourhood bar and yes, was featured in the aforementioned piece of celluloid mastery. Reason enough to go elsewhere, you'd think, but it was so close. And we were all rather thirsty. Besides I've always wanted to recreate that classic scene in which Paul Hogan grabs a transvestite by the bollocks. Sadly there was none to be found. Transvestites, that is. No shortage of bollocks. We got stuck into the beers- good selection- the girls went to have themselves immortalized in the on-site photo booth, and I got cornered by a glass artist. (Nick: "That job must blow". Crickets. Justified crickets.)

 By about 2AM things were starting to get sloppy, and I'd run out of funds, so it was Hooroo and off.

 Now these blogs take me forever to finish- I am one of the world's great procrastinators- and as a result, this one has musical highlights vying for attention. NY tenor legend George Garzone stopped by the Coal Face the other night. He seems to be famous more for the length to which students will go to study with him than his musical output. 'Course I could be wrong about that- I am quite bitter. He sat in for a tune with Harry- sounded kind of ordinary and Harry- either deliberately or accidentally- quite publicly forgot his name. Now Harry's not generally the type to play mind-games so this seemed quite genuine, and even though I've never met Garzone, and he's certainly never done me wrong, the incident did make me chuckle. Like I said- bitter.

 Another highpoint came the other night, and quite unexpectedly. Mate AC is in town- dropped by the Coal Face on Sunday night and mentioned that he was off to a traditional Irish jam-session. Now normally I'll go to great lengths to avoid any music that features both bagpipes and harps, and Sunday is  my night to fill up at the Manor, but for some reason I jumped in- and right glad I was. Cosy little Irish joint in the East Village (back for more), best Guinness I've ever had, and a very pleasant and educational musical experience to wash it all down. Yes- pipes, harps, fiddles, flutes- it should have been a slow, aural glassing. But performed with such pleasure and sincerity it was hard not to get sucked in. Might try to investigate further.  

 Ok, that's it for this one. Gig at Smalls tomorrow night should provide plenty of material for the next one. Righto then.  

Lately I've been suffering one of my irregular bouts of insomnia- late to bed and disgracefully early to rise. Getting plenty done, but feeling six colours of shithouse. One redeeming feature, however is the rediscovery of one of NY's great musical traditions. No matter how repulsive and hateful this place can be (why so much spitting?? And honking? And why so many fat people waddling into McDonalds? Don't you know that's just making you fatter?...), you can always find consolation in the knowledge that NY has Phil Schaap's "Birdflight". For two hours each morning on WKCR, Phil plays nothing but Charlie Parker. And he's been doing it for years! The most obscure stuff you've never heard, interspersed with Phil's educated, if longwinded commentary. And themes! Last week it was every recording of Bird playing Cherokee. In chronological order! Nearly beside myself, I was.

This past week's highlight was being told "F#@% you! Who is he? Nick who? I don't know him. F#@% him!" by saxophonist **** ****** (not his real name). He wears an earring shaped like a saxophone...

Serious lack of coin this week has restricted my late-night gallivanting to those establishments that'll, well, give me stuff for nothing. Jeez the bars here are good. I miss those sprawling Aussie pubs with that soothing melody emanating from the Queen of the Nile machine in the corner, the trots on the telly, and the week-old pies in the warmer, but get friendly with a NY bartender, and you've got it made in the shade. Actually, this topic deserves a post of it's own, but let me just say this: if you come here for an extended period, find a place you like and tip well. Boy, you'll just be drunk all the time. And speaking of tenuous links, the other night I sat at the bar in The Manor next to a fat guy, and had a protracted conversation about a self-described "Gong Master" who looks exactly like Willie Nelson. Confusing at the time, and downright baffling now, but, erm, I guess that's what happens when you're drunk all the time.

Righto then.

Not as easy as I thought, this consistency business. So busy doing boring things, it's difficult to find time to bore others with the details. Anyways, here goes.

 Last week, with the help of The Attorney, I rediscovered one of the joys of NY nightlife: the after-hours joint. Drinking laws here state that bars must stop serving at 4am. Fortunately for the semi-professionals among us, delis can serve beer 24 hours a day, but if you find yourself craving a Screaming Viking at 5 in the morning, you have to know where to go. On the outside, your average A/H joint will look like a shut-up bar, or something completely different. Ours claimed to house a psychic, and actually I'm not sure it didn't. Might have been that woman drinking Creme-de-menthe and laughing hysterically to herself. Once past the token doorman ("I know Jimmy." "Right this way, sir.") it's all cocaine, haircuts and studied debauchery, with a side- show of slurring geezers cracking onto panicky nymphets. Not what I'd normally look for in a pit-stop, but still a diverting accompaniment to an early morning whiskey. Just nice to know it's there if you need it. 

 As planned, I caught piano maestro Dado Moroni at Smalls. Every Italian jazz musician in NY was in attendance and by the end, most were onstage. That was a bit much for these 23rd generation ears, but in trio setting, a tremendous performance. Dado's got the whole history of jazz piano down, and combines all this with a personal and individual sound. Nearly inspired me to do some practice. I was also chuffed to look up from my beer at The Manor (my regular) on Sunday to find him coming over for a chat. Top bloke- hope to have a play with him next week.

 Not sure about live music next week- well's dry, you understand. Will be doing some hustling though, so I'm sure there'll be something to whinge about. And we have to talk about Phil Schaap's radio show. Righto.

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.