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If there's one word that will make a jazz musician go all misty-eyed; make him stare into the middle-distance and sigh wistfully; cause him to pull his head out of his arsenal of instruments and accessories, it's "Callipygian". Another word that will do it is "Residency." A steady gig. A regular. It's the working musician's holy grail. Most of us have had them in the past, and most have lost them. That pensive, pitiful silence is usually followed by the painful details of the great lost gig; It lasted six amazing months; I don't know what happened- it was all going so well; Was it me? Something I did? Something I didn't do? Did I not introduce the gig to my friends? Was it the time I blew off the gig to watch that Die Hard marathon? It was amazing- I could eat what I wanted, drink what I wanted, wear the same clothes every time... I'll never have a gig that good again...
 My friends, I know the feeling. It's been a dry spell for me lately, steady-gig-wise. Oh sure, I've had my share of one-nighters- sordid little three-hour affairs with hardened pros of the basest variety, with little or no standards- but nothing that ever felt right. Then a few weeks ago, I spent a Sunday night in Chelsea. It was perfect- a couple of drinks, the lights were low, there were lots of people watching- everything just clicked. The very next day, Dan moved his drums in. I know this is moving very fast, and I've been shown the door so many times before, so I'm being cautious- I'm not changing my Facebook status to "employed" just yet.

 The joint is called Smithfield and it's very cool- opened only a month ago in the area between Chelsea and Midtown known (by me) as the Disputed Territories. It's now a very comfortable and homey Irish bar, but in its previous incarnation it was a full-on doof-doof nightclub- I guess this explains that guy in the bathroom wearing nothing but body glitter, and the constant requests for La Bouche. Ground floor, while salubrious and welcoming, is clearly set up for watching sports- there are more over-sized, flashing TVs than Christopher street on a Sunday morning. One flight up is the so-called Market Bar, where our little shindig takes place. And above that is the brilliant Wallace room (named after William Wallace, the bumbling but lovable plasticine Yorkshireman with a love of cheese)- all leather Chesterfields, dusty books and various old-timey paraphernalia. Have to get photos of it up here soon.  One of the owners is our good mate, Ken- ace guitarist and legendary bartender/raconteur. He's put this little gig together, and will hopefully make his presence known on the upcoming Smithfield podcast! (Maybe if I mention it here, I'll actually make it happen...)  
 Rounding out the numbers are the charming and talented Champian Fulton, the Hempton Band's own Dan Aran, and an amazing roster of rotating bass players. The lease on the place runs out in 15 years- if we make it that far, and the gig's still going, it might be time to move in. No promises, though.
 Here's the bar: http://smithfieldnyc.com/, and the Facebook page. We're on every Sunday from 8:30-11:30PM- come down and say "Wendsleydale!" Next week, a night with Ned Nederlander! Righto...

As you have probably heard by now, the Hempton Band didn't receive an award in last week's Grammy presentation. On behalf of the guys, I can say that we, as a band, are absolutely gutted. As I mentioned in my pre-Grammy blog, we weren't going to let our lack of a nomination in any category stop us hoping, nay expecting, to walk home big winners that night, but it seems that wasn't meant to be. And I refuse to let negativity and bitterness overtake me- that would mean the Grammys had really won.
So firstly, I'd like to thank God for us not winning a Grammy. He has watched over our continuing struggles and in His wisdom has seen fit to bestow on us this monumental failure. Without his guidance, I strongly believe there's no way we could have achieved so little.
Such complete disregard for our very existence on the part of the Grammy voters wouldn't have been possible without our friends and family. You've been there for us from the start; and it's great to have you here beside us for this latest in a seemingly endless series of devastating lows. I particularly want to mention my little nephew Scooter who's laid up in bed with Chicken Pox; I know he'll be reading- this loss is for you, buddy!
Obviously, losing in every category is taking some time to adjust to. A week on, and I'm still waking up laughing every morning; then I remember that whole Grammys thing. The category I was holding out most hope for was Best Improvised Jazz Solo. Chick Corea won this for a solo on a tune called "500 Miles High"; while I haven't listened to this (too soon), I have trouble believing that it was superior to a doozy I produced last August, while playing along with an Aebersold track of "I Got Rhythm," in my apartment. I told Art all about it the next day, and I assume word spread to the voters, but I guess my lyrical and chord/scale-accurate six choruses didn't fit in with their biased agenda. Did Chick Corea quote the theme from Woody Woodpecker in his "Best Improvised Jazz Solo"? I doubt it!
But like I said, I'm not going to be bitter about this. I'm mostly upset for the guys, and all the wasted preparation. We'd spent weeks rehearsing our acceptance speech, which we were going to sing in four-part harmony, barbershop quartet-style. Our mums had made us matching outfits, with aprons and boaters, and Marco had grown a "Luigi moustache" and waxed it to perfection. We'd practised the ceremony over and over, standing behind a makeshift podium I'd constructed out of cereal boxes, with the part of host LL Cool J being played by our friend Gareth (we called him LL Cool Gareth.)
But it's all water under the bridge now. Life is its own miniature-gramophone-shaped statuette. When life hands you accles, you make accolades. I've donated my Grammy suit to the local Thrift shop, and it warms my heart to see Rick Astley stop and look at it every day, before checking his pockets and moving on. I don't see the band much these days- they've all moved onto bigger and better things, but they've asked that I never mention them again. And as for Gareth, well someone had to take the fall for this debacle. I think it's the way old LL would have wanted to go.
On the bright side, the Oscars are this weekend! Fingers crossed!! Next week, a brush with Steven Seagal! Righto...

