Get Off My Lawn, Punks

It’s been about 6 months since I posted something on this blog, and what a pleasure it’s been, eh? But I’ve finally succumbed to the barrage of insistent inquiries that could conceivably have been pouring in, and put feeble fingers to calcified keys. Just to tell you that I’ve got nothing to say.

When we put that Catch and Release business to bed at the end of last year, I decided to take a break from the relentless self-promotion that had taken over my life. I felt like I needed to stop talking about playing, writing and listening to music, and actually play, write, and listen to music. And it’s been grand. But I missed the little messages I used to stuff in a Coke bottle and fling into the internet. Stretching one line’s worth of idea into 500 words every couple of weeks gave me a real sense of achievement. But the longer I stayed away, the fewer ideas I seemed to get. And now when I look back at last year’s attempts, they read like they were written by someone else. Someone carefree, wide-eyed, and innocent. See, the real problem is that I turned 40.

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It’s not only suitable topics that are the problem, it’s finding a way to express these newfound feelings of resentful middle-aged bitterness that’s got me scratching my head. Continuing unfiltered, this blog could rapidly turn into the front-porch rocking chair rantings of a deranged old coot. And I guess this constant sharing of our lives that we’re all supposed to be enjoying is really starting to get up my nose (I recognise the irony of writing this in a personal blog), and much of the time I can’t be bothered making my mundane life sound more exciting than yours, which rather seems to be the point. I find myself longing for the simple pleasures of a nice cup of tea and an afternoon spent throwing rocks at children.

On the other hand, I’m feeling energised by a weird feeling of rebellion. I’m yet to find a distinct target, but it has something to do with all the money and hype and pomp involved in today’s jazz world, and how little of it has to do with playing jazz; and how apparently eager some players are to buy into the bullshit. I’m not sure how I’ll express this, but it’s something to think about. Fingers crossed it’ll get personal and catty!

Anyway, I’m 40, and it seems my daydreams are evenly split between bringing down the establishment and making plans for a nice rock garden. And this is all just a drawn out way of saying I’m pulling the shutters up, and the blog is open for occasional business. Anything you want to know about? Cheers, Nick

Barbies, Big Bands, and Bolting from Bar Tabs: Sydney, Week 2

Note: this all happened ages ago. N

When we left each other last, I was dealing with my 40th birthday with calm, philosophical, zen-like acceptance. And four jugs of Illusion and a tattoo. This dubious landmark fell, as have so many before it, on New Year’s Day; and as this was a big one, my younger brother, exhibiting his trademark generosity and questionable judgment, threw me a barbecue. The barbie is a big part of Australian culture, but I can’t see much to separate it from backyard get-togethers anywhere else.

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I don’t care much about cake, but this thing was freaking amazing. Ta, Rossana!

There’s lots of charred meat, usually a couple of forlorn, neglected salads, lots of beer, and talk about weather and sports. The only difference here was that the food was seriously top-shelf (cos my bro doesn’t fuck around once he’s strapped on the apron), and a lot of said food was kangaroo. If you’ve never eaten our national symbol, it’s lean and gamey and delicious. If you can find it, try it. As a rule, I dislike gatherings of more than one person, but this really was a lovely gang of people, and I grudgingly admit to enjoying myself. Although, after everyone left, I held a private birthday ceremony wherein I stripped naked, smeared myself with kangaroo fat and charcoal, climbed a tree and sang “It Was A Very Good Year” very quietly to myself, for several hours.

