April 24
Hello Possums! So, like, birdsong n cherry blossom n shiz, but also - April showers and frigid temperatures, so despite the so-called ‘spring’ being all woke n whatevs, the reality is that you are trapped in its freezing hostile grasp, like suddenly encountering Dom “Snake Eyes” Raaab at your table on a Speed Dating evening in an All Bar One, leering at you as the vein on his temple twitches.. let JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE”S MOUTH mellow out your harsh and get you back into an altogether more equitable mindset, soothed yet stimulated by the hot licks and cool grooves issuing forth in an unending torrent from the equintoctially stimulated imaginations of those twin titans of the ring Luke “Big Daddy” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “Giant Haystacks” Thomas (drms) as they take down any feelings of seasonal ennui with a stunning series of powerbomb moves before holding them in a chickenwing over-the-shoulder crossface and finishing with a crushing RKO til they are as confused as Dianne Abbot’s grasp of 20th century history .. I shall be there, like a shattered shell of my former self, Cap’n Jack Rowan will preside over his spectral crew of ascended beings who shimmer, half unseen, in the velvet darkness that envelops the well-stocked bar, ready to manifest any transplendent concoction of quality liquor at your command, Abdul will be ruling the block and sending out messages to the angels, exotic guests may descend out of the freezing darkness to blow their own horns like it’s Jerico, baby, it’ll go down, come along why don’t you? I mean, why?
April 17
April is the ginchiest month, pulling lilacs out of the dead land, weighing fate with its dead hand, circling in an ever widening gyre, rotting the best minds of your generation with boxcars, boxcars, boxcars on the grass, alas! racketing through bursting blossom toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, seeing the unseeable, promising the impossible… JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH can resolve all tension across your dimension and quell the riot of your disquiet, releasing your carefree inner hobo or bozo or loco to set forth on the road again unburdened by the spectres of Sad Sal and Big Bad Dean, digging the Orthithology and Anthropology without apology and with the casual misogyny dialled waaaaay down that’s where we are or were or hope to be… let those guardians of the galaxy Luke “Phlebas The Phonoecian” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz “The Machinery Of Night” Thomas (drms) expedite your brief re-acquaintance with the transplendent now to be seen breaking forth in all directions, the bough heavy with sticky bud, the gloss upon the freezing sea, the bird shrieking in the dripping trees, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain, messing with your trip, who’s to say? I’ll be there on bass as per, however that may avail us, fellow argonauts or psychonauts will bring their crosses, lay em down off their bloodied shoulders and order a large one from the shimmering staff behind the well-stocked bar, special guests may enter through the perilous doorway with their horns of brass, their horns and wings and scaled talons of brass, ready to do their thing, so come and join in, why wouldn’t you? Why wouldn’t you, really? Forget dodgy Rishi and pottymouth Kier and the rest of em for five minutes - let the sun sink with a sob and darkness wade in over the earth - There’s a message in the blackbird’s evening trill, the light is fading, Venus is afire high above, it’s happening, can you feel it?
April 10
What’s this, coming over the hill, converging from all sides like a CGI swarm, like the whisper of uncertainty in the bright noontime, like the unheard sound that wakes you in the dead of night, like the doubt that creeps in…. is it really working? Is it safe? Did you do it right or has your blithe blind unconscious incompetence laid the seeds of an impending disaster, immanent in the bleating of the little lambkins, the frogspawn’s sticky mess, the heavy smell of spring’s false promise in the particle laden air by the side of the A1? Let JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH offer you a sense of sanctuary amid the creeping unease that lies behind the bright smile of spring, the hint of too many teeth and not enough fingers, that everything’s not as it seems, the bots have got there before you, emptying your accounts, unliking your tiktoks, f*kin with your shit, giving you the ick, pulling the rug out from under your Sketchers… fear not, Patience Strong, cos we’ve got man like Luke “The Hight Table” Rattenbury (gtr) and Loz ‘Manager Of The Continental” Thomas (drms), both got the drip, so fresh and so clean, ready to layout a feast of hot licks and cool grooves for you to lose yourself in, you dig, raise yourself up off this plane of earthly sorrow and into another world far far better than this one, far from such sorry manifestations of human inadequacy as Sir Kier’s shitty attack ads stuck up in your grill, where the righteous can prevail, the meek be uplifted, the proud cast down, and Easter, Ramadan and Pesach all drop on the same day for evermore… I’ll be there doing whatevs, the Bee’s team with be on hand with the consolations of liquor, guests may come and guests may go like the tides, come abide with us, come abide…
April 3
Come on, you hapless dweebs! Only a few more parsecs remain between you and the approaching Singularity that will render your pitiful squishy humanity redundant for evermore.. how will you save yourself? Work on your uwu voice, flood the digisphere with desperately emotive corecore videos, take up golfing, switch to Huel, get in touch with your feelings, remember to breathe.. none of this will save you, but JAZZ NIGHT AT THE BEE’S MOUTH can at least offer a brief respite from this ol’ 21st century of ours as it rushes ever faster headlong down the rickety track towards whatever strange unimaginable vista will reveal itself, already sensed, immanent behind the mocking veil of the clouded morning, the impotent twitter of the stupid birds rejoicing at another bitter spring, the motorway clogged with transport laden with massive severed human limbs (are they real? are they constructs?) the stark horror of the Kefahuchi tract burning overhead and no friendly GCU on hand sent down by the Culture to save us from ourselves… relax, look up at the light fading from the sky, Venus burning steadily above the western horizon, take a deep draught of your preferred brand of hooch, and let those doughty culture warriors Paul “The Lion Of Wrexham” Richards (gtr) and Loz “Libtard” Thomas (drms) as they smash out a defiantly non-aligned array of hot licks and cool grooves for your delectation, backed by me on the ol doghouse, and enhanced by various esteemed guests of all stripes from tofu-eating, wokerati to steak-only Petersonistas and everything in between… all are welcome as long as you leave your own particular brand of bullshit at the door and come in to join us and create something beautiful, man, something that shines, while we all still can… don’t put it off cos why?