A cocktail? Alright- once upon a time...

Imagine the year is 1929. You're striding down 7th Avenue, a broad (or a drag queen) on each arm. You've just invested your paycheck in the stock market, you've plugged Buster Keaton with your tommy gun, and you've got quite a thirst. But it's prohibition! Surely there's not a drop to be had! But you know a little place... Ssshhh, it's right this way...
You push your way through a gang of click-dancing street-thugs and past the cartoonishly dimwitted doorman. You and the girls (or man-ladies) fly down the stairs, visions of the charleston and bathtub gin spinning before your eyes, and land with a bump in a mass of tattoos, braces and earnest haircuts. It's 2011. Welcome to Little Branch.

The preceding nonsense was a clumsy attempt to convey that Little Branch is a trendy, speakeasy-style bar. It takes itself a little too seriously, the patrons are a little too pretty, but it has live jazz and interesting drinks, and all in all is a pretty decent joint. I played there this week.
It's a tiny little spot, and very popular, and thus has a queue down the block almost every night. One of the highlights of a gig here is the entrance. I like to saunter, nose aloft, past the line of plebs, and give the doorman an unnecessarily convoluted handshake and a "How YOU doin', Jimmy?" Then I sweep past him like I own the joint. I think his name's actually Brian.
Once inside, the focus is on the drinks. The tiled bar is set up like a junior chemistry lab- pipettes, beakers, bunsen burners, nerds. The bartenders are lab-coated and studious; measuring, pouring, lighting, extinguishing, tasting, regurgitating, till they get that Fluffy Duck just right. (I was convinced one bloke down the end was cooking up a batch of crystal meth, but as it turned out, not. At least, it wasn't like any meth I'd ever tried.) And before each cocktail is presented to the expectant customer, the bartender adds the final touch: a single tear. That's probably not true.
The band is squeezed into a tiny alcove, the room providing two walls, and the upright piano the third. The bar is low-ceilinged, echoey and noisy as all get-out, but still fun to play, as long as you don't mind being ignored. We played some groovy tunes, drank a few cocktails and that was it. Back there in January.
By the way, I have no idea why it's called Little Branch. I guess if you don't like it, you can get out of there...
I ended the night with a visit to the Manor- my regular- and got around a few with the Attorney and the fellow who runs Dynamod. They're the company that host my website, and the sites of seemingly half the jazz musicians in New York. They do a bang-up job, and he's a top bloke. I managed to beat him at pool a couple of times, and I got the feeling he wasn't taking it so well. And sure enough, when I checked my site the next morning the comments page was empty, and the bio section made me sound like a delusional, self-aggrandizing lunatic. So at least I know he didn't touch that.
Next week, an exercise in diplomacy. Righto!

Had a friend in town this week from the UK- an excellent violinist and member of the famed and high-falutin'- sounding Orchestre Révolutionnaire et Romantique. They were performing two nights at Carnegie Hall, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to absorb some culcha... It was an all-Beethoven program, but seemingly not connected to all the other Beethoven-related gear going on in NY this month. Local classical station WQXR has dubbed November "Beethoven Awareness Month", and on the air and in concert halls across the city it's all Ludwig, all the time. Personally I think it's a tad ambitious- from what I've seen of some of my fellow New yorkers, I'd say plain old "Awareness Month" might be a good start. Anyway, Carnegie Hall is a cultural landmark in this town, and I'm ashamed to admit that I'd never been in the place before. It's a handsome pile dating from the 1890s, and has witnessed performances by the who's who, and the who's he? Its namesake, Andrew Carnegie, was also a handsome pile in the 1890's, although his dating habits have not been recorded. Inside it's magnificent, all velvet drapes and gilded- I don't know- cornices? But I must say it seems a friendly, egalitarian joint.
A quick glance at the playbill reveals that one of the hall's major sponsors (of which there are many) is a famous American airline, and their main influence seems to be in the seating plan. Forget legroom, you'd be hard-pressed to take a deep breath. I was packed in so tight, the symphony had more movements! It was tight, I tell you! The fellow in front of me complained that he couldn't hear due to my knees being in his ears; I said he should thank me- that's how it would have sounded to Beethoven... No tray-table, or ashtray in the armrest, but I'm sure the paper bags will come in handy during the Ryan Adams performance next month.
On stage the orchestra was arranged on graded platforms, brass separated from winds by waist-high railings, presumably to keep them from attacking eachother- like at sporting events to keep the members safe from the riff raff. I'm certain that if the trumpets had started the Wave, it would have stopped at the clarinets. The performance was wonderful (Symphonies 3 & 4), conductor John Eliot Gardiner is most entertaining to watch, and period horns are clearly very difficult to play. Sound brilliant, though. Incidentally, the hall's location and intermission time make ducking to a nearby pub for a quick one between symphonies a doddle.
Friday the band had yet another crack at the early set at Smalls. Probably the last one for the year, and a fine note on which to go out. Second set we were joined by the fabulous Bruce Harris on the trumpet- he raised the stakes, and then some sort of gambling analogy conveying that we all had a good time. As is everything that takes place at Smalls (slanderous musician conversations included), the show was recorded- I'll put some of the better tracks up on FaceBook soon. We were followed by Tenor Saxophone legend Lew Tabackin, who blew the joint down, and the rest of the night is lost in the mists...
Next week- cocktails! Righto then.

