“It’s just another manic Monday,” sang The Bangles in 1986; I confess to having had enjoyed a few manic Mondays myself down the years, weekends extended in an attempt to delay the inevitable. This was not one of them, though the music offered up at the John Hewitt bar later that evening certainly had it’s moments. Bebop can be hard to digest at the best of times, certainly for the untrained listener, but when the player finally reaches that ecstatic moment of orgasmic awareness, it’s something that transcends notes, scales and rules of any sort – the message gets across due to something else, the ‘holy intangible’ you might call it. It’s a beautiful thing.
This particular Monday there’s a small smattering of listeners lounging, leaning their elbows on the tables in groups of two and three; enthusiasts, most of them, I suppose. I myself have commandeered a raised seat in the back corner for my friend and I. The band are halfway through their second or third song, a mid-tempo tune, pianist Scott Flanigan is tinkling out delightful little melodies on the upper end of his keyboard with a lightness of touch that charms the ears, painting sumptuous curves over, around and through the geometrically complex framework whose architects’ are working ceaselessly to keep its shape. We’re here to see the Linley Hamilton Quartet, who tonight feature a guest: A Mr Louis Smith on tenor saxophone. Rebecca Montgommery on drums and a bass-player, whose name I managed not to catch, complete the line-up. Hamilton, on trumpet, and Smith spell out the melody, blending their tones to great effect. This is city music, music for dissolving the pent-up stress and tension of a hard working week; fast, frenetic tunes to match the pace of city life.
A couple of numbers in and the place starts to fill up, they’re on a ballad now and the band play well, Smith’s work being especially lyrical. Hamilton’s tone I find hard to describe, except to say that he plays with very little, if any vibrato alot of the time. When it comes to time for Flanigan to solo the horn players eye the keyboard respectfully, looking up to exchange appreciative glances every now and then and it’s no wonder as the man is playing some great stuff, I’m no expert, but to my ears he’s improved greatly this past 18 months or so, playing with more emotion and taste than ever before; he travails through endless mires of discord, revealing gems of melody as he goes. The tune finishes and the band gets a polite applause, jazz clapping: there’s an etiquette to this sort of thing, don’t clap too early, late, loud or often, else you’re liable to be ostracized! Got to be hip.
From the gentle caresses of the ballad into a crazy Thelonious Monk number, Hamilton makes his horn shriek and squeal: garbled poetry coming from God knows where within him. The tenorman tries to follow but cannot match the bandleader’s improvisational virtuosity, instead opting to flick around a few phrases like a rubix cube, changing up the colours, playing off the groove nicely. Montgomery lights a fire underneath and indeed they are cookin’.
My compadre(whose sexual preference shall remain unknown) draws my attention to the deft wrists and fingers of one player and we begin the discuss the carnal element in music. It can be hard to source sometimes in jazz when played by folk that might be past their sexual primes, it’s more noticeable in rock n’ roll, soul, gospel and especially blues where there is more ehhh what shall we say: self-abandonment.
The bassman is keeping things sailing along nicely. One audience member, seemingly hypnotised, falls into some trance-like, articulated, almost robotic dance: his head swinging from one side to the other, arms move up and down alternately as the smooth tones keep streaming from our two hornmen; they’re helping eachother tell the story of life and they tell it well.
Two Americans, given away by their gregarious shouts for “one more” at half time, sit at a table next to ours. My pal and me make their accquaintance, nice fellas in fact, hailing from Kansas City, birthplace of Bebop originator Charlie Parker. Tenorman supremo Coleman Hawkins spent some of his early years there also. They are both English teachers, working in France, over to visit Ireland for a couple of days, we talk about Jack Kerouac, James Baldwin and Britney Spears(don’t ask.)
Bandleader Hamilton departs before the second half for some unknown reason. Drumming up some courage I trot up to the bandstand and tentatively enquire as to the chances of me getting up to sing one. They call me up for the second song of the set… it’s a disaster. I tremble visibly while fumbling my way through the first two verses and choruses of Van Morrison’s Moondance. I can’t seem to find myself atall, but after a quick solo from Smith I do a bit of wailin’ and hollerin’ and manage to close out the song respectfully enough. I come offstage to that horrible feeling that you have underwhelmed everyone present, it’s a feeling all musicians are familiar with, similar to that post-coital awkwardness when both parties know that you haven’t done your job properly, and all the placating and comforting in the world can’t make you feel any better. I resign myself to the fact that I’m more of a blues-chanter than a swingin’ jazz cat – for now, that is, one can always grow.
