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Someone back then called her my ‘jazz chick’ – I was in the last year of
school and she worked at some clerical job, studying Italian at night
school to advance herself. We met at *Dixie for Dancing *at the Claremont
Football Club where the Riverside Jazz Band played Dixieland and quieter
dance tunes. St Louis Blues was always a favourite, trumpet in Joshua Fit
the Battle of Jericho, the growling trombone on Tiger Rag, and Mama Don’t
Allow where all the band members played a short solo. I’d buy my ticket off
Heidi at the door (the pianist’s wife), stand at the side of the band
stand, listening to the band and watching the drummer, until the last
couple of numbers for the night when I would suddenly realise what I was
there for – and go to ask - shyly and awkwardly – a girl to dance. A turn
down would finish the night for me! But an acceptance would mean holding a
girl in my arms, making small talk, telling lies (who’s going to admit
still being at school) and, palm sweating, trying to move my feet in an
acceptable dance-like fashion. Ah, the nerves were at fever pitch!
I don’t remember the first dance with my Jazz Chick. I remember we met
again the second week, and at last she rested her head on my shoulder as we
danced under dim light at the end of the night. Oh such small steps to a
passionate romance! The music soon faded into the background and Friday
nights became a red hot date with long kisses and much groping and
passionate expressions of love on the back seat of my mother’s car. I
learnt the intricacies of bra backs and suspender belts clipping on to
stocking tops more than paradiddles and trading eights!
*Mama don't 'low no shimmy-shakin' here.*
*You can't shake your shimmy, shake some'n' else.*
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*Washboard Sam*
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Language keeps changing and growing. As does jazz. As do we. I wandered to
Sydney and back over a couple of years, frequented El Rocco when I was
there – and then returned to Perth, looking for a jazz club. I found The
Hole in the Wall Jazz Club which was linked to the theatre of the same
name. It was a key club which played recorded jazz during the week and live
jazz on weekends. I found it and stayed! Each night I was there, drinking
booze and listening to a rich assortment of jazz styles – MJQ, Miles Davis,
Bill Evans, Mose Allison, Coltrane … on Friday nights it was mainly a solo
pianist; Saturday a house trio with sit-ins from all the clubs around town
as the musos finished work and looked for somewhere to jam; Sunday night
developed into home night for the Keith Stirling Quintet or Sextet playing
the latest developments in jazz. It was home away from home for me and I
spent every night there until they closed in the wee small hours of the
morning.
One night the owners of the club asked me to meet them the following night,
alone, earlier than usual. I turned up, a little nervous – alone (without
my girlfriend who I had met there). The guys sat me down, put on some cool
jazz, and faced me. “Do you want some tea?’ One of them asked, and I
swiftly replied, ‘No thanks, I’ll have coffee.’ ‘Not that kind of tea, you
idiot - *tea* you smoke.’ Ah, marijuana. I had read enough jazz magazines
and poetry and novels to know exactly want they meant. And it was cool to
be offered some tea – so I accepted. So I was accepted into a little clique
who imported weed and hash – plus some cheap lines of watches, perfumes etc
– from Asia. We had our in-group secrets and our own jokes and lingo. I was
home *further* away from home in what I believed was a true jazz world.
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
Books available through Walleah Press
http://walleahpress.com.au
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