Mercy, mercy! Mercy, mercy me. What do we have here? A squiddle? A galoomphkaponch? A winkpinkerminkladdadaoodadayo? Yessum. All of the above. I am dry(ish) and so I type some, just a touch. Say little things that might lead to a something. Because God knows I don’t have it in me to sit down and write anything like a short story. Or a whole book of short stories. At least not in this frame of mind. At least not at this point. The mind is vast with many permeations and possibilities, but we’ve framed just this one corner for today. For this one moment. It could all flip quite unexpectedly if we’re not too careful. And so we say the things that come to mind and the mind comes to us with suggestions and we pick the juicy one and run with it because all along the way there are detours, hints and clues aplenty on which to feed and further the whole blessed business.

The fledgling writer dreams. He’s put a few clever sentences together, articulated some ideas, coined a phrase or two, and so he wonders: “Will I one day rise up grandly and write Thee Great Novel? Achieve ‘Success?’ With all of the attendant pleasures coming bundling in behind. Notoriety, fame, wealth, respect.” Or does he just keep putt-putting along with his little tidbits? Pushing ideas about idly like a pea upon his plate, in the hope that some poetry might pop up somewhere along the way…that maybe the damned thing might somehow write itself? Hard to say. Keep it in the day. That’s what they say. “I don’t know, man, I’m like a leaf in the wind. Don’t wanna think too much about nothin’.” Here’s a question: Can one keep it too much in the moment? Remaining ultra-present throughout their waking hours, neglecting to take a single second to reflect and muse upon the day’s doings? Could do yourself an injury. A disservice. A dissipitude. Made that last word up. Just to see.

Somebody once told me I had original ideas. That’s good, I suppose. Got to keep ‘er lit somewise. But there’s something else. Some extra length that one must go to that is so far eluding me. Nobody tells you these things, you see, not in any easy manner at any rate. And what of the rules? Well, they’re there to be bent, aren’t they? Disappear them with a mind-bolt, ZAP! Heard someone say once that you need three things to write: Experience, Imagination and Discipline. Jesus, discipline. Strap yourself to a chair sat at your desk and tear the words screaming from the deepest recesses of your subconscious, howling ghouls; whilst every circular inch of the hole in your soul wails “noooo!” in an booming overtone that causes the hair on your mother’s head to stand straight up. Even if she’s not present at the time, you can be sure that it’s happening. One thousand words every morning on the button, military-style press-ups, lest you be lashed, and banished from the exclusive club to which you’ve just gained entry. And the old guard tolerate you just so long as you’re salivating into a sordid puddle that glimmers occasionally, for their amusement. What are the fees?! Where and how do I pay my ‘dues?’ I’ve studied an awful long time for this promotion, I just don’t have the piece of paper to prove it! Yet.

But.

You know when I go out walking at night: I see things. “We’ll see things they’ll never see. You and I are gonna live foreveeeer!” What’s that supposed to mean? Women see things. Things we’ll never see. Like the scruff of my shoes upsetting an otherwise exemplary ensemble. They see the devilish glint of a greygreen eye, and all of it’s implications. The gleam of a beam of sunset light that lends beauty to the busted lamppost. They see it. Women. I wish I knew more about women. If I did I would go around making them one at a time, carrying on seven salutary relationships, each one blessing me with a separate virtue. “Come hither, my comforter!” “Woman of culture! Be at my side.” “Lady of the land, lend to me your rustic wit and mannerisms.” Yes, if I knew a thing or two about women it would be a different story altogether.  But that’s alright.

On the other side of things there’s that whole eh, whatdoyecallit, it’s the thing, the uh, the gammit. The gomboobler. The gawnbeesch! Yes, that’s another thing altogether and it’s very significant because as you know all roads lead back to the impairment of the senses. Except for the sense of smell. I see a man smelling his way around city centre on certain days of the week. No stick, no guide-dog, no nothing. He simply ambles along, nose in the air, arms behind his back, and smiles benevolently on all those who pass before him. He wears a long fur. They call him the mink monk.

