Foxaque goes “modern”

Oct 2007

 

Argued with the wife then went to a jazz club… couldn’t decide, in the end, which was worse.

Didn’t realise that things had got so bad since my extended sojourn (about 60 years…).

“Modern Jazz”: everything that is the embodiment of wank! Can’t speak on the efforts of other bands and musicians (especially the pioneers of the cool-wave and the modern fashion) – some of it, I’ve heard, is rather good and worthy of praise (I don’t doubt that for a second). But, as with any avant-garde art form or development, once it “breaks” and becomes, shall one say, institutionalised, the flood gates seemingly open for every half-baked amateur bleating for the right to inflict their inferior emulations upon the rest of us. And, I might add (with some indignation) charge us cash for the displeasure!

 

This evening was no exception: unimaginative at best. A waste of £5 a best!

Bland sax solos, religiously staying within the strictures of received knowledge (and only one key, seemingly). Anyway, the sax man had truly missed the point of Coltrane’s efforts to break the mould. This chap was pure mould all right! Why copy if it’s crap at best? I was informed that this chap was “well established” as some sort of free form jazzer or some such. Wasn’t convinced, myself.

 

It got worse. The singer, well, vocalist (the most charitable label I could reasonably designate) was abysmal. Couldn’t sing with any gusto or variation. Wet and quite limp. Even if I was diplomatic and gave ground for an apparent cold, the vocalist was still piss poor. The lyrics were nothing short of dreadful hippy wank – stars and nature and unkempt pubic hair etc. it was some vague “free improvisation” or some such.

 

Anyway. I don’t pay £5 to hear free improvisation. It’s overpriced improvisation! I made my opinions known to the reverend proprietors of the club and they duely offered me a refund. Despite my contempt for the band’s dreary efforts, my benevolent qualities caused me to refuse: “they’ll need all the money they can get”.

 

Foxaque Fumbles Sorely in Soho

Oct 1927

Foxaque took it upon himself to visit his upmarket social circle in London. the place was still an awfull blot like the inside of a sailor’s lung. he wasted no time in trawling the Soho clubs, bars and other disreputable establishments for pleasure and opportunities. Foxaque, however, was not overly familiar with the essential character or moral landscape of Soho town. he had been there a few times, but had simply been lucky not to have wandered into the wrong sort of place, you see? he reeled into one particular “enterprise” called “The Sea Dog’s Hat Stand”. what’s in a name? thought foxaque…. more than he bargained for…

there were indeed many exotic and beautiful ladies present, as one might expect in a tavern themed for sailors. heavily made-up and speaking in the most gruff and abominable way, but enticing nonetheless. Foxaque was well aware that Londoners were not known for their “hairs and graces”, but was rather startled and not a little aroused by the company in question. he was quickly greeted and ushered in to an attentive congregation of misfits, war-wounded and tempting beauties. stories were exchanged, rounds of drink purchased and foxaque proudly swaggered off, some hours later, with two such ladies to a local hotel sporting agreeable prices and a blind eye to licentious behaviour. His new friends charged by the hour, not that Foxaque remembered or cared (he’d borrowed the money). but he was greeted to the strangest of sights the next morning, having never seen a lady shave in quite such a way before…

Foxaque washed himself vigourously. four times. and left. he felt sordid, depraved, dirty, but far from guilty. it would not be an overestimation to speculate as far as to say that Foxaque felt some sort of ill-deserved pride in the previous evening’s indulgences.

When in Rome…

 

PASSPORT CONTOL

I hate aeroplane flights, ocean liners suit me better.

 

yes, they let me out of Australia, but not without a struggle!

they threatened to keep me there on account that my passport was damaged and vandalised.

I couldn’t see that as a threat, really. it’s a pleasant place to be living, Melbourne.

