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It was a joy to listen to this from start to finish once again for the first time in three decades. There was a short period around 1990 where I was obsessed with this album. I carried it around all the while in an old Walkman and rinsed it whenever I could.

As ever this approach to music led me to creating my own stories and narratives around the songs. Listening once again, 30-odd years later triggers some of those life events that were happening at the time for me. There you go again, Jase, making it all about you.

As an album it’s completely bonkers and it’s all over the place. That’s always the joy of Hendrix. There are so many styles but you can’t really pinpoint what he’s doing. There are no obvious reference points with the blues, but then he takes this in a completely different hippy shit direction.

It’s equally beautiful as it is brutal in places. I’m not a fan of worshipping at the altar of Mojo-style classic albums but this one stands the test of time.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

To the Conga! …on Sunday evening for the return of the autumn series of the Music Mix jazz events.

There is something of a secret club ethos around these superbly curated local gigs. It’s not so secret in that there is a half-decent marketing push, but secret in that, on a Sunday night, you have high quality jazz musicians visiting your local church village hall. It’s got to be better than stupid Songs of Praise.

Appearing at the Conga on Sunday was the Simon Spillettt Quartet. This is a collection of musicians who follow the lead from Simon and his love for all things Tubby Hayes. We all love Tubby Hayes, right?

Tubby had something of a reputation for enjoying the finer things in life. I felt it only appropriate that upon arrival I bought a bottle of the house’s finest red wine and sat back to enjoy the jazz.

Chin chin.

The only problem was I almost came a cropper before even the first notes were played on Simon’s sax. I narrowly avoided a red wine incident over my lovely recently purchased women’s sheepskin fur white gilet.

Whoops.

I took a little time to take in the surroundings. It appeared that we had Donald Trump sitting in front of us. I never had him down as a Tubby Hayes fan.

As the evening developed I realised it wasn’t the dickhead dictator himself but just someone who liked a good old-fashioned comb-over blonde haircut.

The Quartet took to the stage bang on 7:30 pm. They looked the absolute bollocks, suited and booted, and ready to put in a classic jazz performance.

I’m never entirely sure what happens with jazz music with regard to how it’s played. Maybe I don’t want to peek behind the magician’s curtain. Do the band make it up as they go along or are they playing note for note Tubby Hayes' songs?

Either way it looked bloody tiring up there on stage. I was also impressed to see Simon Spillettt never failing to run out of breath with some of his stretched out saxophone solos.

In between the wonderful songs we had plenty of stories. Simon is something of a storyteller and also the world renowned fountain of all knowledge when it comes to Tubby Hayes.

This was a very suave and sophisticated performance. It certainly wasn’t a crappy tribute act.

The band even ventured into some of Tubby’s ballads, which can always be a problematic choice. You can get away with the anarchic nature of the faster arrangements, but not so with a ballad.

“Scorecards at the ready”

…remarked Simon before the Quartet pulled it off with a plum.

The pace picked up a little for the second half of the show. In particular Don’t Fall Off the Bridge had all the energy and rumbling drums, as the song title suggests.

I do love the freeform nature of this music. Even the count ins for the rest of the band were a little odd.

“1, 2, 3, 2, 2.”

What’s that all about?

And so a pretty special evening with high quality musicians appearing in the local church hall.

Talk about blowing your own trumpet, etc.

To Manningtree! …early on Sunday morning - or actually To the Sailing Club first. The occasion was the first race of the Harker’s Yard winter season. It’s been a while for me.

I’m not sure why but I did put my name forward to be considered as part of the race crew for both Manningtree and then Rowhedge in a couple of weeks' time. I kinda of stopped racing a few years ago. It just wasn’t doing anything for me. There was an awful lot of faffing around, eating into your valuable Sunday time.

But here we are again, with a rendezvous down at the Sailing Club at 7:50 am. As ever. I was rushing. I surprised myself by being on time. Out of around a crew of 15 or so people, I was one of only three rowers on time. Oh well, time and tide and all that.