G’day

She was young and girlish
He was tall and greased
A spritely thing of seventeen
Him in middle age

And by that I mean his twenties
But the gap was clear as day
The leggings she wore a wear a little cheap
She was stylish in her way

Her hair was spilt in black and white
It hung down past her shoulders
He hung around her like a lingering funk
A generation older

Shaggy, shabby, it seemed familiar
I guessed he must have had his plusses
I got distracted by a car on sale
And the two of them got away

Sometimes I go out shopping
I play it as I please
The music makes me, I just groove
And slip from common sight

I get a little pleasure, I can’t deny
From a well thought-out arrangement
The fruits, the veg, the meats, the treats
I’m a man of wealth and taste

Other folks I glance entranced
It’s all good in the ocean
Wheel away, I sift and sway
Keeping constant motion

When who should appear? My favourite couple.
I swing in neat behind them
But it seems this fine, young gentleman
Has a thumb jerked up his nose

“Gerrof, yar plonker! This here’s my girl.”
I freeze in feigned astonishment
“Oil harlve yor hedd if you don’t fayr kanter,”
“Now pikk ahnuther poignt.”

I give his girlfriend’s hair a tug
And spin off clowning laughing
He stamps his foot and says “Harroomph!”
“Yewll geddit in the neck!”

I flashed a smile, and with great style
Began to lope and loop
And just before turning for the next aisle over
Got a last glimpse at her hoop

I once knew a man who could play the tin whistle through his arse. He was extremely adept at this practice and was well-received at many local talent contests. Judges were wont to remark upon his ‘incredible dexterity’ and ‘impressive range’. He could play a variety of styles on the instrument including classical and jazz.

There was another man I knew. Well, not knew, but I seen him often. But, this man, he was the best dancer ever known to have walked the streets of Belfast. He had a convulsive style that gave the impression that he was taking some kind of an epileptic fit, but these were actually carefully controlled movements that he practiced a reported eight hours a day in order to be able to reproduce upon request. He worked for a while in a factory where he would keep his workmates in stitches by busting out moves at regular intervals, keeping rhythm with the clinks and clanks of the machinery to comedic effect. He was later fired for this practice.

There’s a woman who lives not too far from me with two sets of knees. This peculiar condition lends to her legs a certain articulation which allows her to walk up walls. She went in for an operation to have them fixed, but while she was out cold with the grey old senior surgeon leaning over, her right leg began to kick out at him violently, causing the man considerable distress. The damage incurred would not have been such had she not been wearing clogs at the time.

Late one Christmas Eve, as a young child, I sneaked downstairs to have a peek into the living room to see what was going on. At the bottom of the stairs I put my eye to the gap in the door and who did I see but Santa Claus himself. I was stunned, but quickly snapped out of it lest I should miss the magic of his workings. I looked him over: Santa was looking a bit rough this year, it seemed like his beard was falling out, and his costume was in shite state. I watched as he sniffed at the plate of mincemeat pies then sank the tumbler of brandy in one gulp. He proceeded then to produce his sack from the back pocket in his trousers, with less grandeur than I had hoped for. It was of the black plastic variety, the same kind my mum used for clearing out the bedrooms. After breaking into a cracked, hacking cough, he began putting all of the presents back into the bag. I don’t know, there must have been a mix-up of some kind: his appearance led me to believe that he was a man prone to accident and confusion. Anyway, I’d seen enough, Santy was real all right, all too real. I returned to my bedroom and dreamt of turkeys that talked.

There are one hundred and eight varieties of cornflour for sale around the world. There is an insectoid with seven legs known as the bitch-that-won’t-bite-back, she lives in Bolivia and isn’t very well regarded. There are too many people in the world, a friendly old man will one day come and remedy the problem. The island of Ireland is known to Bolivians as El Gringo’s Modella, for no particular reason. Seven hundred and forty three make-up retailers and I’ll never get to see the inside of one of them. What is the female equivalent of penis enlargement and why isn’t it being marketed more freely? If you had two pence in one hand and somehow managed to balance a sovereign on the underside of your middle toe, what makes a deer say oink? Grizzled grumblings for the mean meat-eating produce only grass please I’ll have four stomachs for my dinner tonight.

