A more complicated day than it promised to be (that is to say Blank Friday – We took Blank Thursday and made it blanker). As I’m sitting down to work on the Secret Project get a call from Donna asking if I can slip into Walker and do something quickly, or at least today. It takes me a while to organise a bath, but I go in, do the thing and come home in mid-afternoon. Then a bit of work and a chat to Phil H, who’s keen to go to Paris next weekend. Pressure of work and of money are making me chicken about the enterprise, but I mention that I’d be interested in doing something this evening, and he suggests going to the Crypt, where someone will be doing something with a Hammond organ, which is always good.
I wander up to the new Sainsbury by Waterloo Station to partake in their range of quick meals for sad singles and thence to the Crypt.
The joint is jumping, or jumpish – they’ve installed a DJ in the corner of the room, which means that it’s a lot louder than I remember the pre-gig to be, although the music’s very good. Hard on the throat, though, conversationally.
OK. Phil is there, and Nicole, and over by the bar there’s Brenda (trombone player who I met here at the Breathing Space gig, who is excited about moving into the world of the sackbut) and a friend of hers who is also a trombone player but who’s scraping a living as a church organist – before leaving, I tell him the story about my grandfather slipping Davy Crockett – King of the Wild Frontier into the processional music during the fifties, undetected by the grown-ups. Later Imogen arrives. Nice sort of social evening.
The band are quite groovy – Hammond, vibes, guitar and drums. I’m struck by how much heavy lifting they have to do as a small jazz combo. Surely it must have struck them. Anyway, it’s that sort of cool organ-vibes-guitar thing, with a lot of intense funny noises and Leslie-ing from the organist. We leave before the second set for people to catch trains and drive up to Vauxhall.
The idea is to find a Portugese coffee shop (it appears there’s a small but perfectly formed Portugese community in Vauxhall, which is new to me), but they are all closed or closing, something which is generally lamented, but come on people, this is Vauxhall, not Soho. We run into a friend of Phil’s who I say loudly that I haven’t met, and then it turns out that we have and I am chastened. Oops.
Then around various stations to deposit people and then Phil runs me home. And that’s it, I think.