It was a Thursday
night, the odour of Donor kebabs intruded against the will and the soft
Autumnal sunlight slanted across Old
Street , N1.
From a pub, its doors
open to the street, came the stench of a blocked urinal, and vested big bellied
men managed to quaff lager with this clinging to their pint pots.
Elena and I put our
heads down and leaned forward towards Pitfield
Street , where we knew nestled Charlie Wright’sClub offered refuge: jazz and the blues.
That same night in
London, musicians doing no more than following orders were making good money
and customers with tin ears were paying good money to watch them.
Thomas Beecham said
that the English don’t really like music but they love the noise that it makes.
I have much fear that he was right.
But here at Charlie
Wrights, a great young jazz musician and his brilliant quartet would play to a
small gathering of the elect, those who had risked the taking of a turn off the
musical motorway of mass distraction, those who were willing to open their
hearts and expose their souls to the divine sound of another human possessed of
complete mastery of an instrument and an idea.
But would the elect
arrive?
Just like Calvin’s
Elect, or Luther’s, maybe they are carrying the light but see not its feint
glow.
My fears were
groundless.
The lager was cold and
crisp.
Binker Golding and his
young crew were unpacking their instruments.
Founding Father of the
club, John Nash, rattled the cash box and took his place on the stool by the
door.
Hands were shaken,
kisses were given, drinks were bought, jokes were told and trials relived and
then came an insistent beat, fast, percussive, turning heads.
A deep, sonorous,
and then stabbing tenor tore and slashed through the chat and all eyes were on
the quartet.
Open mouthed eighteen
year olds stared in amazement, their fingers compelled to tap the beat, their
minds tingling with the intimations of a hunter gatherer ancestor hearing the
bellowing of an elephant from afar.
Knowledgeable veterans
struggled and laughed as they failed to count the chord changes underway in a
Coltrane inspired number that was testing the rafters of the building, but
caressing the ears of everyone there. Strange genius indeed!
Moses Boyd, the 21
year old drummer of endless imagination and exquisite control, played with his
head tilted back, eyes rapt, and women wondered at the lightning swift and
gentle strokes that sent silken sounds across the room.
Binker Golding’s tenor
sax seemed to assert, then challenge, doubt and reformulate every belief you
ever held, but still left you a level up on the rocky road to Nirvana.
Every player in the
quartet – Binker Golding on Tenor, Rick Simpson on Piano, Moses Boyd on Drums
and Max Luthert on Bass, every guest player in the jam session, including the
sublime Peter Edwards guesting on Piano, seemed clothed in golden raiment, and
they shone with sound that dazzled the senses.
A spirit soared away
and a heart beat faster and I knew it was mine but I saw that it was others
too.
Every Thursday, The
Binker Golding Quartet has a residency. Be there if you want to know how it
feels to belong to something special, very special, a love supreme!
No comments:
Post a Comment