down here in Stockbridge. There are, no doubt, sweaty masses of poncho’d tourists clogging the Royal Mile, rubbernecking as they plod past performance artists* and drama students, with everyone getting alternately soaked and boiled by the schizophrenic weather. I imagine this, but having avoided the place all month I am happy in my ignorance.
We did take in Dr. John up at the Queen’s Hall the other week as part of the Jazz and Blues Festival. (None of your plebeian Fringe malarkey for us Stockbridge types!) Ash and Giancarlo were both foaming at the mouth with excitement but my relative ignorance left me mildly curious more than anything else. In the event the show was perfectly fine, but it didn’t get my blues-sense tingling at all; after Gilded Splinters‘s voodoo opulence it might as well have been any old honky-tonk blues band from the deep south. The upper circle pews feel like they were designed to keep the righteous upright during long sermons and didn’t lend themselves to laid-back enjoyment of the Devil’s music, so we took turns sneaking down to the bar to fetch a couple of pints to dull the nagging discomfort. Happily a standing ovation erupted for the encore; we gratefully levered ourselves up, clapped along with everyone else and headed home.
Last week we met up with the usual suspects for some jazz (nice!) at 80 Queen Street, picking an empty booth near the back.
“Wow, you got the perfect seat,” said Jeff.
“You mean as far away from the band as possible? A ha ha.”
No comments yet