To finish, I’d like to make a proposal. I propose a toast to the unfortunate. To the underprivileged. To the suffering many. To little piglets all lost blind in a sty. To the tinkerings of water works unwelded. To the daily grind of a thousand forgers fencing. To the bog-rotten. To the lame. To the lime-filled. To anybody else that wants it really.

So long.

Fall with your feet on the other
Let the eyes fall dead in your head
Happiness is a hopeless fallacy
An awful screaming grind

Patch up the nothing ye bulger
And breen the good cross on your tart
I’ll have eighty five souls all asunder
If there’s anything more to be heard

Take a wile of your man he’s a header
And round back his way the craic’s good
Undergarments spoiled you unsettle me
Take the gourd out your mouth now and think

So well is the weakness ye poured out
And filled ‘er on back up with steam
I’ll give the toss they call patience
And you can do with the rest as you like

Onerous plugs all a welching
You’re the quare boy on the Bann
Give us a blast now on Monday

Because outside the chapel a blue dog yelps
And I don’t want to be the one caught cutting it

Your Arse Will Get Fatter

[The Pub] Two Gentlemen

– Ye see they brought out that new setta filters on Instagram?
-Is that right?
– Aye. Brought them out yesterday there.
– Right. *unsure* What do they do?
– *matter-of-factly* They’re for your dick.
– Fuck. Is that right, aye?
– Aye, was lookin’ at them there today.
– Jesus, *lies* I don’t be on Instagram too much these days.
– Naw, me neither. Me neither.
– *piqued* So, here…like what do they do?
– Ack, just make it look a bit different, tidy it up like.
– *hesitant* …can they it make it any bigger?
– *with finality* Naw. That’s the one thing they can’t do.
– *crestfallen* Aw…
– They can make it smaller.
– *distractedly* …aw. Naw… No call for that.

I have enormous respect, for Boris Johnson. I look to him as a shining symbol of all that is great and good in this world of ours. Character, integrity, good looks, charisma: the man really has it all. The things he does, whilst on camera, are just off the scale. I mean the sheer gall. He really is something else. You know I was watching his latest briefing earlier, (wowed, of course), when I couldn’t help but notice a couple of things. I don’t know, subliminal messaging, call it what you want; it was almost like there was something he was communicating, beyond the inspired slogans, and masterful rhetoric. Let me just pick a few things out…

The first: “While we work together to suppress the people, Arghem! Virus.”

Boris makes a booboo. “We must suppress! We must suppress! We must suppress!” A favourite command, exhorted while he and his cohorts play Robots in No10 (Tuesday mornings, 11am-12noon), has obviously found it’s way into the small spot in his consciousness reserved for public speaking. Let’s be fair, an easy mistake to make. Boris remains: The Man on Top.
Note: The ball of phlegm that was ejected from the PM’s mouth upon this slip-o’-the-tongue, missed the cameraman by inches. He never flinched.

Next: “And of course, I am deeply, spiritually reluctant to make any of these impositions or infringe(upon?) anyone’s freedom.”

Spiritually? Why, I believe I’ve just been hooked! Boris too is a man of humble piety, and perhaps a man of great wisdom and foresight. The emphasis with which he infused that word! Obviously drawn from some deep, deep well of emotion: This man is the real deal.
“You know he meditates two hours daily? Yes, sat at the feet of Pope Francis and the Dalai Lama. That’s right, wears a cloak around Number 10…”

Now: “We will put more police out on the streets and use the army to backfill, if necessary…”

If there was one line that made me think twice about whether this wasn’t the beginning of some weird, twisted modern-day holocaust… But no. These are perfectly understandable measures given the circumstances and one could argue that a visible military presence on the streets only serves to comfort and reassure. I know that when I see a jackbooted commando march his rifle past my window, it causes my face to break out in an even grin. “Mr Johnson. A-thankyou.”

