Excuses, excuses.

Clearly the pressure of coming up with something interesting about Switzerland was too much for me... (I'm joking, Swiss- I love your place. Relax, will you?) The Underside is taking a breather while I concentrate on the new Podcast. Hopefully I'll eventually get organised enough to do both, but for now, why not head over and check out my inane ramblings in the exciting new "audio" format: Smithfield Sunday Session Podcast!
More soon! Cheers, N

A nice change this time: instead of writing my nonsense in a dark, airless hovel, I'm sitting before one of the most amazing views imaginable. I've just arrived in Switzerland for the Ascona Jazz Festival, and am one Swiss beer down on the hotel terrace overlooking Lake Maggiore. I hope I can figure out a way to post pictures, so you can get some idea. I did nothing to deserve this. But first, Milan...
I believe we left off last week with me in a crummy hotel room, wearing a plastic Centurion costume. I eventually discovered that this was not, in fact, the casual attire favoured by the locals, but formal wear reserved for weddings, bar Mitzvahs, etc. So on our last day, I changed back into the usual leather pants and string singlet, met our mate Pache, and boarded a train for Milan.
It's an enormous and bustling city, but without the reputation for architectural beauty of its sandal-wearing sibling, due largely to the fact that most of it was blown up in WWII. From the ruins have sprung up an industrious fashion capital, although a little behind when it comes to leather and string, if you ask me. I was there to play three gigs, and to pack an unfeasable amount of food into my gob.
First up was the Nord Est Caffe. The joint really doesn't have much to recommend it, but of all the Nord caffes I've visited, this truly was the Nordest. We were introduced to the "crowd" with the most elaborate announcement in showbiz. Pure voice-over magic, and like most of the gig, enthusiastically ignored by all in attendance. To be fair, we were competing with an excellent buffet. But speaking of introductions, the upside of the evening was meeting our rhythm section for the Milanese leg, bassist Alex Orchiari, and pianist Simone Daclon- fine musicians and top blokes. I also became aquainted with a beverage known as a Campari Spritz, which would keep me company 'most every night.
After upping stumps at Nord Est, we headed to a local pub for their weekly jam session- got to play a few tunes with the locals,and rub shoulders with a saxophonist who was a spitting image of "actor" Paulie Shore. I actually had a sneaking suspicion it was Paulie Shore, so I kept my distance.
Next up, a musician-owned, member-supported club called Sunomi. The word is Milanese dialect, and according to everyone I asked, it means "I don't know." Or else they just didn't know. A great little room, with an in-house recording studio, it was, for mine, the highlight of the Italian bit. Attentive enthusiastic audience, supportive and generous management, and even a backstage for pre-show pacing and muttering. Usually have to find a dark alley for that...
The last Italian show was on the outskirts of a town called Cremona, about 90 minutes drive out of Milan. The venue was a restaurant inside an ancient, dilapidated village church. All the action was taking place in the spacious backyard, and we were essentially supplying background music. That was fine with me, as the location was stunning, and the food and drinks top-notch and abundant. It would have been the perfect Arriverderci, had the owner not ended the evening by getting smashed, shorting us on the money, and abusing our Italian bandmates in a fervid and flamboyant manner. In fact, the swear words are the only Italian I know, and I think I caught all of it. A bit of a downer, but didn't really mar the trip too much...
Other Milanese highlights: bucatini with sardines, a glass of wine with a bloke who looked just like Uncle Leo from Seinfeld (good trip for lookalikes, so far), and a night on cheap, Chinese-made Negronis that has disappeared in the mists...
Next: something interesting about Switzerland! Righto.