 

I used to play in big bands a lot when I lived in Sydney. I don’t get called for that kind of work much in New York, and I miss it. So I was well chuffed when my old boss Dan Barnett called me to sub in his band. Dan’s a great trombonist and vocalist, as well as a charismatic and entertaining bandleader, and his gigs are always top fun. Once a month for years he’s played at the Unity Hall Hotel in Balmain- one of those classic inner-city pubs that Sydney used to be known for. Recently the gig has moved next door, to the much more comfortable Workers’ Bar- a top little venue in the former home of one of the city’s first workers’ unions. It’s a friendly joint, decorated with kitschy reminders of its Labor party heritage, and this afternoon was packed with smiley folk downing beers and piling onto the dance floor. This is really one of the most fun gigs in Sydney, and if you’re in town on a Sunday, I heartily recommend it. Here’s some of Dan’s band in action at the Unity:

and if you want to find out about the band’s new album (recorded just a few weeks ago), you can check it out here: http://www.danbarnett.com.au

I filled in a few quiet days reintroducing mIMG_2341yself to various family members, eating meat pies, drinking beer, and being a tourist. I even went to look at the harbour. I felt like a bit of a schmuck- like a New Yorker going to Times Square- but I had to remind myself of its loveliness. It was idiotic of me to attempt this during the summer holidays- from the bridge, ‘round Circular Quay, to the Opera House it was elbow-to-arsehole sunburned shouty English tourists. I gazed serenely out across the water, dreaming of flinging a few of the whining buggers in, but eventually had to seek refuge in
the cool and beery Orient Hotel.

 

And suddenly it was my last night in town, and I had a gig! Legendary Sydney drummer Andrew Dickeson is one of my oldest mates, musical cohorts, and teachers; and he’d very kindly lined up a show at a relatively new club called Foundry 616. Run by renowned jazz impresario Peter Rechniewski, it’s a well appointed, well designed jazz club in the classic supper club style. The band was Dicko and me, with bassist and old mate Brendan Clarke, and guitarist Dave Blenkhorn- a Sydney lad now plying his very swinging trade in Europe. The joint was packed to the rafters with family and friends, which was initially terrifying, but ultimately heart-warming and somewhat overwhelming. It was a terrific hang, we played as much bebop as we possibly could, and as a salute to my Sydney salad days, I ended the night by skipping out on my bar tab. Sorry about that, Peter.

Here’s a tune from that very gig!

I managed to fit in another 24 hours in Hong Kong on my way home, where I attempted to eat this:

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Righto, more soon! Cheers, Nick

Little Italy, Big Fish,and Skank in a Chinese Brothel: Sydney, Week 1

Note: the word “now” in the first sentence refers to a time about two weeks ago. Pretend I posted this then, and you’re just reading it now. I know, you’ve been busy…

I’m writing to you now (that was it) on a Cathay Pacific flight from Hong Kong to New York. They’ve got a good selection of British telly onboard, and I’ve just watched two hours of Cockney sitcoms to aid in the  digestion of whatever it was I just ate, so I apologise if things go a bit how’s-your-father, if you know what I mean. I’ve just spent a couple of weeks in my home town of Sydney. It’s been twelve years since I lived there, and three since I last visited. It’s an odd feeling to go back after all this time: it all feels equally foreign and familiar. Like that guy from Fantasy Island. Ricardo Montalban. Not Hervé Villechaize. He’s more Adelaide. Don’t worry- this won’t be on the test. Anyways, let’s start at the beginning.

The first thing that happens when you land in Sydney- if you’re me- is that your Australian accent comes back. Like, immediately. In my time in the US, I’ve developed a weird hybrid accent which, while saving me from having to repeat myself to cloth-eared locals, makes me the target of much scorn from visiting Aussies. But here I was, talking like a local again before I’d even collected my carry-sacks from the trundle-round. Next time you visit, try addressing your friendly immigration officer as an old c#nt- you’ll fit right in! I was staying at the home of my handsome and generous younger brother in the charming suburb of Leichhardt, named in memory of a fellow of the same name, who did something memorable. I spent many of my younger days in this area, and I was keen to revisit some of the old haunts.

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Leichhardt is Sydney’s Little Italy. It’s not overtly Italian, like New York’s cartoonish Mulberry Street, but instead it’s spread-out and residential, and lots of old people still speak Italian. If you hang out in the wrong places, you might run into the occasional “colourful racing identity”, but it’s more about old women dressed in black with sons who still live at home. I have to stop in at Bar Italia, which actually can get a bit fuhgeddaboudit, but I’ve been going there since I was a teenager, and it hasn’t changed. The food and coffee are decent, but go there for the Italian-Australian atmosphere.