What became very clear was that there was plenty of nervous energy down at the Sailing Club even before we had left. I get nervous about many things, many stupid little things that really shouldn’t bother me. But when it comes to racing, you just get in a boat and fucking do it, right?

I thought it best to stay clear of those who knew what they were doing rather than me bumbling through. There was an awful lot of organising and packing as we prepared two gig boats to hit the road and make the short journey over towards Manningtree.

The journey over there was simple. We parked up and took a look out over at the estuary water in front of us.

Hang on, where the fuck is the water? We’re going to need some of that if we’re going to race, right?

I then realised that it may have only been 9 am but the first race wasn’t until midday. Like I said there’s an awful lot of faffing and waiting around whilst race rowing.

I looked around at the scene and who else I could see. Most of the other dozen or so rowing clubs had many new faces who I’ve not raced against before. SHOUT OUT to the dude who was wearing a pair of Wham-style badminton shorts and then the most ridiculous chunky pair of wellies.

All this nervous energy led to some pretty bat shit crazy conversations. We spoke for around ten minutes or so about the possibilities of breaking a thole pin and what to do if you find yourself in the exact same situation.

We then made our way over towards the race HQ. This involved navigating our way around a game of beach rugby taking place on what the locals in Manningtree optimistically call a beach.

It was reassuring but also a little scary to see a sizeable team from St John’s Ambulance on show. I was reminded of the Round Mersea race, where we ended up being rescued.

Whoops.

The situation then became extremely surreal as one of our experienced crew members unpacked out of his sailing bag half a dozen small cardboard cutouts of gig boats. But it didn’t end there. There were also various obstacles that we might find on the course, such as buoys and other boats.

I was actually enthused by all of this. I loved the idea and it triggered something of the obsessive within me about planning for these events.

I was all set to role-play out a race with the cornflake packet cardboard cutouts were put away as didn’t want to give away the race tactics to other crews who were lingering nearby.

Time passed rather slowly; and then some more time, even slower.

Finally it was time to get prepared. I had one last toilet pit stop. I had made the basic error of wearing a pair of cycling bib shorts. You try standing in a busy gents' urinal as you take off your rowing vest and then strip down the straps for the bib shorts. How to alienate other rowers, etc.

“This must be where the big cox hang out.”

No one laughed.

We then had a brief race prep with our cox. I was racing in the men’s race for our second crew. The cox was talking about how we were going to handle the turn. She then mentioned she wanted to feel the water and also feel you. Blimey I don’t think it was that kind of race.

Twenty or so gig boats then needed to be taken off their trolleys and placed on the water that was finally starting to arrive. There were some incredibly tight manoeuvres launching on Manningtree hard.

Best of all was the washing line pulley system that you had to use in order to go from the hard over to the jetty where the boats were now moored up.

Our men’s crew then took to the water with around 40 minutes or so before the race started. I think we went a little too early. I was all for keeping warm but I didn’t want to use up too much energy.

Some pretty random bird spotting took place, with one of our crew members being something of an expert. He pointed out a whole bank of godwits who did look rather resplendent.

The Manningtree course, on paper, looked really simple but it didn’t really take into account the number of moored boats which have to be navigated.

The race started. Soon we found ourselves in the centre of a boat sandwich. There was some tricky rowing taking place and it’s quite a miracle that we had no major clash of oars.

The instructions then came from the cox:

“Row like fuck.”

I don’t think you’ll find that motivational training in the British Rowing manual but it did seem to work.

I thought we got off to a half-decent start. We were certainly in the race for the first 5 minutes or so but then the other fleet of boats managed to push ahead. We had our own little private race with another boat as we pushed ahead of each other and tried to compete not to pick up the wooden spoon.

I didn’t hang around for the results but I think we might have picked up the wooden spoon.

It all then got a little argy-bargy with some of our other crews. An official complaint was put in after a rival club allegedly blocked the course and crashed into our boat. It was like waiting outside the headmaster’s office as we prepared to submit our evidence.