Last Sunday was the birthday of one of the regulars, so a piss-up was naturally in order. The weather was unseasonably pleasant (whenever the weather in New York is pleasant, it's unseasonable), and we met up at a fine old local institution, the Ear Inn. The Ear is one of the oldest bars in the city, and wears its age with pride- mostly in the form of a thick layer of dust which may or may not contain flakes of George Washington's skin. Interestingly, the Ear stands on what used to be the banks of the Hudson river- sometime mid-19th century the west side of Manhattan was extended several blocks with landfill, presumably lowering property value, and increasing traffic in the men's room. (On a side note, it's good to know that if your island gets a bit cramped you can just extend it. Might bring that up at the next debate on Australian immigration. If they invite me again.) The bar gets it's name from the blacking-out of part of the neon "BAR" sign, and not, as I've never suggested, because the original owner was a bit of a cochlea, or because it's a great place to get pierced. All this is by the by, of course, as the main reason for visiting the Ear on a sunday is swinging music. Under the moniker "The Earregulars" (they're great so I'll leave that alone...), Jon-Erik Kellso and Matt Munisteri lead a drumless quartet playing classics from the swing era and before. In fact the tunes are predated only by the bar itself, and several items on the menu. Guests are invariably high-quality- Harry Allen, Wycliff Gordon, etc., and the last set usually turns into one of the most enjoyable, ego-free jam sessions in town. Here's a video from a recent Sunday (Dan and I are in there somewhere...)
The other notable musical event this week was legendary conguero Poncho Sanchez at BB King's club in Times Square. I went, even though I consider Times Square the most horrendous place I've had the misfortune to visit. A trip there usually fills me with a murderous rage, which eventually subsides, leaving a gaping hole of black nothingness and a firm conviction of society's irredeemable baseness and moral and spiritual corruption. If you've never seen it, you really must go. Anyway, Sanchez bears a passing resemblance to Dom DeLouise, and that was enough to get me there. He was great, the band was ordinary, arrangements were fairly uninspired, and BB King's is like an overpriced, outdated cruise ship with the promise of neither romance nor adventure. BB's a fine guitarist, but the man has no flair for interior decorating.
Next week, some culture! Righto!

Alright, let's start this post by hopping nimbly over the fact that it's the first one in three years. It was a fairly slow three years anyway- in fact I was asleep for one of them. Which brings us to last week.
About once a year I manage to convince the top brass at New York's Zinc Bar that the band is a red-hot draw, and they have us in for a show. It's a terrific room in the heart of Greenwich Village; dark and roomy, all velvet and Art Deco with an old-style supper club feel. For years they operated sans piano, and it was electronic keyboards for all; I always tried to convince Art to bring three or four and play them standing up, Nik Kershaw-style, maybe even a wizard's hat like that other bloke, but no dice. Then a couple of years ago they brought in this weird spray-painted baby grand- the paint job looked like a custom car detailer's attempt at a psychedelic aboriginal dot-painting- indescribably hideous, but somehow awesome. So imagine my disappointment when I show up to find this technicolor monstrosity replaced by a brown one! Brown! Nothing sounds worse than brown! It's the worst-sounding colour in the piano rainbow! Potentially exhilarating clusters of varying tonal hues are reduced to fistfuls of poo! Every note is punctuated by an audible "plop"! Anyway, we were fortunate to have the great Jeremy Manasia on hand that night, and nobody plays a poo piano like him.
A feature of our Zinc Bar shows is an appearance by the enigmatic Jimmy Lategano. Singer, entertainer, raconteur, Jimmy's been slaying 'em at Arturo's restaurant for 30 years, and never fails to galvanize a Zinc crowd with his effortlessly musical and wonderfully bizarre performance. I've got loads of video of Jimmy with the band, which I'll put on the Youtube channel soon. I'll chat about him in future posts too- if you don't know Jimmy yet, you'll be glad when you do.

A couple of days later we slid back into the dark and rarefied world of the band's NY home- Smalls Jazz Club. The last time we played Smalls, it was our first attempt at launching the new album (available for Christmas... [That's not the name of the album, although it's not a bad idea...]), and we were accompanied in our endeavour by a hurricane Irene. Turned out to be a bit of a bust, as you may recall, but it got a lot of publicity (the hurricane that is- the album launch got almost none...). Anyways, this time our Smalls appearance coincided with a comically unseasonable snowstorm. Not complaining, but a band could be excused for feeling picked-on. Several wags have commented that they no longer need to look at the weather forecast for approaching tempests, they just check the Hempton Band itinerary. Speaking of which, December's looking fine. In any case, the gig was a gas, and we're back there in a couple of weeks. (While we're on the subject, the Smalls live stream keeps getting better. If you haven't checked it out, do yourself a favour.)
The week's other event of note was Kenny Barron at the Village Vanguard. He was brilliant, I thought the band was oddly mismatched, and the venue deserves a post of its own. I mean that in a good way.
Next week (haha!) I might have a natter about another great New York venue- the Ear Inn. Righto then!