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

You may recall that the Underside went into hiatus so I could put my limited creative energies into a thing called the Smithfield Sunday Session podcast. Marvelous fun it was, too, but we decided to wrap it up before our audience lost interest and moved on. My parents can be so fickle. So rather than deprive the internet of my inane ramblings, I thought I'd fire up the old blog again to have a bit of a natter about a little tour I recently underwent. I'll be drawing this story out into far more installments than it warrants...
Following the release of a new album, an old fashioned road trip seemed like just the ticket. I decided on the West Coast quite arbitrarily, but it turned out to be an excellent choice- warm weather, friendly people, and without a driver's license between us, an interstate bus service that allowed us to live like transients for a few days (you really must try it). My traveling companion would be the drummer and good mate referred to elsewhere in this blog as "The Attorney".
Our little adventure starts at LA international airport. It's one of the world's largest, which we discovered when our local contact kept us waiting long enough to explore all of it. What I don't know about Californian baggage carousels isn't worth knowing! (What I do know isn't of any great value either, actually.) Our man eventually turned up and took us on an historic tour of the city. It was like seeing into the past! Forget your Roman ruins and Ancient Greek what-have-yous, the streets of LA are steeped in rich history, and I know all of it- like where the Ding Dong club used to be, and where that guy who was in that movie died. What I didn't realize was that an hour spent living in the past was perfect preparation for our destination: the El Patio Inn.
I'm well aware that calling it "THE El Patio Inn" can't be right, but I find it somehow satisfying, so I'm sticking with it. The El Patio is a classic. A brown and tan fantasy. The management are to be commended for recreating 1975 with such startling accuracy. It reminded me slightly of the depressing motels from childhood road trips, combined with the setting for a low-budget murder mystery. In fact, scenes from David Lynch's "Lost Highway" (about a jazz saxophonist…) were shot there. We had some time before soundcheck, so I had some drugs delivered and murdered a prostitute. Just seemed like the thing to do.
The setting for the LA gig was the estimable Vitello's. A nondescript two-level affair, it hides on a leafy suburban street, far away from the prying eyes of potential jazz audiences. Downstairs, a comfortable Italian restaurant; upstairs, a comfortable and well-appointed jazz club. We had managed to assemble a killer group of musicians, so the gig was a gas; audience was welcoming and enthusiastic, and we hung with some lovely local folk.
Duties done, the Attorney and I were directed to a local bar to see out the evening. Called the Peppermint Club, or the Starlight Lounge, or something similarly unlikely, it was a textbook LA dive: indescribably dingy, with broken pool table, hot/surly bartender, old scrubbers in miniskirts, several possible Bukowskis... In short- heaven. We drank cheap American beer until the mists descended, then apparently made our way back to the El Patio.
Our flight the following day wasn't until evening, so we spent the day confounding the skeptics- by walking and taking public transportation! The mile walk to the nearest cafe felt like crossing the desert to some breakfast burrito-serving oasis; and when we told of our bus and train route to the airport, locals looked at us like we'd discovered some abandoned tunnel built by escaping prisoners-of-war. Eventually we escaped from LA , but not before receiving some reviews of the previous night's performance. They were uniformly glowing, although that turned out to be due to LA's record levels of Japanese radiation. Next, exciting Portland!

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.

The Underside is (obviously) taking a break for a week or three. Have a great holiday, and we'll be back January 4. Have a great whatever!

Have to be careful here. Thursday evening, after spending a couple of hours stabbing blindly at a restaurant piano, I went to hear the master Mulgrew Miller at a club called John's Fizzy-Drink-Sponsored Jazz Room. It's part of Jazz at Lincoln Center, and is located at the top of the Time Warner building, and that's the name of the place, ok? Right...
I rocked up about half an hour before show time, and as (I thought) I had some time to kill, I went for a wander around the Time Warner Building. It's a weird location for a Jazz club- the basement houses a link in an extremely popular organic supermarket chain, let's call it Whole Foods; the ground floor consists of mildly popular and wildly expensive clothing and accessory boutiques; and the remaining three floors are as bland, echoey and devoid of humanity as the next Michael Buble Holiday album. The stores are all popular, well-known brands, and somehow manage to stay in business without actually selling anything. The only shop of interest to this nerd was Border's, but of course they closed down because books don't exist anymore.
What would be the perfect soundtrack to a soulless, antiseptic consumer wasteland like this? Jazzy Christmas carols performed unconvincingly by Wynton and the JALC crew! Piped Muzak is frustrating enough throughout the year, but a very merry Marsalis Christmas is nigh on unbearable. I soon discovered that the offending noise was emanating from regularly placed pot plants which, somehow appropriately, contained fake grass. I suspect management would have planted real grass, but were wary of the dangers of over-fertilizing.
I eventually made my way up to John's Fizzy-Drink-Sponsored Jazz Room and discovered a lengthy queue of expectant ticket-holders. I was politely ushered to a "stand-by" line, where I dutifully stood by and took stock of my surroundings. Firstly, the corridor leading to the club's entrance feels like one of those tunnels through which one boards an aeroplane; this offers the eager concert-goer the trepidation associated with impending confinement, yet none of the excitement of foreign travel. Although once inside, I did see many people take their shoes off and fall asleep after a bad meal.
I also wondered who these people were. A varied assortment of couples and groups, they could have been waiting in line for almost any popular event; certainly not hard-core jazz fans, given the number of ways they were finding to mispronounce the name of the performer they were lined up to see.
To entertain these fine folks, a TV screen was positioned near the entrance, showing constant solicitations for donations to JALC; I expect that when presented with the bill, most customers feel they're donating plenty.
Inside, the club has the feel of an up-market food court, the highlight being the enormous plate-glass window behind the stage, giving a stunning panoramic view of New York City at night. If the performance is not holding my attention, I like to imagine a human spider suction-cupping past, or a pair of inept window cleaners on a suspended scaffold, or- getting back to our airport comparison- the front of an aeroplane crashing through it, like at the beginning of "Airplane!", sending all and sundry screaming for the exits. See, this is the kind of experience you only get with live music. Support it, people.
I have serious doubts that an inspired fiery performance could take place in this kind of atmosphere, but taking that into consideration, Mulgrew and band were great. Personally, I particularly enjoyed the playing of drummer Rodney Green, and alto man Tim Green.
After this I made my way to Smalls and heard an inspired, fiery performance by trumpeter Alex Sipiagin, and called the night a good one.
Next week, New York City! Righto...

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!

 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.