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Christmas in Australia is hot. It’s just one of the things we obstinately insist on doing differently. We also sleep under our beds, comb our hair with forks, and wear socks over our flip-flops. There are a few old-timers who persist with the big traditional hot Christmas dinner, but most of us realise it’s more seasonally appropriate to spend the day shovelling the contents of the Pacific ocean into our gobs. And if you’re in Sydney, this means a visit to the Fish Markets. It’s been a while, so I’d forgotten that this is the greatest place on earth.

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It’s a big, wet, sprawling, chaotic affair, with dozens of burly vendors selling every animal that’s ever set fin in an ocean. They stay open ‘round the clock for a couple of days before Christmas to deal with demand, but it’s still insane at 3AM. I like to leave my bro to do the purchasing while I wander around inspecting the freshness of giant grouper by examining their teeth. I wish there was another way.

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There’s not much to do between Christmas and new year. Everything is closed except the pubs; and when you’ve been in town three days, and the bar staff know more about you than your family does, you’ve been spending too much time there. Anyway, this week is for Australians to lie on the couch, watch the cricket, and digest, like a snake that’s just eaten a whole goat. And then slid onto a couch to watch cricket.

Then New Years Eve rolled around as it so often does, and for the big night I was thrilled to be playing with some old chums in a Ska band called Backy Skank. I’m proud to say I was a founding member of this band 20-something years ago, and reuniting is always a gas.

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The venue was Lazybones lounge- a two story warehouse-style joint, run by a charming madman called Craig. We think Craig sleeps there. Backy Skank frontman Pete described the decor as “part Chinese brothel, part English gentlemen’s club; although I’ve never been to an English gentlemen’s club.” Dozens of vintage Chesterfield sofas for napping, bizarre nicknacks on every surface, pornographic paintings on the ceilings, and a general attitude of louche abandon- this is where you want to spend New Years Eve. We skanked it up for a few hours, playing hits from Madness, the Specials, a bit of Marley; while downstairs, I was chuffed to discover my mates Dan Barnett, Dave Blenkhorn and James Ryan playing jazz! Upstairs for beer and ska, then downstairs on the breaks for whiskey and jazz! A fabulous night. Then I turned fucking 40.

Next up, Sydney, week 2: fun, swinging Aussie jazz gigs, and the onset of resentful middle-aged bitterness!

 

Bonkers in Honkers Part 2

When I left you, we were about to start playing at Hong Kong’s Lyric Theater- technically the reason for us being there. For an out-of-touch bebop musician like me, a relatively big pop show like this is unfamiliar territory. I’m used to playing with two or three cohorts, minimal amplification, minimal audience, almost nothing in the way of stage fog or strobe lights, and a fairly reliable absence of rampant slavering groupies; and in most ways the Bianca Wu show was very different.

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Most of this pop lark is an absolute gas. Now I may have a reputation as an elitist; an intellectual and artistic snob, but I can assure you that, as Tolstoy said, “Great works of art are only great because they are accessible and comprehensible to everyone.Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/t/tolstoy_leo.html#k6TJxtMzHcru8zuC.99”… The music is great fun to play; the songs are all in Cantonese, meaning we can come up with dirty juvenile approximations of the lyrics; the singer is easy on the eyes, it’s great watching the swooping video cameras narrowly miss the absurd set designs, the enormous number of seemingly inept stage crew bumping into eachother provide constant amusement, and taking a bow in front of a cheering crowd never gets tired. But a few things take some getting used to. In order to hear in a room this size, we have to listen to ourselves, and each other, through headphones, otherwise the amplified sound bouncing back from the room sounds like a garbled mess. So each of us is outfitted with a pair of “cans” (headphones, not breasts), and a small mixing desk with a knob for each instrument. Pop music- it’s all cans and knobs these days. This means I can adjust the volume level of each other player in my headphones, usually based on how much I like his shirt, and how nice he was to me that day. Our drummer Dan has the added pleasure of being surrounded by a thick sheet of perspex, giving him the appearance of a caged animal, which is not doing much to help the reputation drummers have already.

