Discovering Jazz in Tegucigalpa: My Midweek Escape
Dear readers, The past couple of Wednesdays, I have gone to a jazz night in Tegucigalpa at a place called Hibriduz, a place found on the recommendation from a drunk musician a few weeks ago. I must admit, jazz isn’t my go-to genre, nor am I an expert. It’s nice to listen to and unwind, do art or writing, and submerge in an ambience of improvised melodies, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you the difference between Duke Ellington and Miles Davis. My Uncle Patrick West, a jazz musician based in Glasgow, will be reading this shaking his head with extreme disappointment at his nephew’s ignorance of jazz. He believes that jazz music caused the Big Bang and created the universe, and God resides in his sax i.e. heaven. Yes, a true jazz spiritualist, Pat is. Hopefully, I redeem myself by continuing with this post. I go to jazz night to relax. Work can be tough so it is nice to have a glass of red and let the jazz musicians do their thang while my mind unwinds from its chaos. It feels wonderful, especially in the humidity of the rainy season in the tropics. Hondurans from the north of the country are probably frowning at these very words. “What humidity, chele? Come to Jan Pedro Jula! We’ll jhow you humidity.” [The swapping of the j for the s is a Honduran inside joke. Just speak to a Jampedrana/o: a person who originates from San Pedro Sula. You’ll find out why]. Jokes aside, it’s a nice midweek thing to do, and then get to meet the musicians afterwards. They are actually from a jazz school. The trombonist is the profe: the teacher, as you might have guessed, a Nicaraguan. Then there is a guitarist, who seems to be the spokesperson the group, sometimes, joined by a pianist and saxophonist. But what impresses me most is the bassist and the drummer, who I was informed they are 17 and 16 years old, respectively. They’re quite something. Not only am I in awe of their talent, but also their discipline and skill to improvise. They’re beyond their years in terms of maturity and seem blessed with quiet confidence and ease to perform with such jazz-like coolness. Yet they left me envious and a little regretful that I never really kept up with the piano from my youth (I can still play Ode to Joy, but there are only so many times I can repeatedly play it to impress the ladies), and I often too lazy and ill-disciplined to pick up the acoustic guitar, which sits half a metre away from my bed where I write these very words. I’d love to pick it up and strum like Noel Gallagher, but like I say: laziness. It sits there, staring at me, filling me with guilt. Bastard. Back to jazz band: I have enjoyed the evenings I have attended, but I have also enjoyed taking black and white photos while the band plays. Not to give myself a giant pat on the back, but I’m pleased with how they’ve turned out. While doing so, I felt inspired to write a poem, something I’ve not done in years. Just caught in the moment, I suppose, when the band performed a jazz version of the famous Mexican bolero, Bésame Mucho – Kiss Me A Lot. For those not in the know, it was written by Consuelo Velásquez in 1940 and first sung by Emilio Tuero a year later. It has since been performed by famous musicians around the world, including the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Luis Miguel, Andrea Bocelli, Nat King Cole, Julio Iglesias, Natalia Lafourcade and Diana Krall, but one of my favourite versions was by Mexican band, Zoé, who originate from Cuernavaca, Mexico, a city I know very well through my work with Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos, which was also founded in the city. It was beautiful to hear this jazz version; especially as the melancholic melody reverberated into the humid night sky. Enjoy. Wednesday Night Cup of wine In my hand. A drop rain Moistens the stand. The band stroll out: No intro needed. Calm urgency, Shirts loosely fitted. A diaphragm expands, A serge follows through, Fingers pulse shiny buttons, The brass on cue. A mellow horn Penetrates the ambience, For the lust of seductive melodies, I pledge my affiance. Guitars and drums, Do your thing, The synergy starts, Night rises to sing. Wrapped in melancholy, Bonded with skill, Bless the souls, Their concoction swills. “Bésame mucho”: The lyrics silent, Yet the longing remains; Feelings still vibrant. I sit back, Tilt to the sky, I breathe in the sounds, And utter “oh my, oh my.”
