Friday, February 18, 2005

So, while the music industry descended en masse on Hammersmith for the NME awards, we headed to the arts centre up the road to watch Curtis Stigers, who's somehow become a jazz artiste since he first shook his flowing locks at lovers of MOR jiggery pokery. We were given the finest seats in the house, an on-high vantage point behind the sound desk, prompting a chap, who must have assumed we were with the entourage, to ask whether we were from the States. Tee hee. I responded that we were from council eStates and suddenly the class struggle threatened to rear its ugly head in my middle class face, as a burly gent taking my silliness out of context asked what was wrong with council estates... I embelish for dramatic effect but you get the gist. The night got off to a wobbly start. As we pulled up outside our house, a mere 30 mins before the gig, I passed M the house keys, only to watch them slip through her mitts and fall down a drain. Yes, I too thought this kind of thing only happened in cartoons and sit-coms. But there I was, swearing, stomping John Cleese-like and, once I'd stopped jumping up and down like a psycopath, ripping off the drain cover and lowering my arm into the mire to relocate the keys. I did wash before our date with the Stigermeister. In homage to the debauchery and hedonism over at the NME shindig, I imbibed alcohol. Two Stellas and half a gin & tonic. Rock 'n' Roll! Or jazz. White jazz. In suits. Suggested headline: "Stigers jazzes over audience".

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