The Jazz Factory |
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Tuesday November 20, 2012
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The "mob" at the
old Maroochydore Pub. Sadly now a "boutique" venue.
When you want genuine
music--music that will come right home to you like a bad quarter, suffuse
your system like strychnine whisky, go right through you like Brandreth's pills, remify your
whole |
The
Jazz Factory is based on the Sunshine Coast
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THE SEATED DUCK To be a solo
pianist it helps to be a schmuck, For no
sagacious fellow wants to be a sitting duck. A seated duck
would be perhaps a better turn of phrase, for someone in the spotlight under everybody’s gaze. And that includes
the barman and the waiters who agree, Your hours
are too short (they think your paid some splendid fee) Tonight the
gigs in Kensington, the piano is painted white; You know
that’s camouflage - it means the damn thing got blight. You stroke
the keys, two notes are dead and both the pedals squeak The treble is
way out of tune the action’s up the creek But now it’s
time to set about that keyboard’s broken grin Which complements your phoney smile already wearing thin. You sit and
from this moment on, you’re everybody’s, but. The bores,
the drunks, the know-alls, and of course the local nut. You kick off
with some ballads, bossas, evergreens and blues, Forget your
soul - you’re only here to help them sell the booze You amble
through some standards ”Soon” and ”Have you met
miss Jones?” A punter
lurches up and asks for something by the Stones. You roll the
blues, play ”Lover Man” & ”Here’s that rainy day” ”The
BEATLES!” someone bellows, so you trot out ”Yesterday” You’ve
memorised a thousand songs? Ye Gods that’s not good enough! You don’t
know Elton’s latest hit? you must be pretty duff! Requests come
up for “Small Hotel”, for “Stardust” and “Blue Moon” But when you
improvise they say: “He doesn’t know the tune!” You’re bugged
by boogie woogie buffs and singers who can’t sing And ragtime
freaks who somehow always ask you to play the Sting But really
all you need to know are “Misty” and “Take Five”, “As time goes
by” and “Summertime” in order to survive) Some nights the
punters love you and your playing seems inspired: They hang
onto yore every note; it’s nice to be admired On other
nights you’d swear you’ve got two fingers and eight thumbs It’s time
like this you’ll wish you had support from bass and drums A fan comes
up and bend your ears (he’s into self-expression) You sigh and
mumble platitudes with well rehearsed discretion “Is jazz a
craft or art?” he asks, “a thing of brain or heart?” He means
well, tell him “jazz is craft, but getting work is art!” Last night
you were in Newcastle, next week you’re off to Rome While bills
and small buff envelopes accumulate at home So why not
quit, and take a job from nine to five instead? Or does it
sound a bit too much like working |