So we're four days in to our little European jaunt, and finally getting fingers in action. In my defense it's been a hectic few days, and jetlag has me feeling like a cranky, over-medicated pensioner. Some cute Italian kiddies very nearly copped it in the vegetable aisle this afternoon- and I'm sure you know how painful that can be. Anyways, here's what's unfolded so far...
 I don't want to tell tales here, but if you wanted to enter the EU undetected, Rome may be your best bet. My friendly immigration officer glanced at my passport with all the interest Berlusconi would show a bottle of sunscreen. Cursory would be an overstatement.Then a derisive wave and I was through. It was at this point that I realised that my preparedness for my Italian adventure consisted of a barely functioning, downloaded map of Rome, and a dozen or so words of restaurant Spanish. But I'd come this far, so I hoisted my horns and set off to meet some new amigos.
 I had a day and a half before the first gig, so after settling in to my charmingly drab hotel room, I went sight-seeing. Now, I'm a shitty tourist, but I knew I'd be interrogated by friends and strangers alike upon my return, so I made an effort. And to be fair, it is Rome, and they've got fascinating and historically significant gear up the gooner. First up was the Imperial Forum where I marveled at two-thousand-year-old ruins, and was attacked by a seagull. Seems unreasonable, but I have been accused of resembling a french fry before, so fair enough, I say. I was also hungry and may have been trying to steal its eggs. From there it was off to the Colosseum. Don't think I can shed any new light on that particular edifice, but I can tell you that I entertained tourists and locals alike with what I'm hoping will soon be the joint's new themesong. It's pretty much just the Addams' Family with Colosseum instead of museum, and Addams replaced by Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus. Check back next week for the ringtone.
 Other Roman highlights: seeing a lumpy American teenager in a humourous T shirt smiling uncertainly for a photo, while slouching dutifully beside a statue of Julius Caesar in all his regal and commanding glory, illustrating in an instant the inexorable decline of the human race; eating a delicious meal in a restaurant with a picture of former Australian Immigration Minister Amanda Vanstone on the wall, and keeping it all down; resisting the cheap, tacky souvenirs for sale on every corner (I went off the beaten track to find this genuine plastic Centurian outfit... Not real comfy, actually- don't know why the locals wear them) ; and throwing a tourist into the Trevi Fountain, which has brought me nothing but good luck ever since.
 The gig (really the reason I was there), was terrific- swinging support from Canadian bassist Ron Seguin, and my mate Adam Pache on the drums, in a groovy little club called Gregory's (named after the little-known emporor Greg Caesar). The folks seemed to enjoy the music, and my laboured patter was met with baffled silence, so it felt just like home.
 That's it for now. Next up, Milan and Paulie Shore! Righto...

I recently read an article by the estimable John Birmingham in the Brisbane Times. It's not often that a newspaper piece prompts me to put pen to paper, but the views expressed in Birmingham's column left me little choice. In a word: absolutely outrageous.

 The topic was toilet reading- a slightly off-colour subject for a respectable newspaper, but relatively innocuous by today's journalistic standards. But not the old-fashioned, wholesome, paperback-and-porno thunderbox fare of my day: the seated entertainment Mr Birmingham was advocating was the electronic kind: iPads! Kindles! Nooks! NOOKS!! I ask you.

 Now please don't assume that my disapproval stems from an aversion to technology. This blogger is far from a luddite- I've had a mobile telephone for several years, and am quite adept at operating the VCR. My issues are cleanliness and, as I understand it, the very real possibility of of radiation poisoning. Don't forget, you will be at least partially naked in there. In short, these modern devices are fine in their place, but let's keep them out of the toot!

 If you really need more diverse diversions than those offered by the traditional Aides de Toilette, I've come up with some classic alternatives to our death-ray-emitting gizmos: 

 It all seems to be about "gaming" these days, so why not do it old-school? Many timeless games can be adapted for throne-top use. Why not try lap-top Boggle? Or lap-top Yahtzee? Or if you're up for a real challenge, lap-top Jenga! Lap-top Mousetrap! You'll need steady knees for a game of lap-top Test Match- take a blinder in the slips while you're putting one down in the deep!

 Let's take the action down a level- there's an even playing field at your feet! Amuse yourself with a round of Pick-up Sticks! Why not construct a relaxing and bucolic scene with an intermediate-level jigsaw puzzle? Assemble a realistic WWII fighter plane out of balsa wood! And nothing says bathroom fun like solo Twister! Stay on that seat...!! 

 If you're like me, you enjoy peace and quiet in the smallest room. A break from the rough and tumble workaday world. Well, take a tiny leaf out of my nook, nothing provides tranquility and contentment like a little on-the-bog Bonsai. Relax those inner workings as you trim away your every care! Or focus your energies Mr Miyagi-style, and rid yourself of those pesky poo-flies with some precision chopstick work! 