The following nonsense makes no mention of the passing of Whitney Houston. It was written before the news broke, and I'm left with the choice of scrapping it (not going to do that- it took me ages), or crowbarring her name in somewhere it doesn't belong (not going to do that either; cause of death hasn't been announced- what if it involved a crowbar?? That would just seem insensitive). So here it is: my positive and upbeat take on the Grammys, gracefully sidestepping the issue of the untimely death of the aforementioned icon.

It's Grammy time! The music industry's night of nights! The stars! The celebrities! The red carpet! The integrity! As of this writing, the big show is only hours away, and I couldn't be more excited! Not just for the amazing spectacle, the glamour, the sense of community, the recognition of artistic excellence; I'm excited because this year, I think the Hempton Band will take home the prize.
I realise it's a gutsy call, and some people will call me arrogant or delusional. Others will impatiently dismiss the claim, possibly citing our lack of a nomination. But I feel calm and confident, and it's precisely these kind of negative barbs (the worst kind) from nay-sayers (haters and negative-nancys, in the parlance of our times) that will make a Grammy statuette taste that much sweeter.
I will, however, address the perceived problem of a nomination, or absence thereof. If there's one thing the Grammys are about, it's innovation. The prize isn't being given to talentless pop-tarts shamelessly churning out vapid regurgitations of former chart hits. Industry recognition isn't going to aging rockers desperately trying to squeeze out one more hit in a sad attempt to hold onto the acceptance of a fickle and uncaring audience. The voters are not awarding trophies to attractive industry puppets, fronts for devious chart-hungry producers, using scientifically manipulative devices to tighten their grip on a passive, unthinking and addicted demographic. Not the Grammys I know. The Grammys I know reward creativity, originality and inspiration. The breaking down of barriers. The pushing of envelopes. Sure, this means some winners may not be well-known; some may not have sold many "units". Some may not be featured on the telecast purely to ensure a large audience of gullible consumers whose mindless obedience allows advertisers to pump tens of millions of dollars into the already-swollen coffers of the television network. And it's precisely the Grammy committee's encouragement of upstarts willing to think outside the box that will allow the Hempton Band to flout convention and come from behind, nomination-less, and carry home the gong!
So when you're sitting on the edge of your seat (or couch), rooting for Rihanna and giving a yell for Adele, don't forget about us. Because you might duck out to make a piece of toast or go to the toilet, and come back to find your pals Marco, Dan, Art, and Nick standing at that podium, thanking God. And though we won't say it, we'll be thanking you too. Well, not really thanking, exactly; and not you, specifically- just a sort of general "Cheerio!" So wish us luck- I'm off to write my speech!

Lights! Camera! Acton.