18th of December: Ode to Shane MacGowan
Dear readers, So what does 18th of December mean to you? Yes, you. Is it your birthday, or that of a loved one or friend? Do you know someone that died that day? Is it a significant day in your relationship? Did you meet someone, marry someone, divorce someone, or dare I say it, murder someone? Maybe it’s the date of a Christmas nativity. Maybe you smashed it, maybe you buggered it and it gives you childhood trauma. Damn it. Tell me what it means to you, the 18th of December. It’s a random date in the 365 of them in a year to throw at you, I know. It’s 7 days before Santa Claus comes to make or break the festive season. Either that’s going through your mind, or God knows what else, but I doubt the date means that much. Com’on, you eejit. Where’re you going with this? Well, reader, yes, 18th December is very dear to me. It is actually the night that the Pogues used to come to Birmingham, for what I think was the best part of a decade, to perform their Christmas concerts. For the lack of a better term to adequately express my emotion, it moved me to my very core. I jigged in the mosh pit with the rest of the fraggles and psychopaths, glasses of beer and piss thrown in the air, while everyone sang along to Shane MacGowan’s growl. I’d arrive home with a strong whiff of the worse side of human life. I cared not, though, despite the looks and giggles from family members. I saw them in three different years: 2001, 2009 and 2010, always on the 18th. I can’t remember the name of the venues. I can’t remember how many months in advance I bought the tickets. But I remember counting down the days to the night of the concert, like foreplay before the climax, and the thrill was always worth it, especially to hear the Fairytale of New York at the end. The Pogues – which means the kisses in gaelic – shortened from Poguemahone, which means kiss my arse. They were punk and folk and they were explosive on stage, just as much as their melodies and lyrics. They formed in the 80s and went on into the 90s, but without their frontman and main songwriter, Shane MacGowan, after he was fired for drug and drink dependency. Yet the band regrouped in the 2000s to do the aforementioned Christmas concerts. I can’t remember the whole story of how the band formed, but they were a wonderful mix of talented of Irish and English musicians. They wrote of Ireland and London and love and politics with such furious devotion…it wet-fish slapped me into understanding the power of music and literature at such a young age, and brought so much inspiration into my own attempts in the creative arts. I doubt I will ever see them live again. It definitely won’t be with Shane MacGowan. He passed away on 30th November of this year. The Gods insisted he be born on Christmas Day of 1957, and creative Gods helped him co-write probably the most iconic Christmas song in the English language, the song I mentioned in the previous paragraphs, the Fairytale of New York. Ironically, the song became something of a poison chalice in the eyes of Shane. He apparently came to loathe it, and you can understand why when everyone is singing it every Christmas. For the millions, it became their favourite Christmas song. Without doubt, it became mine. The broadway melody mixed with melancholic lyrics, focusing on lost dreams, lost hope, and a toxic relationship. Saying that, it’s not my favourite Pogues song, although it was the first I heard of theirs when my mum and dad used to play it at Christmas when I was young. I really got into Pogues in my teenage years and early 20s and they became a constant in my life, wired into my brain and became part of who I am, as idolism has the power of doing. It was the punk and hedonism that attracted me, the rebellion and storytelling, the lyrics that would suckerpunch my imagination and emotions and make me jump or jig or reflect. I put him up there with the best for his storytelling: James Joyce, Brendan Behan, and Roddy Doyle. But melodies…the damn melodies. I went through a period of trying to get my hands on every piece of merch available before the internet became a thing…the posters, tshirts, and every book ever written about him. I loved the man. I just didn’t get a chance to meet him. I feel more than blessed to have seen him live though. The day he died wasn’t much of a shock, sadly. I don’t want to repeat what millions have said about him “living close to edge that it is a surprise he made it to 65”. His hedonistic ways could be seen in his disheveled hair and disjointed teeth. However, I’d been following him on social media in the previous months of his final day, and I had witnessed he was in acutely bad health. Pneumonia beat him in the final round. Now he’s up there dancing and singing with Kirsty McColl. He was more than his hedonistic lifestyle. He was a romantic, a rebel, a poet, as well as being spiritual, with a fierce sense of humour, quite shy and eloquent. He wrote about dabbling in drugs and prostitution in his early years in London, as well as having part of his ear bitten off at a concert. The absurdities and madness followed him. I can only take what I know of him through documentaries and literature. There was more to him than his rep. He wanted to make Irish music popular, and he certainly did that. The Thatcher government knew of his popularity and saw it as a threat, banning a couple of his songs. He threw everything at