Anyway, i received the usual lecture and the prospect of inconvenience at immigration. (marigolds and margarine etc. in brushed aluminium toilet cubicles by overweight Helgas). normally, one has to pay for such services, but in this day and age, airports provide it absolutely gratis if one should decide to backchat. those of us whom are skilful at it get more than just a grilling…. complimentary service!

so if you are into degradation and submission, a box of matches and a pair of platform shoes will get you all the attention you need!!

who was that shoe bomber chap? what a fucking idiot! hope he’s being buggered senseless in Guantanamo for being dull bastard. he’s certainly getting a little more than the dunce hat and playground ridicule! giving them poor Muslim fellows such bad press, y’know, and what with Bagdad being such a fashionable party destination these days…

my point being: if one is going to blow up an aeroplane then dont sport a beard and spout gibberish like an excitable foreigner. no! dye your hair blonde, wear a light coloured linen suit and panama hat, swagger about with an umbrella in blazing 40*C heat and say things like “i’m frightfully sorry” and “gosh! really?” and “raaaa-thur. i should say so” and, lest we should forget, “G & T, old man, if you would, please”, resulting in one simply breezing through immigration in possession of the most questionably battered passport (one’s mug-shot was half peeled off at the back due to ware and tear amongst other, earlier mentioned, damage) and not a second glace at my expensive shoes, i might add.

the parting comment of the officer being: “not my problem, mate. your going the other way”. 

back to blighty without a hitch, after all! However, i was obliged to relinquish no less than three cigarette lighters at the check-in desk…

FOXAQUE’S FAUX PAS

May 1926.

Foxaque trawled Smith Street on saturday night, looking for cheap drink and easy women.he certainly wasn’t disappointed by the cheap drink.he reeled into Cas Reitop’s Dirty Secrets, a local speakeasy. at the bar, he introduced himself to the first young lady drunk enough to be within arms reach. she perloined a cigarette off Foxaque and proceded to charm him. not that Foxaque could hear a blasted word she was saying over the gramophone and bawdy din of the other customers (for a speakeasy, they were indeed quite noisey). the young lady in question was certainly questionable. she was a well known showgirl by the name of Miss Lula Shaker, already well established in this town. she had produced her own shows and entertained often in the society parties of the powers that be (she had earnt her own car and chauffeur which allowed her to drink with gay abandon), but she was clearly bored of Melbourne and yearned for the decadence of Europe as much as Foxaque did. Miss Shaker was a trouble maker: a saucy vamp who had left a trail of broken hearts, bleeding noses and empty wallets in her wake. Foxaque had no expectations regarding falling in love and was certainly low on funds, so two points at least counted in his favour. but he was not the most courageous of men and feared any sort of confrontation. a showgirl with a mean right hook was un-nerving and yet, mightily attractive. he went to light his own cigarette, but it didn’t draw on the flame as well as he’d expect. he broke the filter off before relighting, quipping about such a needless addition that ruined the inhalation of pure tobacco smoke. Miss Shaker smirked. She had not actually seen Foxaque light his cigarette, but had guessed from his manner that he was as narcissistic and arrogant as he was stupid, and so he had, in all likelyhood, lit the wrong end. but she let it slide. she saw potential. Foxaque was well dressed. impeccably so, even, and was passingly good looking. She had heard of his visit to Melbourne and had watched him perform. She liked his style. Foxaque needed a showgirl and Shaker needed a hot band. She had finally spied an excellent ticket to free drink and endless balls. a killer combination of style and memorable entertainment. “I hear Berlin is the place to be” she said. Foxaque wasn’t so sure: he’d heard of the Nazis. He suggested Japan instead, although Istanbul was more his bag. Miss Shaker smiled like a cheshire cat. she was the kind of cat that liked to get her cream. she tabled an idea, a money spinner and an irresistable non-stop touring party of decadence and excess. Foxaque was spell bound and all but signed a deal to her business proposal. This cat knew what she wanted and knew how to get it without having to open her legs. But this, however, was all that Foxaque was interested in…”You’ve got to be in it to win it”, Foxaque leered, and they shook hands.It was there that Foxaque & Shaker first locked horns: a terrible pairing of off-kilter minds that would bring his jazz ensemble into a quagmire of ill-repute and misadventure via all the seedy dance halls and ball rooms across the civilized world (bar licenced or otherwise)…

 

