My loathing of Jazz, though more drama queen than principle, is well known. A jazz concert seems to consist of solo, clap, solo, clap, ad nauseam. It has the visual consistency of seals being thrown fish for tricks. At the Jazz Hastings concerts held at the Hastings Angling Club this is only made bearable for me by the presence of Mrs Donaldson & the Former Future Mrs Hardy, both of which I adore and fear; the FFMH reminding me last night of the UK stalking laws…

Anyway, this time was different (though the seals were still there), the main artist, Gilad Atzmon was fun and made, for me, this formulaic form of music engaging and playful. The drummer was awesome, normally there is only one drummer; Keith Moon (in his Quadraphenia period). This guy has the same effect. The bassist redeemed the genre by sporting a Bruce Springsteen tee-shirt and the pianist tinkled away. Actually the pianist was probably great as well but pianos do nothing for me outside of classical music and Bat Out Of Hell!

So there we have it, the music was enjoyable, the women struck fear in my heart and reality was banished by cider; what a great evening.

Potential member of the E-Street Band.

Yesterday I said of the new Bob Dylan album “I would admit that the latest album is not, for someone of my generation, Highway 61”. I lied, last track disc two, up there with “Desolation Row”. I’ve listened to it ten times or more already trying to get the words (a BD trademark since the beginning) and I haven’t done that with music for a decade or so. A couple of times had to reach for the hankys and that doesn’t happen either, oh, okay, only in “girly films”.

As with all the best Dylan stuff you’ve not a clue what he’s trying to say but it reaches inside your head and triggers a thousand thoughts of your own, mainly, unfortunately, “what have I done with my life”, with the answer easily apparent, “f**k all”, oh well, can’t win every time…

With my commercial hat on today I did a bit of writing for a client, the usual stuff; “gawk in awe at the quality of our product and slickness of service” and so forth.

In my early twenties I suffered from the disease of “schoolboy poetry” (alarmingly I’ve recently been made aware that some of this material still exists in the vaults of an ex-girlfriend) and for a brief instant thought I would be the new Bob Dylan. It must be said that I was not alone in this as, at the time, the art schools were full of ner-do-wells such as myself fuelled on idleness, Pink Floyd, alcohol and librium.

The real Bob Dylan is still around and producing material that beggars belief.

Now, the rule is that as you get older and more comfortable the creative urge retreats, especially, I would content, as that the roots of the best creative material are nourished by pain. Has anybody mentioned this to Bob? I would admit that the latest album is not, for someone of my generation, “Highway 61” but it’s still way better than most things around. It must be depressing for all the talents that burn out after a year or ten to see an old guy producing songs that are better than most penned in their long forgotten brief burst of creative light.

I wonder how Bob is when waxing on about the pleasures of a clients all to familiar product?

The world may be crashing in but suddenly something comes along that makes life worth living, of course I am speaking about the whole new two disc Bob Dylan album available to listen to for free! I dont know how long this will go on for but click here to listen.

Partner in “crime” John is back for a few days so it’s goodbye to the diet and sobriety. We caught up with each other over a very pleasant sea food platter at Whites in George Street. The big question was should he ask Moritzia (his partner) to marry him. I thought this was a great idea as it supplies another friends wife for me to lust after but he’s afraid she’ll say no, oh well, what will be will be.

On to the Cinque Ports where Sheila’s advice is short on the subject, a resounding no from her meant, in my eyes at least it’s still a great idea: Sheila with her absolutism and insistence in viewing emotional subtlety with a Meccano mind is always a good guide to what not to do.

Ended up in the Hastings arms listening to John Crampton, a cross between Link Wray & Phil Spector; a blues wall of sound. But it was well past my bed time and the world was getting blurry so it was back to the hill with a bag of chocolate Brazils in hand, a perfect end to any evening!

This pictures a bit indistinct, so, an accurate reflection of what I was seeing then.