And here: “We must take action now, because a stitch in time saves nine,”

 Oh Boris! Take me now, you devil! When I heard these words, my…I melted. This timeless edict has never before rang with such effect. These words, in the hands of the layman are trite and meaningless, but…But. Jesus, I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m stumped. Stupefied.

“One day soon, and I must stress that we’re not there yet, a mass testing, so efficient, that people will be able to be tested in minutes, *afterthought* so they can do more of the things they love. That’s the hope. That’s the dream. It’s hard, but it’s attainable, and we’re working as hard as we can to get there. But until we do, we must rely, on our willingness to look out for each other, to protect, each other. Never in our history, has our collective destiny, (and here the smiling starts, is he taking this seriously?) and our collective health, depended on our individual behaviour. ”

 Wait a second. Boris, you have dreams? By Gad, at times you almost seem human. So, a mass testing system. Gather the peasants into the nearest nightingale hospital, conveniently empty this time of year, strange…, force spiked instruments down their throats, grim-faced matrons slapping their foreheads mercilessly with open palms until a temperature forms, then a quick jab with a near-molten cattle-prod as they’re pushed to the exit: “There’s your number, don’t forget it!” “I’m free! I’m free! To the nearest shopping centre!” “No, McDonalds first!” “How about a concert? I hear there’s a gig on later!” Boris by this point is fronting a hit rock group, (Boris and The Gazettes, Eponymous, rated 5 stars across the board, all major publications) and is rumoured to be working on a collaboration with US Presidential candidate Kanye West.

“the fight against covid”

 Yes, yes, it’s one big fight, and we’re all in it. We are at war! Does not this insinuation rile some latent patriotism in you? Do battle-scenes not careen across the sound stage of your imagination? This is what our forefathers died for! Boris! I am with you! I will lay down my life for the greater good! Off to army supply store with me. I will be spending this winter’s lockdown decked out in full military regalia, waiting in my bunker for the first shell to hit.

“the discipline(beat yourself down), the resolve(do not allow yourself or any other person to stop you from keeping yourself down),and the spirit of togetherness (ah, humanity.)…


One can’t help but wonder is there a prankster colleague jumping from foot to foot behind the camera, pulling faces in an attempt to get our man to burst into peals of laughter. It certainly seems like he’s on the verge throughout, more so than ever when it comes to this final statement. Or maybe he’s just a little pleased with himself, with the certainty that he has once again delivered.

But here, it’s been an awfully long, drawn-out examination, and God it’s tiring, isn’t it? If you’re as bored reading this as I am writing it(the fictional ‘I’, to be sure), then you’re ready for a cigarette. And several pints. And a weighty packet of cocaine. To finish, I’ll simply state that Boris is Our Man. A man among men. A man of the ages. One whose doings will surely be woven into the fabric of time.

Be not surprised then, fair reader, if when you look to the skies tonight, instead of seeing that familiar, comforting sickle moon nestled amongst the clouds, you spy the ballooned face of Our Boris Johnston, five times the size, a picture of steely resolve, and stainless moral ineptitude; not forgetting that faint trace of a smile that is never far from his face, a constant reminder never to take one word he says seriously.

Here we are now all over again. This is the point. This is the point at where everything comes crushing down from above and smulches. Us. Us into nerdy little dirt birds, and us into ickle damp squibs. It’s grey, all of it grey, and it’s contagious. The machine has come a-crumpling, and we’re all scrambled eggs. You can taste it in your porridge. You can read it in your lover’s eyes. You can tell it by the way a certain sailboat creaks. Something’s off.