FOCSAQUE TAKES THE PITH

It was decided that we were bored of being in old melbourne town, so we donned our safari outfits and Indian pith helmets and took the dangerous trek out to East Brunswick on the old Lygon Street. we ducked and weaved through the land avoiding natives in loud, blinged up cars, upmarket hippy cafes full of borgeoisie types who read books about coffee and feel sorry for starving children in 3rd world countries: all the while sipping the coffee that they buy at bargain prices, thus keeping such places in poverty…

the most dangerous and tempting places we passed, of course, were local kebab emporiums. Harry the Horn had to be lead blindfolded at times, lest the sirens of his addiction get the better of him. needless to say, the many bottle shops (off-licences to you and i) seemed set to ambush us at every turn.

However, we found our salvation in a bar called Plan ‘B’. it even had a billiards room where we played that American game called Pool.

the natives in this bar were exceedingly friendly, for no sooner had we stepped in, than we were lavished with much free wine. the band played, i crooned, and the womenfolk swooned for my suave and  panache (and expensive aftershave).

we exchanged cultural phrases like “g’ay, maaate” and “Safe as fuck, Braah.”

i had been plied with a vast amount of New Zealand wine and by the end of the evening, and was in unintelligible hysterics.

at this point, Harry the Horn’s resolve collapsed and we both ended up in some sort of souvlaki bar, talking complete bollocks and pointing and laughing at the natives whenever they attempted to communicate with us. Donner in hand, we swayed down the road to a waiting car. it was at this point, matters took a bit of a turn. the car we had gotten into was not a taxi but instead was waiting for a couple of robbers who were holding up a bottle shop at that moment. the driver, nervous and twitchy, didn’t waste time establishing who we were. he raced off. kebab juice was spilt all over the back seats, and we had difficulty explaining where we wanted the driver to take us (through mouthfulls of donner meat). we waived notes of cash at him, distracted him with idle chitchat,  but to no avail. when he finally realised we were not the people he was expecting, he skidded and crashed. we crawled from the wreckage, still giggling. Harry was still eating.

upon our arrest, we were roughly cuffed by the officers. our story seemed unfeasable to them and we were taken to the cells. i protested “do you know who i am?”. they shrugged. i explained and as a result of establishing my identity they gleefully bludgeoned me half to death in one of the cells. the chap in the cell next to Harry (who was sleeping like a baby by now) was terrified by the whole set-to and promptly hung himself and died. we discovered the next day that he was some sort of failed producer of a burlesque show or other and a slapstick comedy about a penniless alcoholic who sings in his caravan. he had been arrested for fiddling the accounts: poor chap, suicide was his only honourable way out, really…

the mix-up was soon resolved once i got Harry to bribe the Duty Sargeant. the actual purpetrators were later found in the bottle shop blind drunk and were arrested… we were released, but i managed not to mention the other arrests to Harry lest he asked for his money back…

Foxaque Rebounds

those clever boffins in the hospital have cured me!

i was quite a catch, and the Alfred hospital said a case like mine only gets seen every 5 years or so: as a result, i had a queue registrars and student medics peering at my shrivelled member, speculating whether i had been loving many unclean women or was simply dashed unlucky and had some sort of appauling reaction to healthy food and balmy sunshine. they still have no way of proving it unless i relapse.

anyway, after days of lounging around on a sunsoaked balcony with nothing to do (dashed unfortunate, but i was advised against commiting myself to my usually punishing workload for at least a week (i took 2 weeks, to be certain)), i was finally let loose on town with my freshly arrived band members.

predictably, we got drunk and discovered an Indian Balti house.

we even played a few gigs.

so far, however, it’s been somewhat dead, as we started playing on the easter weekend. this entails anyone with enough money for a car, tent and many crates of cheap beer, leaving town in a mad rush for the coast or eaten alive by insects and ravenous, mansized plantlife in the bush. eitherway, the only people left to play to were devout christians or people that still have to work during the Easter celebrations (mainly muslims, sikhs or hindus) who know the meaning of a hard days grafting. the more leftwing element clearly taking any opportunity to drop what they’re doing and complain about work conditions or somesuch. but not the gents of topshelfjazz. no! we’ll work 24/7. no shirking, no skiving. any chance to entertain during a public holiday (at double rates, you understand). it’s bloody taxing, all this hard drinking, you know…

 

FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BOLD: FOXAQUE FUCKS-UP

An itch needs to be scratched, but on this occasion, the itch was interminable and of a Spanish variety.