 Want some action?! Draw a target on the shower curtain, and get some target practice with a mini paintball gun! Washes off in the shower! Practise some airborne maneuvers with a remote-controlled helicopter: build up some steam circling the exhaust fan, then execute a dramatic dive-bomb on the shampoo bottles! 

 Just because you're having a private moment, you shouldn't have to rule out two-player excitement. I'm not suggesting your other half perched on the side of the bath tub- that would be ludicrous. But The Underside's chess correspondent has suggested setting up a chess game in easy reach of the commode, making a move while you're making a move, then leaving it for the next player. For added fun, announce your move loudly as it happens: "Bishop to Rook 4!!" That'll keep visitors guessing... 

 So next time you're heading for the dunny, can the Kindles, nix the Nooks, and keep it 3D in the WC. Speaking of which, I'm off to KerPlunk!

 Next week, Ravi Shankar and some biting political sitar! Righto...

If there's one word that will make a jazz musician go all misty-eyed; make him stare into the middle-distance and sigh wistfully; cause him to pull his head out of his arsenal of instruments and accessories, it's "Callipygian". Another word that will do it is "Residency." A steady gig. A regular. It's the working musician's holy grail. Most of us have had them in the past, and most have lost them. That pensive, pitiful silence is usually followed by the painful details of the great lost gig; It lasted six amazing months; I don't know what happened- it was all going so well; Was it me? Something I did? Something I didn't do? Did I not introduce the gig to my friends? Was it the time I blew off the gig to watch that Die Hard marathon? It was amazing- I could eat what I wanted, drink what I wanted, wear the same clothes every time... I'll never have a gig that good again...
 My friends, I know the feeling. It's been a dry spell for me lately, steady-gig-wise. Oh sure, I've had my share of one-nighters- sordid little three-hour affairs with hardened pros of the basest variety, with little or no standards- but nothing that ever felt right. Then a few weeks ago, I spent a Sunday night in Chelsea. It was perfect- a couple of drinks, the lights were low, there were lots of people watching- everything just clicked. The very next day, Dan moved his drums in. I know this is moving very fast, and I've been shown the door so many times before, so I'm being cautious- I'm not changing my Facebook status to "employed" just yet.

 The joint is called Smithfield and it's very cool- opened only a month ago in the area between Chelsea and Midtown known (by me) as the Disputed Territories. It's now a very comfortable and homey Irish bar, but in its previous incarnation it was a full-on doof-doof nightclub- I guess this explains that guy in the bathroom wearing nothing but body glitter, and the constant requests for La Bouche. Ground floor, while salubrious and welcoming, is clearly set up for watching sports- there are more over-sized, flashing TVs than Christopher street on a Sunday morning. One flight up is the so-called Market Bar, where our little shindig takes place. And above that is the brilliant Wallace room (named after William Wallace, the bumbling but lovable plasticine Yorkshireman with a love of cheese)- all leather Chesterfields, dusty books and various old-timey paraphernalia. Have to get photos of it up here soon.  One of the owners is our good mate, Ken- ace guitarist and legendary bartender/raconteur. He's put this little gig together, and will hopefully make his presence known on the upcoming Smithfield podcast! (Maybe if I mention it here, I'll actually make it happen...)  
 Rounding out the numbers are the charming and talented Champian Fulton, the Hempton Band's own Dan Aran, and an amazing roster of rotating bass players. The lease on the place runs out in 15 years- if we make it that far, and the gig's still going, it might be time to move in. No promises, though.
 Here's the bar: http://smithfieldnyc.com/, and the Facebook page. We're on every Sunday from 8:30-11:30PM- come down and say "Wendsleydale!" Next week, a night with Ned Nederlander! Righto...