Eight hours later I was back at base. I had rowed for around 20 minutes. You have to be very committed to take part in gig race days.

Apologies but I am most definitely a non-committal type of guy

To the Essex Sports Arena! …on Saturday evening. This was the first double header of the season for the Rebels, with the recently reformed men’s Division 3 team on court first, followed by a men’s Division 1 game.

Football commitments kept us away from the Div 3 men. We rocked up and took up our seats at the arena to see the final couple of minutes in the 4th quarter.

At first I thought the scoreboard was borked. It said the Rebs were leading 117 to 34. Hang on, that can’t be right.

A few friendly conversations with some Rebs folk then confirmed that this had been an absolute walkover. The visitors from Bedford had come with only 5 players. There was absolutely no one on the bench.

The atmosphere in the arena was flat but a win is a win. Some within the organisation were a little concerned that the sizeable crowd might not hang around for the main attraction, given what they had just witnessed.

It’s a little awkward for the men’s Div 3 team. They’ve had to drop down a year after taking a sabbatical last season. It looks like the season ahead might be something of a stroll for them, with few competitive matches.

Any concerns about the arena being half empty once again for the Div 1 men were soon put aside. Even with England international football on the telly, there was still a half-decent crowd.

Once again coaching for the Rebels was Ashley Jordan. He has stepped up to the role in an impressive manner as the organisation still looks to recruit a full-time coach.

The early exchanges didn’t look good for the Rebs against a really strong Reading Rockets team. The visitors outmuscled the Rebs on their home court in the early exchanges.

We also had our own little tussle with some kids sitting in front of us. They had a right bloody annoying mouth reed-type instrument thingy. One of the young fellows kept on squeaking away in a most annoying fashion.

The Rebels were impressive in the first quarter. They moved the ball around the court at some pace. It would always be a challenge to keep up this level of commitment.

It was a great team effort as they took an 18-14 lead going into the start of the second quarter. They had to work for it, with Reading pushing them all the way.

Reading came out strong in the second. This was a key game as both teams looked to progress in the Trophy. It was pretty much winner takes all to see who would come out on top for the next stage of the knockout competition.

The Rebels' strategy of relying on sharpshooter Kyran Martin to hit his three-pointers won’t win you a game. This isn’t a one-man sport. Martin did remarkably well with most of his shots but not everything is going to sink.

Some great coaching though did take place from Ashley Jordan. With 3 seconds left in the second quarter, he brought on two subs and set up a move which got the three-pointers needed. This left the Rebels trailing 40-42 at the buzzer.

The game got back underway in the third but the scoreboard started to slow down. This then became a low-scoring ball game as Reading started to get away. The shots just wouldn’t sink for the Rebels.

The comeback never really seemed on. They were always chasing the game. The home team rallied in the final couple of minutes but the gap was already too big. Reading left Our House with a well-deserved 88-76 road win.

To Broad Lane! …on Saturday afternoon. I arrived in brilliant Estuary Wilds sunshine. I was fashionably late, natch, but the surprise here was that Wivenhoe Town were already 1-0 up.

The visitors were Dussindale and Hellesdon Rovers - which seemed a bit unfair: two teams versus one. Non-league football can get very confusing at times.

There’s no such thing as a big game in football. They’re all kind of big games, even down in the non-league pyramid.

This was something of a tester for the home team however. After a really encouraging start to the season. Wivenhoe, have let it slip ever so slightly of late.

Sure, there was a great cup win on pens midweek, but the league form, whilst not slipping back to those dark days of last season, hasn’t quite been the promotion push that was suggested a month or so ago.

Dussindale scored a scrappy equaliser. This flushed out a fair number of travelling fans who were in the ground. Good effort in making the trip.

Broad Lane is currently a dust bowl of a pitch. Seed was put down, but it has yet to take root. It all meant that whenever a player hit the surface it was hard to see what was happening. There was a plume of dust cloud hovering up above.

