Post by excoriator on Sept 23, 2016 22:32:38 GMT
In my youth I was full of admiration for a local amateur pianist who played not half bad stride piano when stone cold sober. A drink or two later (by him, not the audience) and he played a lot better. By the end of an evening of steady drinking he had consumed a near fatal dose for a normal human, but was playing as if god himself was at the keys after which his daughter hauled him home.
Alas I found the opposite. Even a couple of drinks took the edge off my playing.
At University I recall a concert given by the Joe Harriott Quintet. As a member of the Jazz society, I was peripherally involved in arranging this. Harriott - I believe uncle of the cook Ainsley - was an alto saxophonist of some repute in the field of bebop. He and his colleagues arrived and he opened his case to reveal an alto saxophone nestling between two large bottles of whisky. The first set went splendidly, during which half a bottle went down. The second set can best be described as a little-disconnected although not lacking in originality, during which the other half bottle followed the first. The interval saw him necking some more. and the third set was, well, I guess ultra-inventive was a hefty understatement. The fourth set sat him utterly incapable of making a sound. All the whisky had gone.
He lapsed into a peaceful slumber after the concert whilst his fellow musicians enjoyed a buffet and a glass or two of wine. It was noted however that someone playing a note on the piano caused him to snore a diminished fifth above it! His party piece evidently! The evening over, the musicians climbed into their minibus, heading back to London. "What about him?" I asked them gesturing at the slumbering form. A shrug was all the response we got and they departed sans the band's star.
Disposing of a six-foot drunken negro at 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning in North wales in the 1960s was somewhat problematical. None of the Hotels in Bangor seemed to have rooms available, and eventually, we propped him up against the door of a B&B in Beddgelert advertising 'Vacancies', rang the bell and ran away to a safe distance. I recall the door opening and Harriott collapsing onto the landlady who emitted an earsplitting shriek before we withdrew, our duty done.
I find it a little worrying that after a bott. of Malbec this evening, I took to the keyboard (headphones! I am a merciful musician) for a quick blow before bed, and rattled off a prelude and fugue without - as far as I can tell - a single bum note, and followed it with an improvisation of Leslie Bricuse's 'Pure Imagination' that I wish I'd recorded for analysis when sober. Perhaps being half pissed means that one is less critical, but I think I played better than I have ever done. Perhaps there is an age after which booze actually helps one play. Now that really would be nice!
Alas I found the opposite. Even a couple of drinks took the edge off my playing.
At University I recall a concert given by the Joe Harriott Quintet. As a member of the Jazz society, I was peripherally involved in arranging this. Harriott - I believe uncle of the cook Ainsley - was an alto saxophonist of some repute in the field of bebop. He and his colleagues arrived and he opened his case to reveal an alto saxophone nestling between two large bottles of whisky. The first set went splendidly, during which half a bottle went down. The second set can best be described as a little-disconnected although not lacking in originality, during which the other half bottle followed the first. The interval saw him necking some more. and the third set was, well, I guess ultra-inventive was a hefty understatement. The fourth set sat him utterly incapable of making a sound. All the whisky had gone.
He lapsed into a peaceful slumber after the concert whilst his fellow musicians enjoyed a buffet and a glass or two of wine. It was noted however that someone playing a note on the piano caused him to snore a diminished fifth above it! His party piece evidently! The evening over, the musicians climbed into their minibus, heading back to London. "What about him?" I asked them gesturing at the slumbering form. A shrug was all the response we got and they departed sans the band's star.
Disposing of a six-foot drunken negro at 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning in North wales in the 1960s was somewhat problematical. None of the Hotels in Bangor seemed to have rooms available, and eventually, we propped him up against the door of a B&B in Beddgelert advertising 'Vacancies', rang the bell and ran away to a safe distance. I recall the door opening and Harriott collapsing onto the landlady who emitted an earsplitting shriek before we withdrew, our duty done.
I find it a little worrying that after a bott. of Malbec this evening, I took to the keyboard (headphones! I am a merciful musician) for a quick blow before bed, and rattled off a prelude and fugue without - as far as I can tell - a single bum note, and followed it with an improvisation of Leslie Bricuse's 'Pure Imagination' that I wish I'd recorded for analysis when sober. Perhaps being half pissed means that one is less critical, but I think I played better than I have ever done. Perhaps there is an age after which booze actually helps one play. Now that really would be nice!