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And our musical director, Art, has a microphone stuck in his face at all times that feeds directly to us, so he can verbally hold our hands and lead us though the show. Add to this the fact that we can rarely see or hear the audience, and it sometimes feels like an elaborate prank. Albeit a fairly well paid one. The Hong Kong crowds were also presumably disappointed by the dearth of saxophone solos, but they’re a stoic people. After the shows, Bianca would chat and take photos with hundreds of fans individually, and sell more of her CDs in a night than I have of mine under my couch. We’d sneak out the back door, grateful to security for doing such an amazing job of keeping fans away from the band, and then it was off into the night.

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On our last trip, after an evening spent dodging aggressive prostitutes and bloated, ruined expats in Wanchai, Dan, Art and I (allegedly) drunkenly stumbled into a bar with what I’m going on record as saying was an awesome cover band. ACDC, Bon Jovi, Van Halen- these guys played note-for-note recreations of ‘em all. And after sheepishly asking around, it seems it’s a bit of a Hong Kong thing: Filipino bands working their arses off playing the hits for drunken idiots. Now I’m a closet hair-band fan, but what really impressed me here was the talent and stamina. These guys tear it up hour after hour, night after night, segueing from one song to the next, while showing no outward signs of the gaping chasm of crushing disappointment that presumably inhabits their souls. I like it when they do Cherry Pie. Now I’ve played in my share of cover bands, but when we had to play three 45 min sets in a night, we’d stomp our feet and refuse to put the wigs and body glitter back on until we got a pay rise, a massage, and a week off. I’m impressed, I tell you. And somehow, magically, this trip we fell into the same bar, with the same band, playing the same songs. I saw it as fate’s way of telling me to rip my shirt off, douse myself in Chartreuse, and scream the wrong words to Livin’ On A Prayer. It seems Hong Kong bouncers have a more indeterminist outlook than me.

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This photo has no relation to the story.

As I mentioned in my last outpouring, this city is known for is its food, and I’d decided to shove as much in as possible. I’d had limited success with expert recommendations, so I tried listening to the internet. One highlight was a dumpling joint 20 mins walk from our hotel where Dan and I, both fairly large lads, were politely and graciously wedged behind the smallest table available, in a greasy nook under the stairs. Crammed in amongst the mops and Kitty Litter, we perused the menu. Occasionally I like to gamble and not read the English translations, ordering based on what I think the Chinese characters might mean. Got a lot of respect for my excellent taste too- as one dish was served the room went silent and the other customers started filming me. In fact several fainted in admiration. I also waited for an hour outside Kam’s Roast Goose to have an incredible Michelin-starred lunch for 10 bucks- more of that amazing fatty crispy awesomeness. I liked it so much I offered them a slogan: “Our goose puts the “Honk” in Hong Kong!” I’m not welcome at Kam’s anymore.

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We finished up the tour with an after-party. I think you know what I’m talking about. Rock and Roll! Am I right?! Try and imagine the most debauched, depraved, orgiastic rock band party ever. Then please describe it to me, ‘cause that’s as close as I’ll get. The spring rolls were delightful. I think they had some shredded seaweed in them. Next stop: Sydney!

 

Bonkers in Honkers Part 1

The following was written in Hong Kong, but posted in Sydney. I’m really not very good at this. Enjoy!

If you’ve been enduring my incessant social mediafying, you’ll know we’re about half way through our Hong Kong escapade, and I thought a rundown was in order. I’m here with a gang of killer musicians from New York to play with Hong Kong pop star Bianca Wu. We’ve all worked with her many times over the past six-or-so years, and this is our third visit to the area. Bianca’s a pretty big deal in these parts, and we’re here doing three shows at the 1200-seat Lyric Theatre in Hong Kong’s Academy for the Performing Arts. The shows are big- 26 songs over two and a half hours; it’s a real workout for the rhythm section, and an absolute doddle for me. The horn section is only on stage for about two thirds of the show, and much of that is spent adjusting our music stands and losing count of bars of rest. The rest of the time I’m offstage, wandering the labyrinthine hallways shouting “ROCK ’N’ ROLL!!” in a bad cockney accent. Never gets tired. There’s altogether too much rehearsing and sound checking, but we’ve had a bit of time to get into some trouble.

