Sunday Jazz rattle the rafters at The Post Hotel …

Aaaand… the Castlemaine crew were back. They managed to avoid the usual exaggerated tales of musical exploits – but all played noticeably better, particularly Sala (drums). The session started somewhat late, due to a now regular re-arrangement of the cables, doodads, foldback, wotsit and thingummies. Hell, I hadn’t a clue what was going on.

The Captain, who else?

When we got started it turned into a pretty friendly affair, smooth changeovers and I am fairly sure everyone got a go. Highlight of the day was either David Lole kicking off on piano, or the Philippine mafia, junior division, under the tutelage of Alf Nicdao, consigliere or something. They were a talented bunch – Dorothy, Francis and Joshua waited patiently, then singer and drummer got up and acquitted themselves well.

Soxaphonists: Col, Alan, Laurie, Keef and Luis. As you know, Adolphe Sax, inventor of the sax, died in abject poverty in 1894. So total was his demise, that he never recovered from it. He also invented a six piston trombone, so things could have turned out a lot worse.

Drums: variously wrangled by Alan Richards, who puts the drum pedals back together every week, Sala Kord, philosopher and Persian emigré, young Joshua (or was it Francis?) who played way beyond his tender years and was rather good, and our resident bikie Knuckles Hirsh who is way beyond his tender years, but was also rather good.

Yodellers: a fine bit of warbling, all of which was enthusiastically received, from the Debster, Carol, Jane and Dorothy. Agatha Smythe (22 and a bit) arrived late as usual, but can be forgiven on the grounds that she sings. If she didn’t, well, who knows what might happen…?

Image result for yodellers

Guitar: Nice one, Fermin!

Pianists: David Lole played up a storm, the Debonair Curtis was so hot he shed his jacket (we returned it after we had checked for loose coin, incriminating evidence etc, of which it was disappointingly devoid). Finally, I managed to confirm that getting up at 4 am to write a programme for the upcoming Festival in Kew, before sitting in on a meeting with the Committee, before swallowing 16 antibiotic pills and completely cocking up the set-up, is not conducive to playing some semi sensible piano. Ah well…

See ya Sunday?
TW

3 Comments

  1. I’ve been working on a secret formula. It is a magic dust emitted by my recorders every time I play at a jam. It renders me invisible and wipes any memory of me from anyone who hears my playing. It’s been pretty reliable and I can now announce that it’s working perfectly.

    Reply

    1. Gulp. Clearly my fading memory is no longer up to the task of remembering everyone in the pub. I do, however, have a secret formula of magic dust which when emitted, anoints the next week’s editor. Try it, it’s fun! Would you like me to sprinkle it now? Or do I put Bie Mir Bist Du Schon, Coney Island Washbaord Blues, and three other tunes of your choosing into a bracket and tell the noisy saxes to take a break?
      Sorry, mea culpa

      Ted

      Reply

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