I was young, and I needed the money.

 It's not unusual for a jazz musician to play a shit job for good money. We all do it. In fact the only cats I can imagine having the integrity to turn down a lucrative corporate gig are those with healthy trust funds. Personally I follow the Blues Brothers' lead and play anywhere, anytime, for anybody. (I also hold all business meetings in the steam room, which may explain my current level of employment.) But the sad fact is I don't get called for these jobs very often. The last time I did a corporate, the after-dinner speaker was OJ Simpson. Guests were doing the Macarena. Dessert was a cheese log. It's been a long time, I tell you. So when I got a call for one last week, I was quite looking forward to it.

 I'd never heard of the Francois Hotel, but let me tell you, these are some swanky digs. Right on Central Park, their cheapest rooms go for $750 a night (I checked). Obviously I felt right at home. I presented myself to the concierge, who caught the whiff of Jazz and Desperation (Yves Saint Laurent I think), and bundled me unceremoniously into the nearest freight elevator. I tried unsuccessfully to strike up a conversation with a janitor on the ride up, forgetting that in the hotel social order, musicians are placed somewhere below soft furnishings. Like I said, it's been a while. 

 Often I've found that folks organizing these kind of knees-ups can be rather stingy when it comes to food and bev, so it's important to stock up before they realize who you are. I dumped my horn, met the band, then made my way to the bar. Doing my best impression of a man who belongs in the Francois Hotel, I got stuck into their impressive selection without being sprung. The evening was off to a fine start. (It turned out they were actually quite generous with us, but it doesn't hurt to be on the safe side.) Nicely lubricated, I strapped on the bow tie, grabbed my horn, and got settled on stage. 

 The bash was in honour of the departing CEO of a multinational investment firm. These were some cashed-up bean-counters. The venue was spectacular; the catering was lavish; the decorations were magnificent; and the band was hilarious. Clearly a last-minute addition to proceedings, they'd spent no expense on entertainment. Now I should say the musicians were a lovely bunch, and I'll happily work with them any time, but you can't fake this level of shonkiness. No bass player, so the keyboard player handled the synth-bass with his left hand, while channeling the Boston Pops with his right. The horn section was half the size imagined by the arranger, and the parts we had were naturally the ones without the melodies, the important harmonies, or the bits everyone knows. But what makes it almost worse, was that the singer was really quite good. He was a Tom Jones impersonator, and possibly the best one I've ever heard. And I've heard plenty. I was so impressed that on my way out, I shook his hand and respectfully handed him my underwear.

 But the thing is, they didn't care. Those cloth-eared philistines loved every bungled bar, every cack-handed chorus. They got drunk and danced deliriously around their handbags as we crashed blindly through Big Tom's back-catalogue, making sure to dismember Delilah and mow down the Green Green Grass of Home. And to finish, we were treated to a video montage of pictures of the departing honcho, set to the song "Time of your Life", by American punk band Green Day. Organisers were presumably ignorant of the fact that the song's real title is "Good Riddance" , which to me improved the presentation no end. 

 A couple more sneaky cocktails and I grabbed my cheque and was off. Musicians complain about "society" gigs, and if you do them regularly, I quite understand; but I had fun that night. To paraphrase someone or other: good showbiz can disappoint, but bad showbiz never does. 

 Righto.

If music be the feud of love...

 This week I tried to start a jazz feud. It may seem like a fairly mindless endeavor, but it's April- one has to do something. It's a great tradition in jazz: hyper-sensitive musicians getting into fuming, drawn-out disputes over perceived snubs and imagined slights- and one that, revived, could really warm up these cold, gigless months. Besides, the jazz world today is so polite and fearful of feather-rustling, a good, old-fashioned fracas might be just the ticket.

 The best known feud in relatively recent times was that of Miles Davis and Wynton Marsalis in the '80s. It was sparked by an on-stage disagreement, then continued to burn, fueled by insults and put-downs by both parties in the press. It was a masterfully performed conflict played out by two indomitable egos, with the whole jazz world siding with either the crotchety old master or the brazen young upstart; and should serve as a blueprint for aspiring combatants.

 (Wynton is someone to watch if you're an emotional-storm chaser- his brand of opinionated cockiness is liable to set off someone's ire at almost any time. Aside from Miles, he's had public run-ins with Lester Bowie, Keith Jarrett, Stanley Clarke, Quincy Jones… Of course he's out of feuding range for a mere mortal like me; my puny Twitter stones would fall well short of his colossal and respected noggin.)