It really feels good to start the new year off right. Set goals and stick to them. Make plans and see them through. Sorry to keep you both waiting...
Anyways, the band just got back from a quick trip up to Massachusetts to have our first crack at the Acton Jazz Cafe. It's a charming little out-of-the-way club about an hour outside of boston and, like 149 others, listed in DownBeat's Top 150 Jazz Clubs.
I celebrated our first foray into the Cradle of Liberty by ordering the band to make the 5-hour drive in complete silence, with no rest stops. I soon tired of this, however, and halfway through Connecticut issued a command for constant screaming and a bathroom break every ten miles. It took quite a long time to get there, but you can't build a cradle without breaking a few eggs. Am I right?
I'd chosen for our accommodation a delightful little guest house called the Hampton Inn. I chose it for its obvious similarity to my name (my middle name is Ann), although it was a considerable distance from the venue, and may have been haunted. Any misgivings we had about the place were soon eased by the attentive and attractive staff, and free cookies on arrival. We all dropped our bags, sat on the floor, and commenced shoveling as many of the complementary treats into our mouths as possible, pausing only to issue the concierge a crumby invite to the evening's performance, which she politely declined.
When we'd got ourselves settled, we set off in search of a pre-show meal. Our crumb-dusted friend at the hotel suggested a local slop-house called the British Beer Company, and being fond of both beer and company, we made a beeline. The BBC (hey!) menu offered such classic English fare as Buffalo chicken wings, and something called "Skins 'n' Fixins". No mention of "All you can Eton", or Luten-free selections, or "William-and-Katering Available" or an extensive whine list... Clearly not even trying. Turned out the place was packed to its Union-Jack-plastered rafters, and the wait was an hour. Seems nothing draws a crowd like English food; or maybe it was the promise of service without a smile. I suggested we stay long enough to warm our hands around a beer, but was shouted down, and we were off.
It's strange to me that a town the size of Acton (Pop. 20,000) can support a 7-day-a-week jazz club, and my home town of Sydney (Pop 4.6 Million) cannot*. More surprising considering it's harder to find than (think of humourous comparison before posting.) Once we found the joint, parked the winnebago, and found the front door (after taking some embarrassing Spinal Tap-style wrong turns, and kicking over several garden gnomes, first accidentally, then quite deliberately; the place is very gnomey) we found ourselves in a lovely, homey cafe-style club, full of friendly smiley folk. At first we started kicking them over too, but then remembered our manners and calmed down.
We'd arrived too late to hear saxophone Wunderkind Grace Kelly (I think she should bill herself "The All-New Grace Kelly" to avoid confusion. Or "Grace Kelly II: The Quickening." Or "Audrey Hepburn." These are just suggestions. I'm not going to make a big deal about it.), but then life is full of missed opportunities, isn't it? I consoled myself with pints of the delicious locally-produced IPA, and let the night take its course. The owner Gwenn is a wonderful and charming woman, and the AJC audience was attentive and enthusiastic, showing remarkable stamina by sitting still for a solid 90 minutes of original music and long-winded Hempton nonsense. We talked to some lovely people, and ended the night in the usual way. I have no idea what that is. Good times, and hopefully we'll get back there soon.
Next week, winter in the City! Righto.

*Sorry 505, you're not helping my argument.

The Underside is (obviously) taking a break for a week or three. Have a great holiday, and we'll be back January 4. Have a great whatever!

Have to be careful here. Thursday evening, after spending a couple of hours stabbing blindly at a restaurant piano, I went to hear the master Mulgrew Miller at a club called John's Fizzy-Drink-Sponsored Jazz Room. It's part of Jazz at Lincoln Center, and is located at the top of the Time Warner building, and that's the name of the place, ok? Right...
I rocked up about half an hour before show time, and as (I thought) I had some time to kill, I went for a wander around the Time Warner Building. It's a weird location for a Jazz club- the basement houses a link in an extremely popular organic supermarket chain, let's call it Whole Foods; the ground floor consists of mildly popular and wildly expensive clothing and accessory boutiques; and the remaining three floors are as bland, echoey and devoid of humanity as the next Michael Buble Holiday album. The stores are all popular, well-known brands, and somehow manage to stay in business without actually selling anything. The only shop of interest to this nerd was Border's, but of course they closed down because books don't exist anymore.
What would be the perfect soundtrack to a soulless, antiseptic consumer wasteland like this? Jazzy Christmas carols performed unconvincingly by Wynton and the JALC crew! Piped Muzak is frustrating enough throughout the year, but a very merry Marsalis Christmas is nigh on unbearable. I soon discovered that the offending noise was emanating from regularly placed pot plants which, somehow appropriately, contained fake grass. I suspect management would have planted real grass, but were wary of the dangers of over-fertilizing.
I eventually made my way up to John's Fizzy-Drink-Sponsored Jazz Room and discovered a lengthy queue of expectant ticket-holders. I was politely ushered to a "stand-by" line, where I dutifully stood by and took stock of my surroundings. Firstly, the corridor leading to the club's entrance feels like one of those tunnels through which one boards an aeroplane; this offers the eager concert-goer the trepidation associated with impending confinement, yet none of the excitement of foreign travel. Although once inside, I did see many people take their shoes off and fall asleep after a bad meal.
I also wondered who these people were. A varied assortment of couples and groups, they could have been waiting in line for almost any popular event; certainly not hard-core jazz fans, given the number of ways they were finding to mispronounce the name of the performer they were lined up to see.
To entertain these fine folks, a TV screen was positioned near the entrance, showing constant solicitations for donations to JALC; I expect that when presented with the bill, most customers feel they're donating plenty.
Inside, the club has the feel of an up-market food court, the highlight being the enormous plate-glass window behind the stage, giving a stunning panoramic view of New York City at night. If the performance is not holding my attention, I like to imagine a human spider suction-cupping past, or a pair of inept window cleaners on a suspended scaffold, or- getting back to our airport comparison- the front of an aeroplane crashing through it, like at the beginning of "Airplane!", sending all and sundry screaming for the exits. See, this is the kind of experience you only get with live music. Support it, people.
I have serious doubts that an inspired fiery performance could take place in this kind of atmosphere, but taking that into consideration, Mulgrew and band were great. Personally, I particularly enjoyed the playing of drummer Rodney Green, and alto man Tim Green.
After this I made my way to Smalls and heard an inspired, fiery performance by trumpeter Alex Sipiagin, and called the night a good one.
Next week, New York City! Righto...