 

Foxaque, delusional as ever, reeled from bar to brothel to opium den in the seedy side streets of old Port Melbourne.

Whilst in one of the more upmarket “bar-dellos”, Foxaque spied an opportunity. This opportunity sat in the form of brewery and liquor magnate, Mr. Philip Hatio, on business in Melbourne for some reason or other that he didn’t care to explain, and was enjoying a day’s “recreation”. (Hatio will crop up again in the Foxaque story, after being arrested and deported from the USA).

It so happened that Foxaque was still intelligible and Hatio considerably high.

Foxaque knew of Hatio’s past involvement in supplying a number of, shall we say, less than officially registered businesses with the raw materials that kept the bootlegging industry flowing from Canada to the US during prohibition. There is always a profit to be made from contraband… although boozing was still illegal in America; Foxaque sensed a possible gap in the market for the enjoyment of all things illicit. Foxaque’s already documented experiences in India were put to task.

            Hatio, having been freshly pleasured, was quite receptive and impressed by Foxaque’s (embellished) level of influence and connection. An opium scam was hatched: a one-off shipment from Foxaque’s sources in India was to be exchanged in Singapore for cash and equivalent shares in a fast growing and lucrative palm tree oil venture in the Falkland Islands (well, what was Foxaque to know)? Upon said transaction, the cargo was to be taken to Melbourne for “processing”, shipped to Hong Kong for “market testing”, and then finally delivered to a supply merchant in San Francisco Bay by tugboat via Buenos Aires. Simple, thought Foxaque. So he and Hatio celebrated.

 

The next day…

Hatio boarded a steamer bound eventually for Egypt without the slightest memory of the previous night’s deal. All notes and contact details having been lost when he was knocked unconscious by a local drag queen during a scuffle before dawn. Not that this mattered, as Foxaque was admitted to hospital about the same time complaining bitterly of a nasty rash mentioned in one of his journal entries. The passing of water had become excruciating and his cock looked like a cheese grater had savaged it. Indeed, the doctors were so intrigued by this case that there was a veritable rush to have a look at what appeared to be a rare and as yet, baffling rash. Foxaque couldn’t believe his luck! The male population of Melbourne, it seemed, was too busy employed in the distracting task of licking the streets clean, so much so, that the medical staff was comprised almost exclusively of women, many of whom were quite tasty. Ever the diva, Foxaque wasted no time in taking every opportunity and gratefully dropped his britches for approximately (hospital records show) 25 different nurses, students and doctors, the greater part being young ladies. A small queue developed whereupon Foxaque’s inflamed and pockmarked member was inspected and prodded repeatedly.

Foxaque got to work quickly, explaining how he was a famous crooner touring Melbourne with his band and even sold a couple of 78 disks of his latest tune “Got My Ticket” to the senior registrars. Foxaque was referred to another local hospital for tests in the dermatological and venereal disease wards. More of the same treatment and behaviour ensued with the added bonus of having a chunk cut out of his left buttock for “research”.

 

Results pending, Foxaque now had two holes in his arse…

BAD WHISKEY BLUES

another foxaque recording has been discovered!

“bad whiskey blues”.

there is no real certainty as to the date. thought to be early ’30’s, but the song, a 12 bar blues, is at least of original ’20’s vintage. the first 3 verses can be verified: often performed by a westcountry ragtime guitarist by the name of Stripey “Howling” Hancock – who supports the idea that the tune was established and recorded at least by the early 20’s.

again, however, the wiley foxaque had openly plagiarised or modified the tune. 3 new verses and a chorus were added by foxaque’s hand. the chorus melody having been directly lifted and reworded from the famous “St. Louis Blues”.

we’re still trying to process the 78 recording to digital, but here are the words:

