Broom (November)

Head (Dave Douglas) airs testy theories, plays around with forms, skitters close to ungrooved edges of chaos. Heart (Paul Grabowsky) reasons emotionally with theories, gives body to form, addresses minutes, Saturdays, November, our place in time. Not one without the other. Or there’s the binary of Action (Dave) and Contemplation (Paul), living in the same premises: Mary with her prayerbook, Martha with her broom. Action pushes to get it happening, forces facts, wants the last word. Contemplation speaks of how everything happens, reflects on forceful facts and their limits, waits its turn to fill in what is missing. Always together.

Nightlight (November)

Green sky thunderstorms. When we came out of the show, rain was white windows. Waterfalls from gutters, a washout for outdoors. Wangaratta aficionados remapped their evening. River rose, streets were quiet, George V Gardens abandoned, great leafy trees dripping rainwater on empty white chairs, empty stage. Only the supermarket was open, and jazz theatres. Where next? Dave Douglas Quintet came on, played into Sunday night. End of festival but felt like the beginning, they played to the true believers. There was nothing in the world to worry about, in time, over time, beyond time. Just the fans and the music.

Frypan (November)

People compare jazz to a Swiss Army knife, lots of different stuff stuck together. This is a terrible analogy. Jazz is more like a frypan. I went into a theatre, hunger in my being, and what the hell the music is United States, Poland, Cuba and who knows what. Afro-Peruvian, is that even possible? Rhythm section’s tight, percussion’s tough, brass shouts, piano gossips, the guitar is sweet heaven. If it’s November, then this is Australia. Pinch me! The ingredients you put in determine the quality of the menu. These guys are so hot they’re about to jump in the fire.