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To start at the start, we were met at the airport by our producer Patrick, and bundled into cabs to the city. It’s a fair hike- the airport is located on the always-satisfyingly named island of Chek Lap Kok (yep, still there), and the trip takes you through several islands, Kowloon, and under Victoria Harbour- none of which is visible from the endless freeway. We were all pretty dazed after the marathon flight, but steeled ourselves for a welcome dinner at a local restaurant. My spirits lifted noticeably with the discovery that the joint’s specialty was roast meat. Suddenly, it became clear that the only things missing from my life were dead animals and weak Chinese beer. I mentioned this to our host and was presented with a whole fatty, crispy, juicy, life-affirming roasted goose, which I ate. I would have ordered another one, but fellow diners were starting to look at me with genuine concern. I wiped enough goose fat out of my eye to wink reassuringly at them, then lay down under the table. Eventually I slid back to the hotel where I took a handful of Melatonin and slept like a greasy baby.

Goose collage

 

 

Next morning, I jolted my addled brain into action with a visit to one of the excellent coffee shops which are multiplying throughout the city. Traditionally, China has been associated with coffee in the way the US has been associated with thin healthy people, but this is changing fast, and I had numerous quality caffeinated options in walking distance from our digs. Alert and teeth-grindingly jittery, I joined the band for a hair-raising van ride through the city to our first rehearsal. For an hour we were thrown about like sneakers in the clothes dryer, while our lunatic driver veered across lanes and ploughed through vegetable carts and stacks of empty boxes; all the while juggling a dozen cell phones emitting incessant, piercing alerts and ringtones. When we arrived at rehearsal, it was all I could manage to crawl to a couch, close my eyes, and do nothing for two hours. Fortunately, that’s what I’m being paid to do.

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The Afterthought Horns and the rhythm section. Both doing what they do best.

Honkers is a glutton’s paradise, with noodles, dumplings and delicious animal parts of every imaginable species within arm’s reach. I had a bit of time on Thursday, so I went searching for a couple of joints that had come recommended. I wandered down to the stunning Victoria Harbour, surely one of the loveliest city harbours in the world, and hopped on the ferry to Kowloon. It’s madness over there- an engorged, throbbing, quivering mess of humanity. Tourists, locals, hawkers, beggars, millionaires, all conspiring to stop me getting anywhere. I had some pretty amazing dumplings at the famed Din Tai Fung, then fought my way back through the throng. By the time I got back to the harbour, I’d somehow managed to buy a dozen watches, four suits, and a Filipino wife. Don’t know how I’m going to fit them all in my bag.

HK Harbour collage

Ferry and junk

Then it was another ferry over to the part of town creatively titled Central, where I was aiming for a little noodle place endorsed by Anthony Bourdain. I slogged up and down tiny alleys till I found the spot Google had assured me was the one. Three mouthfuls of impenetrable, leathery noodles were all I could get down before I pushed my plate away in defeat, grudgingly paid the bill and plodded home, cursing Bourdain, that lanky, septic bugger. It was then I discovered that I’d been at Mak An Kee, ONE BLOCK from my noodley holy grail, Mak UN Kee. I’ve just checked my Cantonese-English dictionary, and it seems “Un” means yummy, and “An” means rubbery tasteless shit reserved for idiot westerners.

That night we had our first crack at the stage of the Lyric, about which I will tell you… next time. Cheers!

A Curse Unleashed; Working for Doughnuts; and a Dahlia by Any Other Name

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I’m back, safe and sound with the muggers and drug dealers in NYC. My people. The last leg of our little NW adventure took place in charming Portland. It’s rare on a tour like this to spend a few days in one town, but that’s how it worked out, and I was well pleased. I reintroduced myself to the town in usual Hempton fashion; by schlepping my gear for miles. But there are few more schlep-friendly towns around- well maintained sidewalks, no hills to speak of, and an almost complete absence of people. It’s a quiet joint. The walk took me across the delightful Willamette river to the colourful East Side.