BAD WHISKEY BLUES

i love my whiskey, crazy for it as i can be

that bootleg liquor sure got it in for me/

i’m a good man when i’m sober, watch out when i’m drunk

if you see me comin’, go hide in your old tin trunk/

one, two drinks and i act like a dog-on fool

jus’ two, three more and i kick like an angry mule/

CHORUS: bad whiskey blues got me drinkin all day/ the devil’s own brew done made me loose my way/ bad whiskey blues got me drinkin’ all day/ Old Nick and his booze done made me loose my way/

good clean whiskey gives a blind man back his sight

but this moonshine liquor’ll sure “fix” me up tonight/

curse them Pro-hee-bition, why done they make that a crime?

she’s my speakeasy lover and i’ll drink with her any time/

i don’t mind the gin but good whiskey is simply swell!

if drinking’s a sin then i hope i do burn in hell!/

CHORUS: bad whiskey blues got me drinkin all day/ the devil’s own brew done made me loose my way/ bad whiskey blues got me drinkin’ all day/ Old Nick and his booze done made me loose my way/

i love my whiskey, crazy for it as i can be

that bootleg liquor sure got it in for me.

FOXAQUE AND HIS INFINITE WISDOM!

It’s windy in the colonies today. The sky is pregnancy-test blue and the temperature is a relaxing 32′C.

I have managed to pick up some sort or urinary infection or other and my japseye feels like a mosquito bit it on the inside. Can’t piss without morphine! Can’t do anything without morphine! Incapable of doing anything whilst on it, either! The brothels are all licensed here, and I purposefully paid extra for young, clean tarts! The wife won’t be impressed with all this, you know. I want a refund, or at least a free drink at the brothel bar. Might enquire as to whether they want a live band…

Anyway, the doctor had prescribed me a course of medicines and such from the apothecary, but yesterday, I mistakenly took one of my brandy based sleeping tablets instead before I flopped onto the morning tram into town.

Must have done at least 8 circuits of the entire city before an inspector roused me about after lunch drinkies time, badgering on about tickets. Not normally ever using cursed public transport, I’d no idea that one must purchase tickets for such events (they should compensate me for having to share with the general public, for god’s sake)! So I asked the inspector if he could kindly furnish me with said ticket. To my surprise, however, tram inspectors in Melbourne don’t issue tickets, only tiresome lectures and fines.

So….

Effecting my strongest Welch accent, I claimed ignorance of such quaint proceedings. The predictable lecture then took place about how in other countries public transport may be free, but in Australia, one must pay (but where? I wouldn’t normally go into such establishments that vend tickets to the masses) and that in Australia, they operate on some sort of “honesty system”.  Nevertheless, seeing as it was the first time I’d been on a tram sober and unaccompanied, the $160 fine was waived and I was directed to the nearest ticket office in Town (the previously mentioned Flinders St. Station).

Without wishing to drain the fellow of his goodwill, I pointed out that where I was from, if you don’t pay, you don’t get on, therefore rendering his job somewhat redundant (and saving the company thousands of pounds in lectures: during the time spent being lectured and skilfully counter-grovelling, at least 2 passengers scarpered unnoticed without having purchased a ticket).

Put that on my charm account: credit unlimited!

FOXAQUE ARRIVES IN THE ANTIPODES

The transcontinental zeppelin finally dropped me “orff” in Melbourne.

The weather is decidedly Mediterranean here. In fact, it’s rather like Athens if you ignore the glaring absence of classical, Byzantine and Ottoman architecture. The closest thing to the Parthenon, even, is the Flinders St. railway station on Flinders street. I knew a chap called Flinders, incidentally: he used to knock around the pyramids.

Anyway, not too sure about the natives yet: they sound like Irishmen with cockney “iccents, maaaate”. Can’t take them seriously, talking like that, but they’re affable enough.

Contrary to common belief, they don’t all roll around drunk, swearing and shearing livestock, cursing the names of Churchill and Gallipoli. No! They are seemingly relaxed and somewhat civilised, lounging about watching cricket and sipping wine.

Yes, I know, I was surprised too…