This may come as no great revelation to You Who Know, but the average brain-peddler is in need of edification! We need deceiving pie-charts! the carefully-worded chants! (accented so as to jig the numbed mind into a state of heightened awareness), and of course, glorious manifestos, authored by some Mask-less Avenger: He who streaks through streets, from alley to alley, in an audacious display of buffoonery, and panache.

There will no doubt come a day when we have scientific instruments tuned to the nuances of invisible violence, but for now, we must live on our wits. Indeed, we should be working at the tuning of our very own inner-receivers right this minute. Folly that we must revert to the ways of the ancients in order to overcome the technological megaliths of today, (or so it may seem to you)! There are those of course who will stand in line at the earliest available opportunity to hook themselves up to some user-friendly super-computer, casually dropping the luggage of their own free will in the process, as if it was ever theirs to begin with. “Myra, simulate space flight.” “Myra, activate footbath.” “Myra, grant carnal knowledge of Barbara Windsor.” A half an hour well spent. “Myra, present opt-out button.” “I’m sorry, User61795zb, you should have read the License Agreement. Now initiating suicide sequence.”

Now what is all this? These words. Eh? The incoherent ravings of a madman? Most certainly. And a proud one at that. It’s not every Jim, Joe, or Gerry who can claim to have lost their mind several times over and lived to tell the tale. And isn’t it a tale worth telling. But! For another day. There are sandwiches to be ate. Eaten. And they’ll not eat themselves. Bonsoir!

P.s That sailboat. You know the one I’m talking about. The one that gladdens your heart each time you pass it, a new pattern rusted with the rising of every tide. It bobs… bobs…. bobs. “Squeak!” “Hello.” “Sque-eaak!”

Last night, March 24 2018, Dillian Whyte emphatically defeated Lucas Browne with a thrilling Sixth Round KaYo. Whyte’s performance was near punch-perfect and he proved to the numberless doubters that you don’t have to be well-spoken, and a college graduate to be an intelligent, wise and dedicated man.

Watch the man speak, his Caribbean accent shines through and it is eerily apparent that this is a man of family, of ancestry, or atavistic wanderings in the never-before-seen underworld where real men roam to earn their bones.

He is a fighter I like immensely, and he not only talks it, he lives it, like so many others who are afraid to back up with actions, that which they could never hope to acknowledge with words.

His fellow British immigrant first generation settled rival Anthony Orange-Juice Squashua takes a somewhat different route, preferring to video himself walking an talking, playing a role for the benefit of the many that idolise him. But, is he doing anybody a favour with this sort of behaviour? For it is painfully oblivious to those with eyes to see that he is not behaving himself. He has taken notes from David Haye on this score, and while I do not dislike either man, it is the real who attract me, and others of my growing generation who want reality, who want men of the street to speak up. Dillian Whyte doesn’t have to pose. He can behave himself and those that don’t get him? Well, it’s their loss.

Up next week we have Joshua V Parker in what should be a tawdry affair, I think that the American public who enjoyed Whyte’s approach so much will find themselves snoring in their neighbour’s lapse as these two heavyweight bores lumber about the ring showing us nothing of truth and very little more of the action that our Renaissance of Boxing so dearly needs.

But here, folks, It’s all good, so keep ‘er salty, and be sure to support your local fighters. Peace out, enjoy xoSee you on the Otherside!

“First impressions/Are not to last” Goes the lyric from this crackin’ wee E.P’s title track; and I’m glad that they aren’t. My memory of first meeting the lovely Von Day was somewhat rough. It was a Wednesday night at the Ronnie Purvis-ran Society Sessions, downstairs in the Empire. There was an initial exchange of words, the exact details of which escape my mind, but we had a wee go at eachother and I was left feeling like she was somethin’ of a witch! And maybe she is… But yes! The impression did not last, as I was immediately struck by the emotional impact of her voice when she took to the stage. She’s got a wee bit of magic about her, all right, a gift, which she duly shares with the audience: the way it should be.