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If you want to relive the cross-country car trips you took as a kid with your family in the 70s, I recommend booking a night at the Eastside Inn. I had three. It’s got all the hallmarks of a classic old-timey motel: dusty, airless lobby attended by moth-eaten owner; three floors of squat rooms with wraparound balconies designed in the maximum-security-prison style; a strip club across the street (Union Jacks…); mysterious banging noises; and an unsurpassed level of throat-clutching mustiness. Seriously, when I opened that door I was hit by an acrid wave; it was like discovering the chamber where an Egyptian Pharaoh kept his grandmother’s bedsheets. A bit like this:

I kept the doors and windows open day and night, but this stuff lived there. After three days in that room, my suit became the season’s have-must item!

On the Sunday night, we headed south to the town of Aurora, and the Aurora Colony Vineyard. Oregon is known for its wineries, and one of these days, a vineyard jazz tour is in order. I was joined by some top-notch Portland players, and we played in the vineyard’s tasting room to a select (read small) group of discerning patrons. A little gig like this, while not financially particularly rewarding, is still a great pleasure for its intimacy. The audience felt involved in the performance, and I felt involved in the wine tasting. Very involved, actually. They squeeze a mean Sauv Blanc, and our generous hosts laid on some top-flight grub (pear and blue-cheese pizza anyone?). Audience and band chatted after the show, and when we rolled out of there, we were all firm friends.

I had the next day off, and spent it on one of the classic Portland tourist activities: standing in line all freaking day at the bank. I had some Canadian cash to deposit, and when I finally reached my 12-year-old teller, he was not only unfamiliar with Canadian currency, I suspect he’d never heard of the country. We sorted it out, and after converting it at the current rate, I took my Vancouver gig money and bought a doughnut.

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Voodoo Doughnuts: The Magic is in the Hole.

I tramped around town for the rest of the day, sampled from the countless food carts, got lost in the world’s biggest bookshop (if you lose your friend in a bookshop, can you have them paged?), and had dinner at a few of the city’s 65-odd breweries with a record company executive (it was actually my friend Nick from the Posi-Tone label…). Beer is a big thing in this town- they’ve got more breweries than any other city in the world- and you’ll often find yourself sitting in the shadow of the vat containing the beer you’re currently drinking. They go for the big hoppy varieties, subtle as a smack in the ear with a housebrick, and often a bit sweet for mine, but I’ll keep trying.

Tuesday we played at what was then called the Dahlia Theater in the lovely town of Canby, Oregon. Since I was originally booked for this show, the venue has been called Canby Wedding Chapel, Angelina’s Artiste Centre, and the Dahlia Theater. Who know’s what it’s called now. I can’t tell you what a joy it is to promote a show that changes its name every week. It’s actually a real Methodist chapel, built in 1884, with lovely ornate pressed tin walls. It’s a beautiful old pile, with naturally warm acoustics, and is now, thanks to owners Marilyn and Martin, exclusively used for concert presentations. Check this joint out!

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Next morning, it was toodle-pip to the girls at Union Jacks, and a cab (driven by a local bass player- I talked all the way) to the airport. It was a great fun trip, and I’m looking forward to getting back there soon. Next week: bonkers in Honkers!

Uppity youngsters, a sentimental Journey, and a belt rings a Belltown

Back on the tour bus, with a whole new entourage. Glad I didn’t learn the names of the last one. So confusing- I don’t know how Willie Nelson does it! And these groupies really seem to have no idea what the job entails. Very poor.

 I’m headed down to Portland, Oregon from      the lovely Seattle, and I’m kind of sorry to be leaving. It’s one of my favourite towns to visit, and I look forward one day to seeing some of it… My sightseeing this time consisted of hauling my gear a mile or so through impenetrable fog from the bus station to the hotel. By pure luck, I’d chosen the charming Belltown neighbourhood in which to base myself- it’s a quirky spot with a nice mix of hipsterish bars and very picturesque homeless people. I fed and watered at the Belltown Pub, and got dolled up for the gig.

