One can never be sure, when sauntering into the Gold Street Gossip Shop, watering hole to the gentry, quite what the plan will be. Will the jammers, in the spirit of inconsistency, play some jazz? Will Madge from Altona run amok, or sit out the back with a house port, a sailor, and a catering pack of Winnie blues? Will Hortense get lucky, always assuming she will be there, which she might be?
Last Sunday’s not so little jam session (it was crowded again), provided none of the answers, of course. It had promised to be a run of the mill affair, more bean bag than Chippendale, and in a sense, it lived down to its promise. The opening hour was a customary cacophony, with several competing concepts as to form, rhythm, and tonality from the haphazard assembly of what some might laughingly call musicians. Of which, I hasten to add, I was one.
Actually, there may have been some rat cunning at play, because once the dust had settled, things could only get better, and they did.
The stand-out of the arvo was probably Chitlins Con Carne which bubbled along and got some warm applause when, or possibly because, we stopped. Mercy Mercy Mercy ran it a close second, given the full staccato treatment by Col T of the Fourth Light Punjab Horse (retd) and featuring a gutsy sax solo from newcomer Jason.
First time drummer Michelle was thrown in at the deep end and survived the experience possibly because she is an accomplished drummer. A late dip by singer Dot, somewhat impromptu, went down well, and then a somewhat svelte The Divine Miss Smiff stepped off the boat and treated her adoring fan club to some traditional folksongs from Papua New Guinea or somewhere, only they were cunningly disguised as jazz standards.
The rest of you are well known to yourselves and need no further introduction. It was all noise and fun, and you should only feel slightly ashamed. Madge declared herself well satisfied with a Jam Session of no great distinction where everyone joined in, nothing got broken, and any threat of copyright dispute or royalties remained unlikely. Of course, she probably heard none of it, which would explain a lot.
Anyhoo, let’s do it again next week, always assuming you can get out of bed after a big afternoon of Grand Final fever…
POCKOTL dropped in long enough to collect some damning evidence and post it on Facebook. You have been warned.