I’ve given this E.P a good few listens now and it’s lovely stuff; folky strummed song-structures with meaningful lyrics carried by a very natural voice – she’s managed that meanest of mean tasks for the Northern Irisher – to let her own accent flow through her singing without it sounding God-awful! I can’t think of many others that carry it off, Mary Coughlan(a southerner, I know!) springs to mind, as does West Belfast DirtPoet Acoustic Dan Gregory. Anyway! Here we go, I’ll take you along, track at a time…

Track one: The Start of Something New is a great opener, the bare-bones of the song are a clipped single-beat strummed verse with initially questioning lyrics “Are you scared/Or just excited?” We’re then treated to inspiring little couplets of joy – “Close your eyes/Make a wish/Count to three/There’s nothing to it/If it’s meant to be.” Weaving below and above Von’s voice are some nice touches of piano and a quietly throbbing electronic sound that’s somewhat reminiscent of U2; there are some lovely underlying vocal harmonies also, barely discernible, but very effective. The overall aural effect is lush and deep. The dynamics are well constructed, extra layers of sound mounting as we build into the uplifting chorus – “Say what you feel/Mean what you say//This could be the start of somethin’ else.” Yes. A classy opener. Von signs off with a delightful little Jimmy Page-ish guitar riff. Lovely Stuff.

Track two! ‘Oh Mercy.’ This one kicks in on an off-beat guitar pattern with a hint of jazz in the feel. The vocals are smooth and insistent, imploring the listener to “Take advantage of the comfort that you find.” as”Every day/Is an uphill climb.” True words, for most of us. We all have our ups and downs, and none more than the artistically inclined. Von tells us “It could rain at any time,” a notion we’re well used to in this country, soppy summers soiled by sun’s subtraction –  very familiar. We are told to “Take each day as it comes,” something I personally have come to live by in recent times. They teach it to ragged alcoholics and  stick-thin drug addicts in recovery, but it applies to us all. There are some nice strings put to good use on this number, dramatically enforcing the refrain – “Every day is an uphill climb.” A melancholic reminder, but one that rings true.

Now! Track number three. We’re ushered in with a nice locka chords, strummed sparsely, a sequence faintly familiar. A merrily plucked banjo then takes us by the hand, leading us into this cosy little sound-cavern. A jaunty wee setta hands clapping through the chorus helps things along. Von tells us a story, the details of which I’ll not spoil for you. She seems to excell in this area, keeping us goin’ with little snippets of a life lived who-knows-when. There are a few tasteful piano stabs throughout, choicely placed; aswell as some more of those echoed vocal harmonies. “Oh mercy/Tell me where to begin,” goes the wistful refrain, a throwback of the head, a look to the skies for some kind of guidance perhaps. She’s in good humour here, I feel. Singing this kind of song is maybe where she’s most at home.

Final track. Here we go. The closer. ‘Faith.’ I’ll not harp on much about the music here, other than to say that Von sings her lyrics very meaningfully. I’m tempted to type the words of this song out vertabim, but, once again, I’ll leave the treat for the listener to discover. As a fellow creative, I connect with this song so very much, I can’t overstate that.”Only I/Control my destiny,” “I’m free to make my own mistakes,” “Don’t try to tell me I am wrong,” “Please have a little faith in me.” It all touches me. The song builds sonically with what I think might be cello, bowed nicely and some accordion-type sounds towards it’s culmination. A great track, really very nice.

There we go, a track by track guide: an there’s not a bad one on it. Just my opinions and feelings, that’s all. I’ll finish by saying that I did meet Von a second time, downstairs in the Student’s Union, and this time she was very pleasant! I suppose like alot of us introverted writers/singers/painters you could catch them in any mood any old day of the week. As the lyric of ‘Different’ goes “It could rain at any time/ It might snow/Your guess is as good as mine!”

You can get a wee listen to this beaut at – https://soundcloud.com/siobhandaymusic/sets/the-start-of-something-else and keep up to date with gigs and appearances on her facebook page – https://www.facebook.com/von.day.16?fref=ts

“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.