 Friday’s gig was at a joint callled Boxleys in North Bend, a half-hour drive from the city. A musician-run club, it’s heavily involved in jazz education, and is part of a developing cooperative with a few other clubs in the area, the idea being that eventually touring players will be able to do a circuit of the region, instead of playing just one club. We had a very enthusiastic crowd in attendance, including a lot of kiddies, which meant I had to tone down some of the intense, X-rated portions of my patter; and the goat got the night off. After the show, one of the kids came and asked if my album was available on iTunes, because he doesn’t own a CD player. I took my dentures out and threw them at him.

  
After I got back to the hotel, I thought a wander through the neighbourhood was in order. The first bar I went into looked strangely familiar. Bars two through seven rang a bell too. I eventually realised that I’d stumbled into the same neighbourhood my mate Dan and I had bar-crawled through two years earlier. I figured that made me a local and breezily told the bartender to “put ’em on my tab” as I sauntered out the door. At least, that’s how I remember it. It would also explain the bruises. 

  
Saturday night found us in a town called Renton, just south of the city. A pretty new club, Shuga is a sprawling pile with bar, restaurant and music room all separate from eachother. The owner had sent me panicky emails for weeks prior, concerned that we wouldn’t have an audience. I didn’t tell him that the time spent writing me these emails could have been spent promoting the show. He also hired a singer to sit in with us, to increase our allure. Normally if a club owner did this, I would tell him to sit on it, but I’m the out-of-towner here, so I took it. Turned out she was very nice and a good singer; and the crowd was fine, and all stayed to the end, so everyone was happy. On a break, I took a stroll through Renton’s deserted streets to get some cash. Suddenly I tripped, and found myself in a neighbourhood bar where I ran into every resident of Renton. Packed it was. And for karaoke. As I walked in, someone in the corner was dismembering Frank Sinatra, while the crowd ignored him enthusiastically. Then the next tune started and my ears pricked up to the opening strain of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”. With a cheer, 100 or so Rentonites raised their Budweisers and started singing along. I joined in, and for a minute, the good people of Renton and I were one. I went back and finished out the gig, playing my part as a sophisticated, jet setting jazz musician. But deep down, I knew I was just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. 

Next up: homemade clothes, craft beer, strip clubs, and the mustiest hotel room this side of the Mustiville! Cheers, Nick

Swinging a Canadian Club; and a Bucket Full of Poutine 

On the tour bus like a rockstar! I don’t recognize anyone in my entourage, and I’m surprised so many groupies dress in sweat pants and Ugg boots,  but whatever. It’s been a pretty huge couple of days; I’m beat, and I’m glad they’re all pretending to ignore me.

Caught the 6AM flight from NY yesterday, having come straight from work. The only person crankier than me on the flight was the two year old sitting next to me. It was an impressive seven hour marathon of screaming and flailing, and the kid made a fair racket too. I arrived gritty-eyed and dishevelled in charming Vancouver, but happy to be free. To the hotel for a quick lie down, then a 30-second stroll to Frankie’s Italian Kitchen. 

  
 A few months ago, Frankie’s was just a classy Italian restaurant with a faintly Mafia-esque name. Then Jazz impresario Cory Weeds moved in. For 13 years, Cory ran the esteemed Jazz Cellar in Vancouver: a top notch jazz club that hosted countless jazz legends; and even Hempton made an appearance shortly before it shut down. Coincidentally. Cory has now turned Frankies into a comfortable, welcoming jazz room, with great sound, piano, drums, ambience- everything one wants in a club. 

 Joining me on the stage were three fabulous local players: Jodi Proznick at the bass, Miles Black on piano, and Jesse Cahill at the drums. Time didn’t allow for a rehearsal, so a talk-through was all they got- and they nailed everything. I couldn’t have asked for a more swinging group. The crowd was smiley and receptive, and the beer was cold and restorative. I also got to spend a bit of time with the Canadian wing of the Hempton clan, and talk cricket with Jesse. 

