The last time I did one of these it was inspired by a Jazz gig. Same again this time. What is it about tuning into the music so deep that it pulls you into that other dimension? You know the one where you’re living in a dream and everything becomes ultra-clear as you transcend the ordinary and fall back, unafraid, hit the floor, a cloud ready to give your body that all-over massage it’s been craving for half a year? I don’t know. Is it just me? Can’t be. Who cares.

Anyhow! Tonight’s show takes place at the John Hewitt and it’s FatLip, stripped back to four pieces, who ‘maik show’ this warm n’ wet September Monday night. I’m on a solo mission this eve and it’s just as well, for there’s no other way to go when your main intention is to observe, unless your friends are of the ghostly variety, and are content to sit in silence while you completely ignore them and the show sucks you in zzzzuuuuuukkk. Yes the artist has few friends, and even those he treats like dirt. No wonder everybody hates him, the know-it-all bastard. Am I getting away from the point? Yes? No. Onwards! I make it through the door for what must be the third or fourth tune of the set, a bebop number, one I recognise, though not by name. The place is empty, maybe four or five people sitting around, and most of them sat to the side of the stage, head on there’s nothing but empty space. I take my favourite bench up in the back corner and pay it no more heed, certain to fill up soon, yes. A dynamic young unit like this playing great music? Sure to fill up soon, yes ,yes ,yes. So, four pieces, drums, bass, guitar and trumpet. I’m fascinated by the bass-player; his dark looks, close-shorn hair, and wiry, muscular frame. He has an aura about him, could be a movie-star. Looks like a man not to be messed with. I later get introduced to him, his name seems to come out ‘Jaaaazzz’. Did I mishear it? I’m not sure. On drums and vocals is the superbly named Ben Flavelle-Cobain, a peculiar little puppet of a man when sat behind the kit, though a strange darkness comes into his face too when he’s forcing the groove. Jazz is the Blues after all, and anyone that really plays it is driving out the demon, or feeding it, or something.

Anyway and anyhow I suppose there must be a point to all of this, to this all, to this; and I will be the one to wander, the one to steep deep my feet in murky pools unafraid of leechers, creatures, buffoons, baboons and balloons. Hand me down my Babble, It’s tickertape-time.