 More recently, young New York saxophonist Alex Hoffman wrote a series of Facebook updates calling into question the abilities of many of the music's most respected practitioners, leading to a barrage of hate from almost everyone. This was most entertaining for a few weeks, the Hoff holding his position under a shower of shit; but as a model for one's own potential disputes, too messy and time-consuming to consider.

 Over the years, Jelly Roll Morton locked horns with WC Handy over who invented the blues; Louis Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie squabbled over the validity of their respective styles; the Dorsey Brothers were constantly at each others throats; Pat Metheny has repeatedly taken down Kenny G (although not really a jazz feud because I don't think the G-dog ever responded, nor is he a jazz musician. How about a Smooth-Jazz Feud? A Battle of the Blands: two combatants trading meaningful looks until both slip into unconsciousness.) 

 Today's jazz scene is jam-packed with arrogant, entitled blowhards- somebody needs to step up and get bickerin'!  

 I tried to start something last year with trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire, by regularly insisting, online and in-person to friends and bystanders, that he didn't exist. Then he retweeted me, and rendered me powerless. (I'm still not actually convinced. It could have been an Am-bot. Have you ever seen him in person? Are you sure it wasn't a hologram?) This time I made a fairly weak pun about pianist (and inventor of #RockJazz…) ELEW. Now, ELEW's professional persona is profoundly absurd, and well worthy of ridicule, but unfortunately he's a great musician, and I've nothing against him. I think I just don't have the combative personality for this. Besides, swiping at others does rather leave one's own life open to scrutiny, and if you've seen any of my attempts at self-promotion, you'll understand I can't really point the finger of ridicule.

 Perhaps the only way for me to get involved is if someone else took a poke at me. If a fellow musician were to start kicking verbal sand in my face, I could jump into the melee quite happily, secure in my position as the unjustly attacked. There should be no shortage of ammunition- surely the very existence of this blog would be enough to get you started. Of course, my assailant would have to be of equal or lower standing in the jazz community, so that does rather limit the contenders. But if you're out there, and you're feelin' like a-feudin', then COME AND GET ME!! (Let me know when you're coming around, and I'll put the kettle on…)

 Righto!

The Manor To Which I'd Become Accustomed

Previously, the subject of this post has been referred to as "The Manor", and I'll continue using this nom de barre, although a glance at the attached Times article will have the mystery solved.

  On Sunday a gang of us said goodbye to a bar. The closing of a New York City bar has become a depressingly familiar occurrence, and not one that would warrant more than a passing, if dispirited, mention from me. But this bar was different: this was my bar.
 The Manor was a SoHo fixture; the last authentic dive bar in a wasteland of pretentious, overpriced swank. While we're not talking New Jersey prices here, you could still get a beer for 5 bucks, and some reliably greasy bar food for under 10. The beer lines may never have been flushed, the counter doled out splinters indiscriminately, the bartenders tended towards surliness (unless they didn't like you), and after midnight it was a good idea to keep your feet off the floor so the mice didn't run up your strides. The pool table was too close to the walls to allow a decent shot (always good for an excuse, though), the jukebox played Guns 'n' Roses continually, and the bathrooms were as bad as you think they were. Actually this place sounds shit. And it kind of was- I'm sure plenty of people never made a second visit. But in a city of unchecked affectation, it was completely genuine, and for me, immensely reassuring.

The clientele was varied and the spirit egalitarian. Over the years I chatted with workmen, waiters, artsy types, businessmen, coke-dealing hipsters; and considering my contempt for most of humanity, that's saying something. And credit for this easy atmosphere has to go to the bartenders. All female, all thoroughly capable and professional, the Manor Maids (not their official title) always knew when to chat, when to leave a customer alone, when to step into a dispute, when to cut a guy off because he was trying to prove he could gargle Gilbert & Sullivan's "Modern Major General" through a mouthful of his fourth Martini. Tough as nails when they had to be, it was kind of an honor to get a welcoming smile from one of the girls, and feel like part of the family. I'm now proud to count two former Manor Maids among my small circle of actual friends.
 Over the 10 years I called myself a regular, I went to the Manor to mourn breakups, celebrate hookups, forget bad gigs, plan good gigs, avoid social obligations, to get worse at pool, to quit smoking (every Sunday for a year), and countless other reasons. But it was usually just to say hi. I honestly don't know where I'd go now to mark a moment, significant or otherwise. Maybe something will show up.
 The closing of the Manor is also another nail in the coffin of old New York, a reminder of the giant strip-mall we're slowly becoming. But that's a massive whinge for another post. So for now, I'm off to remember the Manor with four Martinis and a Pirates of Penzance songbook. Righto.

 Scenes from the final night
Closing night in the NYTimes