An album I wanted to hear in 1990 and not 2026. You’ve heard the first track, you’ve pretty much heard the whole album. Short, sharp, but not really shocked. It just plays to the formula and sounds a little stale.

The formula is fine when you’re a 20-year-old and want to kick the shit out of everything. But it’s not so great in your sixth decade in your life when you want a cup of tea and some reassuring songs of warmth and love first thing in the morning.

⭐ ⭐

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.

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.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I struggled with this album. I only know it through The Grey Album. The rhymes are familiar but the beats aren’t. No disrespect but The Beatles provide far better backing for Jay-Z than some of the beats on offer here. It’s all very sharp, almost computer perfect. I think that’s why I like The Grey Album so much. The Beatles fray around the edges of Jay-Z’s delivery, creating something a lot more relaxed, yet still real.

⭐ ⭐

This started off strong with some traditional blues. In particular the backing, with the bass and drums, came through with some conviction. But then by track two we enter into blues-pop territory. You simply can’t water down this type of music. It needs to be raw. It needs to be reverberating against your inner soul. The Mustang Sally cover, in particular, dilutes the Buddy Guy myth. Disappointing.

⭐ ⭐

I’ve tried to stay out of charity shops of late. They’re always full of tat when it comes to clothing, and especially so when it comes to CDs.

You can end up straining your eyes as you peer through endless CD spines, only to read Boyzone, Annie Lennox, and endless Eva Cassidy.

Finding a rarity whilst digging in a charity shop’s crates is something of a fool’s gold errand.

But wait! What’s this?

I did allow myself five minutes or so having a quick shifty whilst in Walton-on-the Naze earlier. It was easy to dismiss most of the CDs, as they were classical with a very distinct spinal font.

What leapt out at me was some Loudon Wainwright III and Muddy Waters. The deal was £1 per CD or three for £2. I needed to add a third to my bundle.

I strained a little further and managed to find some Charlie Parker.

Keep on digging, Jase.

Another instant purchase following an Album of the Day recommendation. I’ve said pretty much all I want to say about Polly Harvey’s dry debut a few posts down.

It’s a stunning opening statement in a career that then followed through. It managed to achieve even more dark but still quite delightful moments.

Much to my surprise this cheapo CD version dropped this morning and I found that it’s an original on the old Too Pure label. Christ, this piece of plastic and metallic in my hand is over three decades old.

I actually had an interview at Too Pure back in the day. It must have been just after the Polly Harvey debut.

I think I went in there like an absolute dick, trying to dazzle them with a load of corporate speak. Perhaps that wasn’t the best approach to take, Jase, when you’re dealing with a cool as fuck genuine indie.

I did manage to leave, however, with a record bag stuffed full of CDs. I don’t know why but Polly Harvey’s Dry wasn’t amongst them.

I do often wonder what might have become of me if I had landed the job at Too Pure. I think Polly Harvey was single at the time…

I bloody love Dinosaur Jr. I used to stomp around to Freak Scene at Rock City on Thursday nights - or it was more like Friday mornings, sometime around 2 am.

It was something of a surprise at 8 am this Friday morning to have the shit kicked out of me by listening to Freak Scene once again. What a fucking tune! It stampedes right through you, takes no prisoners, yet is still laid-back.

You get the feeling that there is a lot more to be said and a lot more energy to be released but somehow Dinosaur Jr. hold it all back. It’s almost a threat, thinking that there’s more to come if you really want to push it a bit further.

But Bug is about so much more than just a noise. Buried away beneath all the feedback are some actual top-quality tunes. You can see where Nirvana got their blueprint from.

The absolute noise attack is dialled up further on the penultimate track, Don’t. Christ, what a fucking racket! It was bloody glorious.

I wouldn’t want to be listening to this stuff day in, day out to help maintain my mood but every now and then you need a kick in the balls with a complete fucking mess of an album that still teases you with some tunes.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