It always feels slightly ridiculous to say, “I like jazz”, because in the public imagination people who like jazz are often horrible chin-strokers who want to tell you all about something obscure and unlistenable. Which is fair because, in truth, some of the worst conversations I’ve endured were ostensibly wrapped around jazz – I say “ostensibly” because, honestly, the subject’s incidental. The common denominator is know-it-all men. And no one on Earth is worse than a man who is generous with his music opinions.
But a couple of weeks ago I went to one of the best gigs of my life. We were in the very front row (bad for standup comedy; ideal for live jazz in small venues) and ready for a good time, thanks to a wait in the rain and an attentive waitress. It was the Sunday night of a long weekend, and the mood was perfectly loose, in the way only bank holidays can make adults feel. And this quintet were serious players, with more than 100 years of experience between them.
There was grand history in the room: the pianist, Norman Simmons, had played for Carmen McRae and Sarah Vaughan. The trumpeter, Philip Harper, had an impish smile, and sang a cheeky version of Everything Happens To Me. Cleave Guyton played the tenor sax, the flute and the piccolo fluidly, and told me to come to Ronnie Scott’s when I was back in London. Vince Dupont played bass, and ducked his head every time he was called “Bubbles” by the bandleader, drummer Winard Harper. Harper was unreal. The first slap of the drum made my back straighten and my skin tingle. We stayed for two sets.
And then we went home, as Harper instructed, filled “with love, peace and jazz”.