I was just happy to snap away under the bright sunshine conditions. Make the most of these GOLDN DAYS. As soon as winter comes under floodlights, then I’m clutching at straws when it comes to my camera. It’s all about the natural lighting.

An injury led to an enforced drinks break. Please don’t let this shit creep into our game, especially at non-league level.

Wivenhoe kept on pressing, and an absolute worldy of a goal was then scored with a perfection of a lob from out wide. Jack Colback would have been proud of this back in his Forest days. This got the young ultras going.

This was now shaping up to be a great game. There was a decent crowd and it could possibly be the last hurrah of the summer months before the autumn stretches out in front of us.

Another superb solo effort soon made it 3-1 to Wivenhoe. The ‘keeper came out but was caught stranded and the ball was taken around him.

Both teams out there are incredibly young. The game reflected this. It was played in almost a playground football spirit, but with a lot more skill, obvs.

Half-time came and then Wivenhoe wasted no time in making it 4-1 with a brilliant header from up on high. What the fuck is this that I’m watching? This is unknown territory for us down at Broad Lane.

“You missed a goal.”

…I remarked to a friendly football face returning from a pit stop.

“Who scored it?”

…came the response.

“Fuck knows, some fella mate.”

Every time we were on the attack it looked like we were going to score. This was perhaps the most skilled performance I’ve ever seen from a Wivenhoe team.

SHOUT OUT in particular to the young tricky new winger who was recently signed for the club. Every cross was pin-perfect.

What I think I enjoyed most was having a non-league experience not being soiled by the absolute stress of another Premier League Saturday. It was a joy to watch the game without having Forest in the AirPods and leading to me pacing around like a nut job.

It was also a joy to watch two young teams playing with plenty of skill, pace, and absolutely zero cynicism. The away team weren’t as poor as the scoreline suggests. It’s just that Wivenhoe were absolutely superb. Blimey I never thought I’d be saying that.

I even had a time to catch up with Mr Chairman, Mr Owner, and Mr Groundsman. In club news: the brick wall around the perimeter is coming down in the next few weeks and there’s also talk of new floodlights.

Mr Chairman is also optimistic about the visit of Chelmsford City in a cup match next month. A crowd of around 300+ is expected.

Back on the pitch and a right old goal-line comedy scramble took place in the final minute or so. Somehow the Dussindale ‘keeper kept the ball out of the net but then a fifth followed for Wivenhoe.

The Dragons were absolutely dominant.

A roll out on the Raleigh Electric to start Saturday morning. It’s been almost six months since I last pressed the eco button on the absolute beast of a bike and let the Bosch motor work its wonders down below.

It’s been a little complicated; access to the Raleigh Electric has been tricky. I gave the bike something of a once over yesterday evening ahead of the ride to start the weekend. Much to my surprise the battery level of three bars from six months ago had been retained.

The first obstacle to overcome whilst leaving the house was a gig boat being towed right down our road. Saturday morning is the Rat Race for the local gigs.

It’s a very competitive course, which, as the name suggests, takes you around Rat Island and then back down to the Sailing Club. It was quite a sight seeing a full-on gig being towed past our house.

My first thoughts as I put my pedal down and worked in unison with the motor were Christ, this bike is built like a bloody tank. It’s so strong and almost inflexible. It does give you a false sense of security, thinking that you’re on par with motorists on the road. You’re never on par with motorists on the road.

There was a slight early autumnal chill to the air. I could have possibly done with my full on cycling gloves. Soon it will be farewell to the fingerless ones for the season.

It didn’t take long before I passed the first roadside pheasant. He was looking slightly squashed. I don’t think he’ll get to enjoy the weekend.

I then realised I’d got my route all wrong. I missed off the usual turning for the Bobby George Boner. This meant I ended up riding it in reverse. It was most discombobulating.

I passed one of the local ponds that is usually a decent stop off point for a selfie, not so right now. It’s still completely bone dry.

