DOUGLAS FIELD relishes the hard-boiled language, satire and humour of the third and last of the Harlem trilogy
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‘The day jazz washed away the dust of everyday life*’
CHRIS SEARLE pops into his local for some serendipitous jazz goings-on
Jim Mullen
[Jeff Hardcastle/CC]
STEPHANIE BROWN draws attention to the hidden labour of the female embroiderers, and how a 19th century replica made no such error
MIK SABIERS revels in a band that ploughs an idiosyncratic furrow of expletive laden, guitar-driven alt rock
ANDY HEDGECOCK, MARIA DUARTE and ANGUS REID review Synthetic Sincerity, Our Hero, Balthazar, Heartstopper Forever, and A Year In London
The bard invites readers to a gig, raps for Clacton, and lays out the Burnham-Hurzeler conundrum
RON JACOBS recommends an important book that enhances the oppositional theories put forth by Fanon and, in doing so, remakes psychology itself
IN THE upstairs room in my local pub just up the road — The County Arms in Highams Park, east London — Sunday evenings are jazz feasts.
There is always a guest musician of renown, a local accompanying trio of bass, drums and keyboards, followed by a chance for local musicians, young and old, to share the stage with the guest, and gain invaluable confidence from the encounter.
Last week it was the great veteran Glaswegian guitarist, Jim Mullen, who played an opening set including beautifully sharp ballads like I’ll Close My Eyes, I Can’t Get Started and Angel Eyes, with bop classics like Clifford Brown’s Sandu and Wes Montgomery’s Road Song.
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