The Jazz Factory
Tuesday November 20, 2012
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
Jazz Factory is based on the Sunshine Coast
THE SEATED DUCK
To be a solo
pianist it helps to be a schmuck,
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,
are too short (they think your paid some splendid fee)
gigs in Kensington, the piano is painted white;
that’s camouflage - it means the damn thing got blight.
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 drunks, the know-alls, and of course the local nut.
You kick off
with some ballads, bossas, evergreens and blues,
soul - you’re only here to help them sell the booze
through some standards ”Soon” and ”Have you met
lurches up and asks for something by the Stones.
You roll the
blues, play ”Lover Man” & ”Here’s that rainy day”
BEATLES!” someone bellows, so you trot out ”Yesterday”
memorised a thousand songs? Ye Gods that’s not good enough!
know Elton’s latest hit? you must be pretty duff!
up for “Small Hotel”, for “Stardust” and “Blue Moon”
But when you
improvise they say: “He doesn’t know the tune!”
by boogie woogie buffs and singers who can’t sing
freaks who somehow always ask you to play the Sting
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:
onto yore every note; it’s nice to be admired
nights you’d swear you’ve got two fingers and eight thumbs
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?”
well, tell him “jazz is craft, but getting work is art!”
you were in Newcastle, next week you’re off to Rome
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