jazz-fired pizza
My former neighbors and surrogate parents often get free tickets to concerts at the Wood Fired Pizza restaurant in Double Bay, right near the Golden Sheaf Hotel. It used to be that he would ring up when free passes were advertised on the radio, but he won them so often that they got to know the managers and now just ring up and get however many free tickets they want. So I've been about four times. The restaurant is a big room divided by a big black curtain. Outside is just a bog-ordinary family restaurant. Inside is a jazz venue. The menu is printed on two sides, one side is the eponymous pizzas, and the other side is authentico Hungarian food. A whole page of it, probably 40 different dishes, but nonetheless I always get the same thing - Paprika Veal Goulash, hot, with Nokedli (spaetzle, in German), with sour cream and a side of cucumber and something else probably more sour cream. It's amazing, and tonight was especially nice. The gig is free but dinner isn't, but then it seems a small price to pay.
The gig tonight was the best one yet. Adrian Cunningham in tribute to the great clarinettists of the 1930's. Given past performances I'd been to on the recommendation of the surrogate parents, I was expecting a grey-haired jazz session man with a modest local following. No. Adrian Cunningham is young, very young, and so spunky I would have paid for the ticket to just watch him stand there for two hours. Dark spiked-up hair, dark very smiley eyes, white shirt with double-buttons and a long black coat like a frock coat but it had a zipper, and black trousers. He's also a very good showman, very relaxed but speaks from the heart when he introduces the song, and is able to acknowledge the solos and extract applause from the audience without seeming at all cheesy or patronising. And the music! Just lovely. Just mesmerising. I have a new 1930's clarinettist to look up, Sydney Bichet, because they did two of his numbers, Petit Fleur and Stranger on the Shore, and I was mesmerised by each of them.
Because it's such a nice place, because I always have such an easy good time, because it's music you know, every time I'm there I pine to be there with a boy that I love. I pine for someone I could take a long who would love the moment as much as I do. I vet potential boyfriends in my head based on whether they would like it or not. Not everyone would like it. Dinner at a table for four with my surrogate parents, who are 60-lots of years old and would also be attending very scrutinizingly to any boy I brought along. Old-fashioned music. Funny semi-humble venue with the music area cordoned off from the bog-ordinary family pizza restaurant with a black curtain. My heart swelled, tonight, with wistful desire for a boy to share all that music with, but who do I know, who is there aged 20 years either side of me, who would enjoy it?
The other funny thing is that is must be a unique experience to be the kind of musician, or to play the kind of gig, where every time you announce what song you're going to play next the entire audience sighs. "Begin the Beguine" he said. "Siiighhhhh," went the audience. "Avalon." "Ahhhhhhh." "Sing Sing," he said, to finish. "Ohhh! Ahhhh," went the delighted audience. I guess I grew up on "Wooooooo", like: "And this next one's a little number called 'Rock Rock Till You Drop!'" "Wooooooo!" Must be funny to play for sighing people instead of rocking people.
It's now absolutely pouring rain, and absolutely cold, 10 degrees acc the SMH homepage. Time to curl the fuck up.
Dream sweet jazz dreams of Hungarian goulash and pizza, tonight.
Rock on.
The gig tonight was the best one yet. Adrian Cunningham in tribute to the great clarinettists of the 1930's. Given past performances I'd been to on the recommendation of the surrogate parents, I was expecting a grey-haired jazz session man with a modest local following. No. Adrian Cunningham is young, very young, and so spunky I would have paid for the ticket to just watch him stand there for two hours. Dark spiked-up hair, dark very smiley eyes, white shirt with double-buttons and a long black coat like a frock coat but it had a zipper, and black trousers. He's also a very good showman, very relaxed but speaks from the heart when he introduces the song, and is able to acknowledge the solos and extract applause from the audience without seeming at all cheesy or patronising. And the music! Just lovely. Just mesmerising. I have a new 1930's clarinettist to look up, Sydney Bichet, because they did two of his numbers, Petit Fleur and Stranger on the Shore, and I was mesmerised by each of them.
Because it's such a nice place, because I always have such an easy good time, because it's music you know, every time I'm there I pine to be there with a boy that I love. I pine for someone I could take a long who would love the moment as much as I do. I vet potential boyfriends in my head based on whether they would like it or not. Not everyone would like it. Dinner at a table for four with my surrogate parents, who are 60-lots of years old and would also be attending very scrutinizingly to any boy I brought along. Old-fashioned music. Funny semi-humble venue with the music area cordoned off from the bog-ordinary family pizza restaurant with a black curtain. My heart swelled, tonight, with wistful desire for a boy to share all that music with, but who do I know, who is there aged 20 years either side of me, who would enjoy it?
The other funny thing is that is must be a unique experience to be the kind of musician, or to play the kind of gig, where every time you announce what song you're going to play next the entire audience sighs. "Begin the Beguine" he said. "Siiighhhhh," went the audience. "Avalon." "Ahhhhhhh." "Sing Sing," he said, to finish. "Ohhh! Ahhhh," went the delighted audience. I guess I grew up on "Wooooooo", like: "And this next one's a little number called 'Rock Rock Till You Drop!'" "Wooooooo!" Must be funny to play for sighing people instead of rocking people.
It's now absolutely pouring rain, and absolutely cold, 10 degrees acc the SMH homepage. Time to curl the fuck up.
Dream sweet jazz dreams of Hungarian goulash and pizza, tonight.
Rock on.
posted by Ellen at 11:17 pm
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