Another signifier for the changing season was the sad sight of no wicket being prepared at Great Bentley. This is normally a regular scene as I cycle past the cricket club. Instead there was a sign up for an Autumn Fair. What goes around comes around.

Having messed up and tackled the route in reverse, I then also had to head down Tenpenny Hill rather than climb it. I would rather climb, to be honest. It’s pretty hairy with motorists trying to take you up from behind.

I passed the first pumpkins of the season outside a house. They weren’t real ones, but some kind of ceramic shit ones placed on top of a couple of gate posts.

The Raleigh Electric held its own as well as pretty much most of the charge. Autumnal and winter days were meant for taking the Raleigh Electric out around the lanes.

Chapeau!

Coltrane at 100

via Richard Williams

Restore Britain: a party on the road to fascism

via Socialist Worker

Incoming new live Weller album

“Parliamentarians tend to be a self-serving bunch: getting the PLP to vote for an early election is tricky when so many of them are predicted to lose their seats. "

via Novara

The ride out on Thursday afternoon was all about testing some new cleats. I finally gave up on my patched up cycling shoes after more than a couple of years of applying cheapo cheapo superglue to the sole. Sometimes in life you just have to accept that even a tight arse penny pinching cyclist such as myself needs to think about an upgrade.

No worries. I had a reserve pair of cycling shoes stashed away specifically for this purpose. I had attached the cleats around six months or so ago, in what I was hoping would be the exact same specification as my old knackered cycling shoes.

It’s all about fine margins when it comes to attaching cleats. The slightest miscalculation, compared to what you’ve known previously, will disrupt your whole cycling style and position.

Look at you, you pro cycling PONCE.

I rolled out rather gingerly and got myself clipped in. I almost came a cropper as I had a very soft testing of the release mechanism in the new cleats.

Anyone who has ever tried cleats for the first time knows that it’s a rite of passage that you will fall off within the first few pedal strokes as you try and unstrap. Somehow I managed to avoid this on Thursday.

I rolled out a little further, practising the chicken feet dance routine. You have to twist your ankles very abruptly, around 45°, and the theory is that your cleats will pop out. Simple, this, right?

Soon I was out along the lanes. I’m always happy when I’m riding a bicycle, even with dickhead close-pass motorists coming up from behind.

The weather conditions seemed ideal. There were bright blue skies and it was sunny up above, but it wasn’t hot and there was a pleasant breeze to propel me along.

I reached Elmstead Market. They’re a funny lot over there. I noticed Christmas decorations, not on one but two separate houses. What the fuck is wrong with some people?

The ride was then pretty much uneventful. I headed out towards Lawford, touched on the boundaries of Manningtree, and then looped back to base. I got caught a little short in the final stretch and had to stop off to water some blackberries.

All that moisture might certainly help over the coming weeks. I also managed to clock the first roadside mushrooms starting to appear.

Let’s do autumn, Halloween, and Bonfire Night before we start thinking about bloody Christmas, right?

A.K.A. a Gilles Peterson wet dream. There’s plenty of funk here, perhaps too much funk. It almost takes over from what could be some otherwise interesting jazz-samba moments. The foreign language element possibly disguises what might be some mundane lyrics. Which sounds incredibly jingoistic, but for all I know they could be getting their groove on, singing about beastly and unspeakable acts. Sure it’s pleasant enough. I guess it would make more sense sitting on a sun terrace and enjoying a lager shandy, but I’m not really that kind of guy.

⭐ ⭐

Three hours of gospel songs is pushing it even a little too much for me, with my open ears and inquisitiveness to explore and enjoy new types of music. Praise the Lord etc. She’s got a bloody good pair of lungs on her. I guess that’s the deal with gospel: the song’s secondary, it’s the delivery where it counts. Bloody hell this girl can sing, but not for three hours, mind. The start of playing the cricket was approaching. I bailed after around 45 minutes.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