Let's Dance

I once declared, a little rashly on reflection, that I wouldn't mind living in Chigley: with its biscuit factory, steam railway and regular cast of characters turning up in all the regular places. Hang on a minute, I already live somewhere like that.

I think what I like most is the reassuring six o'clock whistle which punctuates the end of the working day at the aforementioned biscuit factory. What happens next only appears strange if you don't reside in Trumptonshire. It heralds the start of the daily tea dance where the male workers in their best pressed overalls throw a few shapes with their buttoned up repressed women folk - all to the backing track of a barrel organ. Heady stuff. I'd like to think that when it wraps up they all slide down to the local hostelry for a few liveners. Maybe we'll have to wait for Chigley - The Director's Cut.

Anyway, without further ado, here is the six o'clock whistle.

Time is going nowhere when you are on my mind

We had the pleasure of being entertained by Jinski the other night. They blow me away every time I see them. And they remind me so much of Del Amitri - achingly beautiful songs that are for ever catching me unawares. And none more so than Tick Tock from their Down Here album. I've asked them for the lyrics and chords as I'd love to work out an arrangement sometime. It really doesn't matter how many times I hear it, I still have to pinch myself. John Peel used to sob uncontrollably when he heard certain songs: I know how he felt.

Snub

Clique (Klik) n. A small group of people who do not readily allow others to join them.

The strangest thing happened last night. I was snubbed. Royally. And this is why I found it strange - I was snubbed by people, until last night, I regarded as friends. Anyway, the immediate upset, followed by the later anger has now just given way to indifference. I guess I just need to be more careful about who I give my friendship to in future.

Underrated? Are you sure about that?

The OBE. How more rated can you get?

Richard Thompson, singer, songwriter, guitarist, and owner of many fine berets, is back on the road (when is he not?) and, once again, every journalist who writes a review or interviews him is reaching for the u word: underrated. And nobody breaks rank. Some even go the whole hog and prefix it with another word: criminally. Criminally underrated? By who exactly?

His fans? I don't think so. Thompson sells out wherever he plays. And he plays on most continents at sometime during the year. Has done for years - to a fan base most artists can only dream about.

His peers? Hardly - take a look at who covers his songs: Elvis Costello, Bonnie Raitt, REM, Loudon Wainwright, David Gilmour, Graham Parker; the list is endless.

The critics? If you rounded up all the scribes writing for the music press, broadsheets, blogs and fanzines who have ever given Thompson anything less than a 4 star rating and then add to them all the movers and shakers in radio and music television who don't speak about him in gushing terms, you'll probably fit them all on the back seat of a taxi. With room to spare.

Another award for the criminally underrated Richard Thompson

Then there's the Ivor Novello awards, and the BBC Folk Awards: Thompson's part of the furniture at most of these shindigs. Oh, and don't forget all the guitar magazine polls he cleans up at. Nearly forgot the Lifetime Achievement Award for Songwriting by the Americana Music Association.

And if all that adulation and mantelpiece full of trinkets still isn't enough, there's always the OBE he was given by the Queen of England. That must count for something, surely?

Good Timing - The Singer & The Sax Player

He sat behind her on the bandstand every night. And every night he would watch her sashay in front of him in the exquisite little black party frock she always wore for gigs. Night after night he could tell if she was wearing big pants, little pants or no pants at all. He knew everything there was to know about her; not just the names of all the other big bands she'd ever sung with and how long she could hold a note for; he knew her embarrassing middle name that only her parents knew, her top five restaurants in New York and the fact that she was currently sleeping with two people. One was a girl.

On the flip side, she knew nothing about the slightly awkward, slightly geeky, slightly stoned sax player sitting within six feet of her who, when he wasn't belting out a solo, spent the entire evening secretly staring at her (nice) bottom. Why would she? She'd only been singing with the band for three weeks and in that time she only knew the name of Keith the drummer. But that was only because she called all drummers Keith. This one was actually called Dave. Since the band had taken up residency at The Coconut Lounge they spent an hour each afternoon rehearsing for that night's gig and as for the show itself, he sat behind her the entire time gazing at her bum.

On the Friday their grizzled band leader, Frankie Monroe, decided to drop Perdido into the band's set. It's a beguiling little jazz standard that really tests the range of any singer brave enough to tackle it: just as the final syllable of the final word of the final verse falls out of the singer's mouth, the alto sax kicks in and it's heads down see you back at the chorus - a military operation to be carried out in just under two minutes with a handover every bit as important as if you were in the 4 x 400 metre relay. The first time they tried it the whole band all fell about laughing. Only because the sax player missed his cue and, instead of blagging it, he shouted 'Fuck' at the top his voice and then asked if anyone wanted to buy a saxophone. Even the singer laughed. She turned around, walked up to him and told him not to sweat it and gave him a peck on the cheek. 'It'll be alright on the night' she said, grabbed her coat and left the building.

Later that evening they both arrived at the venue at precisely the same time. He held the door open for her. 'Are we still doing Perdido tonight?' he casually asked her, while at the same time praying she'd politely say no, let's do it another night. 'You bet' she said. 'Great!', he lied. They parted company in the foyer and went to their separate changing rooms. He bunked in with the rest of the band in a room not much bigger than a phone booth. She had a veritable palace in comparison. And all to herself. It even had film star bulbs around the mirror.

Thirty minutes later, show time. The band filed on stage and took up their positions - all matching jackets and music stands. The first number was Ellington's Take The 'A' Train. The band could play this one in their sleep. They then stepped it up a gear with a brace of tunes by Count Basie before band leader Monroe stepped up to the microphone and announced that 'the next one skips along at quite a pace. It's called Perdido.' The sax player was bricking it. The singer clicked her fingers and counted to three. They were off. 'I look for my heart it's perdido' - she was singing it to perfection; and then it was time for the solo. As she hit the all important note the sax player stood up and played his solo note bloody perfect - like he'd been playing the song all his life. Reaching the crescendo and then winding up with a quick ad lib flourish, the tune came to rest and the crowd went wild.

The singer bowed, waited for the crowd to stop applauding and then took the microphone off its stand and thanked the band. 'In particular' she said, 'I'd like to thank Billy on the alto sax. He's spent the last three weeks staring at my bum while I've been belting out these tunes.' Billy didn't know where to look. 'But tonight', she went on, 'he came good. Billy - are you taking me out for a drink after the gig? I think we need to get to know each other.' The crowd loved it. Billy couldn't stop smiling. His music teacher had been right all those years ago - it really is all about timing.