As you have probably heard by now, the Hempton Band didn't receive an award in last week's Grammy presentation. On behalf of the guys, I can say that we, as a band, are absolutely gutted. As I mentioned in my pre-Grammy blog, we weren't going to let our lack of a nomination in any category stop us hoping, nay expecting, to walk home big winners that night, but it seems that wasn't meant to be. And I refuse to let negativity and bitterness overtake me- that would mean the Grammys had really won.
So firstly, I'd like to thank God for us not winning a Grammy. He has watched over our continuing struggles and in His wisdom has seen fit to bestow on us this monumental failure. Without his guidance, I strongly believe there's no way we could have achieved so little.
Such complete disregard for our very existence on the part of the Grammy voters wouldn't have been possible without our friends and family. You've been there for us from the start; and it's great to have you here beside us for this latest in a seemingly endless series of devastating lows. I particularly want to mention my little nephew Scooter who's laid up in bed with Chicken Pox; I know he'll be reading- this loss is for you, buddy!
Obviously, losing in every category is taking some time to adjust to. A week on, and I'm still waking up laughing every morning; then I remember that whole Grammys thing. The category I was holding out most hope for was Best Improvised Jazz Solo. Chick Corea won this for a solo on a tune called "500 Miles High"; while I haven't listened to this (too soon), I have trouble believing that it was superior to a doozy I produced last August, while playing along with an Aebersold track of "I Got Rhythm," in my apartment. I told Art all about it the next day, and I assume word spread to the voters, but I guess my lyrical and chord/scale-accurate six choruses didn't fit in with their biased agenda. Did Chick Corea quote the theme from Woody Woodpecker in his "Best Improvised Jazz Solo"? I doubt it!
But like I said, I'm not going to be bitter about this. I'm mostly upset for the guys, and all the wasted preparation. We'd spent weeks rehearsing our acceptance speech, which we were going to sing in four-part harmony, barbershop quartet-style. Our mums had made us matching outfits, with aprons and boaters, and Marco had grown a "Luigi moustache" and waxed it to perfection. We'd practised the ceremony over and over, standing behind a makeshift podium I'd constructed out of cereal boxes, with the part of host LL Cool J being played by our friend Gareth (we called him LL Cool Gareth.)
But it's all water under the bridge now. Life is its own miniature-gramophone-shaped statuette. When life hands you accles, you make accolades. I've donated my Grammy suit to the local Thrift shop, and it warms my heart to see Rick Astley stop and look at it every day, before checking his pockets and moving on. I don't see the band much these days- they've all moved onto bigger and better things, but they've asked that I never mention them again. And as for Gareth, well someone had to take the fall for this debacle. I think it's the way old LL would have wanted to go.
On the bright side, the Oscars are this weekend! Fingers crossed!! Next week, a brush with Steven Seagal! Righto...

The following nonsense makes no mention of the passing of Whitney Houston. It was written before the news broke, and I'm left with the choice of scrapping it (not going to do that- it took me ages), or crowbarring her name in somewhere it doesn't belong (not going to do that either; cause of death hasn't been announced- what if it involved a crowbar?? That would just seem insensitive). So here it is: my positive and upbeat take on the Grammys, gracefully sidestepping the issue of the untimely death of the aforementioned icon.

It's Grammy time! The music industry's night of nights! The stars! The celebrities! The red carpet! The integrity! As of this writing, the big show is only hours away, and I couldn't be more excited! Not just for the amazing spectacle, the glamour, the sense of community, the recognition of artistic excellence; I'm excited because this year, I think the Hempton Band will take home the prize.
I realise it's a gutsy call, and some people will call me arrogant or delusional. Others will impatiently dismiss the claim, possibly citing our lack of a nomination. But I feel calm and confident, and it's precisely these kind of negative barbs (the worst kind) from nay-sayers (haters and negative-nancys, in the parlance of our times) that will make a Grammy statuette taste that much sweeter.
I will, however, address the perceived problem of a nomination, or absence thereof. If there's one thing the Grammys are about, it's innovation. The prize isn't being given to talentless pop-tarts shamelessly churning out vapid regurgitations of former chart hits. Industry recognition isn't going to aging rockers desperately trying to squeeze out one more hit in a sad attempt to hold onto the acceptance of a fickle and uncaring audience. The voters are not awarding trophies to attractive industry puppets, fronts for devious chart-hungry producers, using scientifically manipulative devices to tighten their grip on a passive, unthinking and addicted demographic. Not the Grammys I know. The Grammys I know reward creativity, originality and inspiration. The breaking down of barriers. The pushing of envelopes. Sure, this means some winners may not be well-known; some may not have sold many "units". Some may not be featured on the telecast purely to ensure a large audience of gullible consumers whose mindless obedience allows advertisers to pump tens of millions of dollars into the already-swollen coffers of the television network. And it's precisely the Grammy committee's encouragement of upstarts willing to think outside the box that will allow the Hempton Band to flout convention and come from behind, nomination-less, and carry home the gong!
So when you're sitting on the edge of your seat (or couch), rooting for Rihanna and giving a yell for Adele, don't forget about us. Because you might duck out to make a piece of toast or go to the toilet, and come back to find your pals Marco, Dan, Art, and Nick standing at that podium, thanking God. And though we won't say it, we'll be thanking you too. Well, not really thanking, exactly; and not you, specifically- just a sort of general "Cheerio!" So wish us luck- I'm off to write my speech!

