Friday night was a blow-out. After work I fixed myself a snack and caught up with flatmates to discuss what was to follow. First: Barfly. Local band. We knew the singer. Second: the Tavern. Quiet drink. Where else? Third: the Gatekeeper. A rendezvous point. Fourth: the Welsh Club. We put on our red shoes and danced the blues.
I woke up the next morning with my clothes scattered all over the floor, and a creased box of painkillers on my desk: the price of decadence. Painkillers are like an old and trusted friend, we go way back; it doesn't take long for us to be reacquainted, and I sometimes wonder if we've ever been apart. But I can't handle even the possibility of a repeat-performance, so Saturday calls for a new strategy.
In the evening I take a train to my parents' home in the valley. After five or six cups of coffee, each loaded with sugar, I sit at the piano and try to master some straightforward blues. It's worse than tricky. With a handful of print-outs in front of me, I dust the keys with some awkward fumblings and almost decide to give up. But sugar makes me stubborn. I try again and again, and eventually master all of the notes in each sequence - but can't seem to structure them into an organized rhythm. Nothing to tap your toe to, anyway.
After nearly an hour of blood, sweat and caffeine each note begins to slot into its allocated space. My left hand begins a steady movement that starts awkwardly, but as I gain confidence it rolls along with the rhythm. I'm actually quite surprised at how fun this is. There's a certain satisfaction in conquering such a difficult set of chords, and almost jubilation when the tune begins to swing. Before long I'm even trying a tentative right hand and improvising on a scale - which feels extremely difficult when trying to maintain the beat with the left. And yet, slowly but surely, the right hand finds its place and offers a bright and sparkly contrast to the bluesy bass-line.
When I finally crashed into bed the tune was still with me, and it's still with me as I write this.
I'm beginning to think that the more time I devote to this complex - but rewarding - music, the more I listen, the more I read, the more I learn, the more I love. There's a certain vibrant quality in jazz and blues music that has me hooked, and I've been wondering today what that quality might be. Pablo Picasso once said that 'art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life', which I think sums it up nicely.
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