Trouser jazz.

So, I started a new job this week. Being between jobs had started to wear thin and I've been glad of the distraction from the distractions of home life. I scored a job selling power tools and that with a company called Mitre10 at one of their superstores under the Mitre10 MEGA banner. Early 90s superlatives are not yet considered an outmoded style of speech in New Zealand, so any waggish comments I made about the name to my new colleagues were met with politely disguised bewilderment or thinly veiled disapproval. Nobody likes a smart arse in the home improvement domain, it seems. It's been good though. I've learnt about all kinds of hypothetical DIY and some things that make sense too. My colleagues are, in the main, good humoured and middle aged. As you might expect, the footfall ratio of glamorous young ladies is rather slight. This leads to very unbecoming, lingering, wanton yet wistful looks from my direction and, as such, is inevitably not helping my only feasible route to a work permit - namely, to shack up with a Kiwi chick. Indeed, lecherously staring at women can be detrimental to many aspects of one's freedom. Erm, perhaps this would be a good time to change the subject...

My meal of the week: Steak & Kidney Pie cooked by the Old Man.
In the continuation of the Offal Series of Meal Favourites, this week's entry is an all-time, World-beating, piping-hot, stone-cold classic from the land of hope and glory. The Old Man's always had a deft hand with a rolling pin, shallow dish and gravy-based stew. This offering was certainly no climb-down from the exacting standards of old and I covetously hid the last slice to have for my lunch the next day. But I still haven't rid my system of the offal cravings. There is a pack of kidneys in the freezer which are slated to get their comeuppance in a devilled sauce for my supper on Wednesday. I have to keep these organ-ic desires to myself though. Every time I mention the 'O' word in public jaws drop, lips curl, eyes bulge in horror. Must-be-getting-on excuses are hurriedly made. Offal and staring does not make me look good in the eyes of New Zealanders.

My CD (*spit*) album of the week: New Orleans Jazz - a 1984 BBC comp of 1920s classic amazingness from shellac 78s, digitally remastered.
With early offerings from Louis Armstrong's Hot 7, Earl Hines, King Oliver, Celestin's Original Tuxedo Orchestra with genius multi-instrumentalist bandleader Oscar 'Papa' Celestin, the clean-living virtuoso clarinetist Johnny Dodds and his debaucherous brother, a innovating master of syncopated drumming, 'Baby' Dodds. I can't hear this incredible, urgent, musically super-accomplished collection of standard hot jazz tunes and songs enough. The tracklisting is pretty much a who's who of dixieland, and that's before I mention the Original Dixieland Jazz Band (often billed as the 'Creators of Jazz') and Jelly Roll Morton (the confidently self-proclaimed Originator of Jazz). I guess you either love this type music of music or you find it rather tiresome, even twee. I think this sub-genre still has relevance in today's musical melting pot (or quagmire depending on your viewpoint). The rhythmic mastery of the musicians and their playful interlinking has rarely been equalled in the 80 or 90 years since the recordings were made. I think this period of New Orleans jazz was when jazz was at its very best. Well, it's my favourite anyroad. Its characteristics are comparable with those of the pioneering whisperings of hip hop. The two genres were intellectual and urban, serious yet often playful, highly popular with swathes of the youth and always unashamedly anti-establishment. Black American music has a history of being one of very few outlets of expression available to the people it was made by and for. But I don't want to get side-tracked... Where was I... At the time of the earliest of jazz records, the limitations of the available recording techniques were such that tracks could not be more than about 3 minutes long. This was due to 10-inch 78rpm records simply running out of room on the side. This technologically enforced time limit seems to have directly influenced the mood of the jazz recordings, making them more upbeat and succinct. When you hear this music it is no leap of imagination for one's mind's eye to picture the lively bars and brothels of the New Orleans 'Storyville' red-light district, its patrons jumping and jiving on the dance floor. A far cry from the "mmm, nice" beard-stroking wankers of more recent times, standing at the back of the room with soft drinks, clicking fingers in preposterous time signatures. By way of demonstration, below is a link to Youtube of a recording of King Oliver and his Dixie Syncopators, made after Oliver's move from N'awlins to Chi-Town in the '20s. Oliver remains one of the finer exponents of any type of music in any time in recorded history, in my humble opinion. He also made up a really very cool name for his band. Enjoy, jazzcats... It's some cut and paste bidness, yo. But worth the extra couple of mouse clicks, intit.

King Oliver and his Dixie Syncopators - Snag-it

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFcfIoyOaxQ&feature=related