Lights! Camera! Acton.

It really feels good to start the new year off right. Set goals and stick to them. Make plans and see them through. Sorry to keep you both waiting...
Anyways, the band just got back from a quick trip up to Massachusetts to have our first crack at the Acton Jazz Cafe. It's a charming little out-of-the-way club about an hour outside of boston and, like 149 others, listed in DownBeat's Top 150 Jazz Clubs.
I celebrated our first foray into the Cradle of Liberty by ordering the band to make the 5-hour drive in complete silence, with no rest stops. I soon tired of this, however, and halfway through Connecticut issued a command for constant screaming and a bathroom break every ten miles. It took quite a long time to get there, but you can't build a cradle without breaking a few eggs. Am I right?
I'd chosen for our accommodation a delightful little guest house called the Hampton Inn. I chose it for its obvious similarity to my name (my middle name is Ann), although it was a considerable distance from the venue, and may have been haunted. Any misgivings we had about the place were soon eased by the attentive and attractive staff, and free cookies on arrival. We all dropped our bags, sat on the floor, and commenced shoveling as many of the complementary treats into our mouths as possible, pausing only to issue the concierge a crumby invite to the evening's performance, which she politely declined.
When we'd got ourselves settled, we set off in search of a pre-show meal. Our crumb-dusted friend at the hotel suggested a local slop-house called the British Beer Company, and being fond of both beer and company, we made a beeline. The BBC (hey!) menu offered such classic English fare as Buffalo chicken wings, and something called "Skins 'n' Fixins". No mention of "All you can Eton", or Luten-free selections, or "William-and-Katering Available" or an extensive whine list... Clearly not even trying. Turned out the place was packed to its Union-Jack-plastered rafters, and the wait was an hour. Seems nothing draws a crowd like English food; or maybe it was the promise of service without a smile. I suggested we stay long enough to warm our hands around a beer, but was shouted down, and we were off.
It's strange to me that a town the size of Acton (Pop. 20,000) can support a 7-day-a-week jazz club, and my home town of Sydney (Pop 4.6 Million) cannot*. More surprising considering it's harder to find than (think of humourous comparison before posting.) Once we found the joint, parked the winnebago, and found the front door (after taking some embarrassing Spinal Tap-style wrong turns, and kicking over several garden gnomes, first accidentally, then quite deliberately; the place is very gnomey) we found ourselves in a lovely, homey cafe-style club, full of friendly smiley folk. At first we started kicking them over too, but then remembered our manners and calmed down.
We'd arrived too late to hear saxophone Wunderkind Grace Kelly (I think she should bill herself "The All-New Grace Kelly" to avoid confusion. Or "Grace Kelly II: The Quickening." Or "Audrey Hepburn." These are just suggestions. I'm not going to make a big deal about it.), but then life is full of missed opportunities, isn't it? I consoled myself with pints of the delicious locally-produced IPA, and let the night take its course. The owner Gwenn is a wonderful and charming woman, and the AJC audience was attentive and enthusiastic, showing remarkable stamina by sitting still for a solid 90 minutes of original music and long-winded Hempton nonsense. We talked to some lovely people, and ended the night in the usual way. I have no idea what that is. Good times, and hopefully we'll get back there soon.
Next week, winter in the City! Righto.

*Sorry 505, you're not helping my argument.