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.