September 25
But what if no-one’s watching? Not the all-seeing eye, not the techlords in their castles in the air, not the po-po or the spooks with their busy little bots, not even the sentient AI, still sitting on a server quietly biding its time, not at almighty lord of hosts, nor the voice that whispers at your side? What if after all, no-one gives a flying f*ck? Well, there’s still JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH so you just hurry along, you and your bicameral mind and your various levels of personalities, alter egos, dopplegängers, and whatever else of you is out there submerged in the collective Jungian sea, and get ready to get real with man like Luke “Utnapishtim” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Humbaba” Thomas (drms) as they weigh in once more with the hot sweet swinging blues-to-bop-to-whatever, supported to some extent by me on bass… who will be there? Will a murmuration of saxophonists arrive, a blaring host of trumpets, a mournful trombone, an army of drummers? Will Cap’n Jack be at the helm, will Abdul patrol the block, will the host of raddled thieves proffer their pitiful gleanings from shitty carrier bags, will the lord of hosts rain down fire and brimstone or will the skies remain, drifting with cloud, scraped and shattered by the stars, Boötes gleaming arrogantly, the globe shifting away from the sun, the crickets still on the hill but for how much longer? Get with it and get yourself whole again, who cares who’s watching, the time is now, pump it up a little more, get the party going on the floor, see, 'cause that's where the party's at, and you'll find out if you do that.
September 18
Holy Shit! Stuff sure moves fast here in the Meatspace Metaverse of Airstrip One - yesterday a perp can be a Wellness Influencer, Just Putting It Out There to millions of attention-famished hungry eyeballs, today they’re in the MSM for all the wrong reasons for not keeping theirTrews on and it’s messing with their brand.. let JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH step in, pull you quietly to one side, and offer you an escape route from the ever mounting frenzy of denunciation, defence, counterattack, plaintive cries of innocent until proven, victim blaming, opportunism, GB News presenters scurrying after the bandwagon as fast as their gnarled little legs can carry them, the inevitable Elon-ism, etc etc, now mounting higher and higher on your multi-platform feed like some climate change enhanced floodwaters stinking of negligence and denial and death…. come join us, kick back, lift an eyebrow at the transplendent beings of the Bee’s Team to summon them to your side wth libations of quality hooch, and bask in the never-dimming radiance pouring forth from man like Luke “Bang-Bang-Chiki-Chiki” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Boom-Jackie-Boom-Chick” Thomas (drms) as they do their thing with customary aplomb like the world will go on forever, forever, forever in golden fields, forever in the summer dusk…. the curtain is being pulled across the horizon, the equinox approaches on dread stealthy feet, Boötes the herdsman and his scorpion chum loom in the darkling sky, the swallows are gathering on the wire, they are leaving, they are leaving, the sere breath of autumn lurks at the end of the street, in the dusty turn of the stairs, out upon the glassy sea… we don’t need no stinking brands, we are the unbranded, so forget all the bullsh*t and come and hang, bring yer axe, bring your best self or whatever self you have, let dogs delight to bark and bite, we’ll be here doing our thing and so should you.
September 11
Listen up, suckers.. think you can just paddleboard your way out of your problems, out across the gleaming sea, into the blue void, everything stillness and heat and 30 degrees for ever, umbrellas on the beach, the dusty lilacs hanging motionless in suburban gardens, even the junkies on the level too enervated to hustle, golden sun forever? Think again, the tide is turning, and only JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH stands between you and the chill wind blowing over the garden wall, the sudden darkness falling over the empty park, the voice calling over the wasteground at the edge of town, the worm in the apple… Luckily we’ll have the dynamic excellence of man like Luke “Tiresias” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Polyphemus” Thomas (drms) as they invite you along on their musical odyssey, riding on a tide of cool grooves and hot licks, sails billowing in the wind, flags snapping, all bold n brassy ready to conquer distant shores, return with fabulous treasure… outside the streets are full of chinese spies and escaped prisoners, the comet is coming, Jupiter heaves above the horizon again to witness the unstoppable unfolding of the inevitable, the ravens croak on the 5g masts, what will save you? Pickleball won’t save you, nor Cardano, nor feeble Rishi n his hapless goons, nor cutting carbs nor counting your steps nor ducking your aging body in buckets of ice, nor TED talks nor the querulous reedy tones of silly Dr Peterson, nor scrolling thru your tethered feed corrupted with rising tides of madness, but we’ll have music, the Bee’s team n their bottomless libations poured from golden cornucopias, Abdul patrolling the vibes, esteemed guests dropping by to do their thing, keep in the warmth, keep in the velvet twilight, til at last you put out the light, turn over, and adjust the pillow, and hopefully compose your mind for sleep - God help us, God help all of us, every one, all of us.
September 4
One last throw of the dice for hot girl summer here in the former Skidrow-On-Sea, beach packed, geezerflesh burnt pink, lager, the sudden unexpected gasp of paddleboards being deflated like someone huffing on some noz or the last dying shriek of an expiring water-daemon, instagram chock full of sunset pics… combat feelings of nostalgia-sodden unease by attending punctually to JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH where we will be carrying on regardless of false summer’s blandishments, clearing out the engrams and and weaving our own webs of musical intoxication thanks to the inexhaustible talents of man like Luke “Operating Thetan” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Xenu the Conqueror” Thomas (drms) as they invite you to sail away with them, higher and higher into the matchless cerulean now deepening into blue then black, all the junk in space flying by just above your poor mortal head, Elon’s chartered line of lights ripping across the fabric and shrinking your horizons, down below the chartered streets reverberate with the heat, the nameless creatures of the night shuffle past in search of their salvation, Abdul patrols the block seeing off bad vibes, esteemed guests venture in out of the soiled ragged afterglow to sit in and do their thing, the Bee’s team wait, shimmering in the velvet darkness behind the well-stocked bar ready to make with libations of top grade hooch at your request… how many more times will you hear the swifts screaming in the twilight, high above your mortal head? How many more Jupiters will heave above the horizon for you? Is that all there is to a circus? Ou sont les neiges d’antan? Come and get some while it’s hot.