Still suffering the trauma of my onstage experience, the rest of the second set passes by in a blur. I can’t tell you what tunes were played or who played what or anything really except that I’m glad to have got my first time singing with some bona fide jazz players out of the way, surely next time will be better!
You can catch the Linley Hamilton Quartet every Monday night from 9 at the John Hewitt.

Next evening was The House Bar Open Mic Night. Tonight’s trek takes us up to Stranmillis, a nice clean student area, certainly a whole lot cleaner than The Unholylands. The houses are a little more expensive up here to rent. It feels altogether a bit more middle-class. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! Of course. That’s just the way it is. I’d been to Tai-chi earlier in the evening and a band practice after that so I was intent on going home to my bed, but one of my anonymous pals(do they exist anywhere but in my mind?) coerces me and I make it up just as he is taking to the stage.
I’ll not say much, except that there’s a nice feeling about this place, there is such a variety of acts and all of them worth listening to. Alot of these open mic things can get tired with the same old musicians playing the same old songs getting up every week. Seems like this place has yet to really be discovered, and that’s a good thing. I only hope this blog doesn’t draw the attention of the zombied masses! We need fresh blood please. Highlight of the night for me was a performance of ‘the Snoring Song’ by one friendly foreigner: loud snorting and descending siren wails over the top of a pretty selection of chords. Some tune.
The House Bar Open Mic Night starts every Tuesday at 9pm

Aaaaand Wednesday afternoon I find myself standing at the reception area of the Crescent Arts Centre, staring blankly at the assistant as she talks me through the protocol for today’s event. We’re here to listen to some Spanish flamenco guitar, a charity gig, in aid of homelessness. It’s a fiver on the door, seven if you want lunch; lunch being a glorified paper cup half-filled with flavourless soup and one round of round bread, round. But I shouldn’t complain, this being a charity gig and all! My giddy aunt, a certain Miss Preston-Silver, informs me that there was a red-faced fellow in the queue behind her attempting to get his £2 back because he didn’t like the soup! Good taste, but I wonder what he drives…
Anyway, we’re all seated and the musician enters from the rear to generous applause. I’m the youngest in attendance, and by a long way too, but I don’t let that bother me. I relax, simply closing my eyes to await the magic.
The performer kicks off with a classical-ish tune played in what feels like free-time, the nails on his right hand are grown out and sharp, he picks and plucks, strikes the strings with perfected technique; he is the perfect medium for this music. Second up is a baroque sounding piece, he stops to name the tunes every once in a while, rattling off Spanish titles, the meanings of which I remain blissfully unaware, instead enjoying the colour and music of those exotic, to-me foreign words.
He cradles the instrument in his crotch, making use of a strange little attachment that serves as a wedge between his thigh and the guitar, giving him extra leverage. On the front of the guitar just behind the soundhole there is some discolouring, the result of some hard flamenco rhythm-playing no doubt!
Our maestro goes on to play a piece in three movements from Cuba: The Harp of the Warrior, Flight of the Lovers to the Cavern of Echoes and Ballad of the Lovesick Maiden. There’s some lovely work to be heard here, flavoursome shades of dissonance relieved by moments of life-giving release. His fingers fly like lightning up and down the neck during the second movement, his right hand starting to really thump the strings.
All the while I’m devourng a jam-smothered fruit scone, trying my best not to chew too loudly lest some beige-coated prude should turn his head and shush me. The pieces of fruit aren’t real. Foiled by the fake cherry! I try not to let this devastate altogether, and anyway the music is easing all of my cares.
Next up we have one from Paraguay, written by Augustine Barrios, simply titled: Waltz #4; a nice little ditty. He finishes up sweetly to more of that respectful, but not overly-ebullient, applause. This was supposed to be his last tune, but as he’d sped through the set a little quicker than projected, he granted us another little musical blessing, another sweet piece that sent us home happy. After a sorry excuse for a cup of coffee that truly crashed the quality to cost ratio, I dilly-dallied home,a hole in my pocket and a song in my heart.
You can catch the unnamed guitar maestro at a venue near you at a time yet to be confirmed.