 After the show, I retreated to my hotel bar for a nightcap, and ended up with a bucket-sized bowl of Poutine. This is a Candian specialty (actually a Montreal thing, I think), and I’d never tried it. It’s essentially french fries and gravy, with some kind of cheese curd splattered about. I was underwhelmed. I think one might have to be a lot drunker than I was to fully appreciate Poutine’s singular depth and complexity. 

  
 Then it was bed, and now it’s bus. I’ll be in Seattle in an hour or so- tonight I’m at a joint called Boxley’s in North Bend, with a whole new band. I’ll tell you all about it…
Cheers, Nick

Hempton Hits the Road

We’re taking Catch and Release to the West Coast! If you’ve got friends or enemies in Vancouver, Seattle or Portland, please spread the word! Ticket info below.

And please follow along on FacebookTwitter, and now Instagram!

hempton pnw with quote

Thurs Nov 26 @ Frankie’s, Vancouver: Tickets

Fri Nov 27 @ Boxley’s, North Bend WA: Tickets

Sat Nov 28 @ Shuga, Renton WA: Tickets

Sun Nov 29 @ ACV, Aurora OR: Tickets

Tues Dec 1 @ The Dahlia Theatre, Canby OR: Tickets

 

 Don’t Knock the Knob Jockey

The other day I spent several hours in a tiny windowless closet. Don’t judge me- sometimes we all need a quiet place to contemplate life while lying in a shivering ball, wide-eyed and whimpering. But in this case, I was in an engineer’s studio in Midtown Manhattan, remastering the Catch and Release tracks for the upcoming CD release. And it occurred to me that we’ve never really talked about the post-recording process. Not that that’s any reason to start now. But someone’s got to cater to your insatiable appetite for sizzling new content. Begin.

 The first step after recording a tune is picking a take. Usually when recording an album, we’ll play each tune two or three times, then move on. But because we had all afternoon for each tune, we usually did five or six. Then I had to pick the best one. Now I don’t have children, but I imagine this process is akin to picking which one of your offspring you dislike the least. Actually, I find the whole listening-back process to be pretty unpleasant- it’s kind of like rubbing your dog’s nose in its own poo. But it’s got to be done, and eventually you settle on your favourite pooey child.   

 Then comes mixing. This is fairly mystifying to me, but it seems to involve manipulating the sound of each instrument within the recording, to try to recreate a real live performance. A saxophone played directly into a microphone doesn’t really sound anything like a saxophone aimed at your head from the stage of a jazz club. So we have to fiddle with it. Different frequencies are toyed with, and effects are added to mimic the sound bouncing off walls and people. Then we fix the levels: bass softer here, drums a bit lower here, saxophone louder here. And here. And in this bit. And I think that’s mixing: getting the instrument sounds, the “room” sounds, and making sure the saxophone is loud enough. 

  

 The mastering process is even more mysterious to me, and I have to confess I’ve dropped off in more than one mastering session. But basically, this is the last step in the process before the album goes to print. Some jiggling is done with overall sound, beginnings and ends of the tracks are tidied up, appropriate spaces are wedged between tunes, and the whole mess is sent to the printers. 

 I have great respect for the folks who devote themselves to this discipline. They sit for hours on end in an airless box, with an intensity of focus which I can’t maintain for more than a few minutes. I try. Really I do. I talk in really abstract terms involving colours and depths and weights. I watch for when the engineer twiddles a knob, and I say Hm or Yeah. I even invested in a pair of those glasses with the open eyes painted on the lenses so they can’t tell I’ve drifted off. That’s how much I care. And when people ask me who did the mixing, I tell them, and then add that I was there. I was involved. I was putting in. A lot of people snore when they’re concentrating.

 Anyway, next time you’re listening to an album, take a second to notice the “sound”. Somebody made that. 

 Righto, more soon. Cheers, Nick