I’m dog tired. Dead tired. Dying of tiredness. Dear Deirdre, I seem to be decomposing at a rate not compatible with my life-expectancy. I’ve tried washing and replacing old body parts but nothing seems to be solving the problem. Can you please offer your ever-sterling advice to this one devoted reader. P.s Loved last week’s diatribe on DIY Exorcisms, looking forward to hearing more on these much-neglected phenomena in future issues.

Dat Deidre did nothing for me. Nada thing. Not so much as a letter of acknowledgement. Bitch. I begin to think that if her name wasn’t Deirdre she wouldn’t be in the job atall. But enough about her. Seen some jazz last night. Jazz. It was…well, jazz. Pretty incomprehensible for the most part. I lie. It was a joy. Comprehend I did, in small portions at least. Hard to digest the whole thing with one swallow. Need breathers. I tend to sway my head a bit, some kind of pendulum effect. I don’t know what it is, helps me get the feeling.

So yeah, we were down at The Ballyhackamore Working Men’s Club. Yeah. Just run that through your head again. The Ball-y. Hack-a-More. Workingmen’sClub. Sounds kind of dangerous, what? Hardly a suitable venue for a jazz gig, one would think; but nothing could be further from the truth. Because we were enclosed, you see, in an upstairs partition, where laser-lights shining amongst shadows set the scene for a high-society rumble-off. Is jazz high-society? Strictly speaking? I can’t really say. I mean, I’m not at liberty to divulge. But I can enjoy the music, so let’s talk a little more about that.

Mr Scott Flanigan on organ discarded the boot from his foot and sprang toes upon a plethora of pedals. The tones he withdrew with strange bodily contortions owed much to the shade of his socks(a light-blue bordering on turquoise.) It’s been a good five years since I’ve seen this man in action, and a happy coalescence involving the development of my own powers of perception with what I can only speculate to be a great shift in his capabilities as a player, has led me to a happy, happy place. He is by turns melodic, spacey and complex, and very, very groovy. It was a great thing to see the organ manipulated so, I had no idea the satisfaction one could derive from hearing the crunch of some crumpled tones, endless in variation and potential it would seem. Nyes, yes, lovely stuff indeed.

The man who did stand with guitar in hand was one Mister Matt Dowie. I do believe. I’ve been pestering him with these little articles for some time now, and he has been kind enough to reply on occassion. It was through our brief correspondence that I heard about the gig, and I’m glad that I decided to land down. Being a musician myself, with guitar as my primary instrument, I was especially intrigued to see what this guy could do. Though I can barely remember the names of the tunes, I do recall him picking ably, growing in confidence as the night grew on, and shining especially in the spots where there was space and time, the perfect, eh, blanket, for him to lay out choice phrases. Simple melodic parts that seemed to lift the music into a higher place. For me, it brought to mind Peter Green. Trace it back through influence and we have BB King, Django Reinhardt, Charlie Christian…Something in the tone, those crystal notes. A beautiful thing. When the band started swinging I thought I felt some room for improvement, but then again, I suppose a sense of swing is something that is developed through time. And at times, he caught the rhythm, in those moments, with repeating licks, maybe something chromatic, and he caught it just right. I suppose sometimes it catches you.

On drums was bandleader and compere for the night Rebecca Montgomery. Bah. What can you say? She’s just fantastic. I watched her operate towards the end of the first set and was mesmerised, caught between tuning into the music, and marvelling at the art of her technique as a thing in itself. She recognised me from some long-ago bandstand opportunity when I butchered an old Van tune at the John Hewitt. I thought it was very nice of her to come over and talk, sort of blustered that I thought her playing was very ‘Japanese.’ Eejit! Into the second set she’d acquired a glass of wine and her compering skills were on the up, as was the music. Some of the numbers I remember were, let’s see, an unlikely uptempo ‘A Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square.’ Ehh, A Thelonious Monk tune. Annnnnd the one about which I was just about to write…

Yes, so, last couple songs of the night, our compere announces the guest appearance of ‘one of the best sax players in the country.’ Quite a cheer went up, and yes, I was whooping and wriggling in my seat. Bring it on. So yeah, this fella gets up, and sort of straddles the tenor horn, they kick into a tune, something familiar. Self-assured, I turn, somewhat smug, and mouth to my friend ‘Mini-Mama'(It was later announced that the tune they played was ‘Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.’ Egg on my face.) Regardless, the tune kicked in and man, I’ve never had a feeling like it. I really felt like I was in a jazz club. I mean, I was. I was in Scott’s Jazz Club. Yeah sure, in my phantasmagoria I thought it was New York or something, but it wasn’t. It doesn’t have to be. We have this right here, on our doorstep, if you know where to go. But look anyway, I’m getting’ tired. The sax player’s back on the 29^th. He blew my crazy head off. Ballyhackamore Working Men’s Club. Dave Howell. I recommend it.