June 26
Bet you’re all tuckered out from telling your adoring online audience of millions how impressed/unimpressed you are by the whole Glastonbury thing, while trying to spell Prigozhin and weighing up the moral implications of deep-sea tourist ghouls vs desperate drowning immigrants and all the other pressing issues of the day while also editing your beach pix to show you buffed and pumped and hench and thicc and everything… no wonder you’re desperate for JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH to come whirling round the cycle of days, another page on your Google cal, another spin on the rock through the endless howling death void of space, another round of emailing ‘sorry for the delay’… get yerself out of the Dark Forest, mark your place on the Cosy Web and then log off in the company of man like Luke “I Love Festivals” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Auto Trader” Thomas (drms) as they get together with me on the bass whatever to do something real, recursive but unique, timebound but eternal, new but old, spinning a web of blues-ti-bop-to-swing-to-whatever to refresh your sense of being here right now… tell the tech lords to stuff their digital labour up their tech bro tight ass and get yourself down with the loose and un-pixelated denizens of the velvet scented darkness, the peerless Bee’s team, the special guests, the mac daddy known in the ends as Kevin “Sugar” Lowe, whatever crawls out of the sea to land, gasping, on the bar-room floor, its iridescent scales reflecting the neon filtering in from the breathless streets outside, its flat depthless eyes full of an unknowable appeal from under the stinking sea, as compelling as Sir Elton’s strangulated geriatric emoting, and as unreadable…. get some of this, why don’t you? Why not? Why?
June 19
Here we are, in the ol’ Global Warming sweet spot where we finally get the summers we always dreamed of before it all goes up in flames - how bitter seems our wage slave existence, tied to our stupid laptops in boring offices while we could be paddleboarding or larging it with tops off and lager in plastic non-recyclables or whatevs… lock into the true meaning of summer by refreshing yourself at JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH where you can finally break free of the Iron Cage and kick back with your own bad self and other like-minded time-travelling adventurers into the multiverse of possibilities to the sweet sweet sounds of man like Luke “Minority Report” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Ubik” Thomas (drms), order up a refreshing beverage from the shimmering ascended beings of the Bee’s Team as they hover shimmering faintly in the scented shadows behind the well-stocked bar, inhale the fragrant scents of the mysterious orient from the kebab merchants upon either side, see the freaks and monsters, angels and demons and regular working stiffs as they hurry past upon their nameless errands outside, chortle as Bozza’s political career sinks faster than a millionaires’ day trip to a sunken ocean liner, wonder what the hell comes next then decide that you don’t care, picture Venus hanging in the sky like a beacon of iridescent matter, like a message from beyond the vast empty spaces, thronged with transplencence, ready to welcome us all back, particles, strings, gluons, Higg’s mutinous bosun, back into the shining emptiness that awaits, immanent behind your every thought and deed, the collection of impulses and unreliable memories and sensory data that you call “yourself”… don’t overthink it, buster, just put on your Havaianas, gird your loins, grab yer axe off the shelf and come and join us, there’s still time, but not forever.
June 12
Now that the mist has rolled away like a big wet blanket and the proper OG sun is back, how will you mark the passing of Bozza the evil clown from our most noble institution? Light a cigar, have a pancake, cut the rug, get wiggy, dance a cakewalk, rub the smog out of your eyes, get up with it, get down on it, get along to JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH where we’ll be presenting for your edification and delectation the inimitable freedom-lovin’ stylings of Luke “Motherf*cker Of Parliaments” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Prorogue This, Bitches” Thomas (drms) as they make with the hot licks and cool grooves like there’s no tomorrow, as indeed in the long term there may not be if the lying liars keep lying with their lying lies…. no tomorrow but plenty of today, the glassy sea, the pollen owning the air, the returned swifts jockeying across each other on their switchback wheel of death, Venus shining high above in the lambent gloaming, lobster red geezers parading past, the silver bass swarming on the sea, the beauty and the hope… a pox on those grinning no-mark assholes, Mad Nad, Creepy Grease-Mogg, the assorted bullies and failures dragooned into the circus by the plausible fraud of Fatso the liar… everyone else is welcome, come and sit in and show em all what’s what.
June 5
It has begun - geezers in motors pumping out bass, salmon pink torsos proudly parading, the acrid stench of disposable barbecues, incompetent fire juggling in the park, as the first djembes of the season are heard upon the seafront, meshing Charles Ives style with belting pop karaoke, screaming kids, screaming adults, the importunate mutter of the homeless, etc.. still and all, JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH stands up like a sheltering island on the scorching seas of seasonal mayhem, ready to soothe the heat-struck, to assuage the unquenchable thirst of the culturally inclined now that the fringe have packed up their tents and ukeleles, to offer vibe for the vibe-depleted and refresh YOUR flagging sense of goodwill to all, thanks to the heroic contributions of special guests Jason “Hound Dog” Henson (gtr) and Angus “The Bishop” Bishop (drms), aided to some degree by me on bass, plus whoever emerges from the shimmering sea and crunches towards us across the greasy pebbles, their speedos dripping, their glistening flesh slick with factor 50, their faces rendered horrifyingly inhuman by their weirdo goggles n nose clips, to take up their instruments of choice and come and sit in and set the night aflame with the fearsome eructations of their nameless passions, raising their voices in praise or petition to the Ancient Ones who preside over the vernal riot from their seats in the slippery, non-geometrical spaces between the known dimensions … you wouldn’t want to miss that, would you? You’ll not get tickets for Beyoncé now, there’s nothing on TV, Fast N Furious X isn’t out yet, come, come, come and join us, let’s do a thing.