There was a time when finding a decent jazz gig required three things: a good pair of shoes, a willingness to enter questionable pubs and the ability to read a poster that had been stuck to a window since 1978.
I rather miss it.
In London, I used to discover half my music by accident. I’d be walking somewhere entirely unrelated to jazz, perhaps to buy milk or collect something from the dry cleaners, and there it would be. A faded poster advertising a quartet I’d never heard of, playing in a basement I’d never visited, on a Thursday evening when I was supposed to be doing something else.
The poster would usually feature a saxophone, regardless of whether anybody in the band actually played one.
Admission £3.50. Doors at eight. No refunds.
That was enough for me.
The Great British Jazz Poster
Jazz posters were peculiar things.
Some were beautifully designed, particularly those for the more established clubs. Others looked as though the drummer had made them during his lunch break using a photocopier that was running out of toner.
You could generally judge the size of the audience by the amount of effort involved.
A professional poster meant a reasonably full room. A handwritten notice on yellow paper meant six people, three of whom were related to the pianist.
Neither told you anything about the music.
I remember hearing some wonderful players in rooms where the ceiling was so low the double bassist had to stand between two beams. I also remember paying rather more money to watch famous musicians looking bored with one another.
The little clubs were often better.
You could hear the drummer breathing. You could see the pianist’s foot working the pedal. Sometimes the musicians argued between numbers, which was considerably more entertaining than the introductions.
And when something extraordinary happened, you knew you were there because you’d made the effort to find it.
Nobody had recommended it to you through an algorithm.
You’d seen a poster next to an advertisement for Sunday roast.
A Different Sort of Noticeboard
When we moved to Spain, I assumed finding music would become simpler.
After all, people here seem to play instruments at the slightest provocation.
A birthday requires music. A village celebration requires music. Somebody opens a new bar and within twenty minutes a man with a guitar appears.
Jazz, however, is another matter.
There are excellent musicians in Andalucía, but finding out where they’re playing can require the investigative skills of a moderately competent detective.
A café might have a quartet on Friday. Or Saturday. Or possibly last Friday.
The information will be on Facebook, according to the owner, who hasn’t updated Facebook since Christmas.
I once found an announcement for a jazz evening that looked promising until I noticed the date.
It had taken place eleven months earlier.
The photograph was lovely.
I wrote about a rather different musical surprise in When the Café Started Playing Flamenco at Midnight and Nobody Complained. At least on that occasion the music had the decency to arrive without requiring any research.
The Website Problem
I am not against the internet.
I use it to find recordings, read about musicians and occasionally discover that a record I’ve owned for forty years is now worth less than the postage required to send it somewhere.
But I do find it extraordinary how difficult some small businesses make it to discover what they’re doing.
A restaurant can have excellent food and no menu online. A music venue can employ wonderful musicians and forget to mention what time they start.
And a bar can proudly announce Live Jazz This Weekend without specifying which weekend.
On the Costa Blanca, where so many businesses depend on a mixture of residents, visitors and people who haven’t quite worked out where they are, having a proper website seems a reasonable investment.
There are local specialists in web design in Jávea who help businesses establish a decent presence online. I imagine their work involves explaining, very patiently, that a photograph of the owner’s dog is not necessarily the most important thing on the homepage.
Although I could be wrong.
Some dogs are remarkably photogenic.
For a small music venue, I’d settle for four pieces of information: who’s playing, when they’re playing, where the place is and whether I need to book.
I don’t require animated graphics, a newsletter or a pop-up asking whether I’ve enjoyed my browsing experience.
I haven’t enjoyed it. I’m trying to find out whether the drummer starts at nine.
The Trouble with Knowing Too Much
Of course, the old system had its advantages.
A poster told you almost nothing.
Perhaps the musicians’ names, perhaps a photograph taken fifteen years earlier, perhaps an enthusiastic description involving the word explosive.
You had to take a chance.
Now I can look up every member of a quartet before leaving the house.
I can hear their recordings, read their biographies, watch three performances on YouTube and discover that the pianist studied at an institution whose name I cannot pronounce.
By the time I arrive, I’ve practically attended the concert already.
And I’ve formed opinions.
This is a terrible habit.
Some of my favourite evenings have involved musicians I’d never heard of. Some of the most disappointing have involved musicians whose records occupy an embarrassingly large section of my shelves.
I’ve written before about Sara, Silence, and the Night We Nearly Left a Jazz Club. Again. That particular evening was a reminder that knowing what you’re about to hear doesn’t mean you’re going to enjoy it.
Especially if you’re married to someone whose tolerance for free jazz has clearly defined limits.
The Man Who Didn’t Advertise
I still think about a little jazz club I used to visit in Britain.
It was above a pub, reached by a narrow staircase that smelled permanently of beer and damp carpet.
The owner was a miserable fellow who appeared to regard customers as an unfortunate necessity.
He had no interest in advertising.
There was a noticeboard downstairs, a few regulars who spread the word and a telephone number you could ring if you were feeling particularly optimistic.
Sometimes the room was packed. Sometimes there were more musicians than customers.
He didn’t seem especially concerned either way.
I once suggested he ought to put a proper sign outside.
“People who want to come know where we are,” he said.
I admired the sentiment.
I also wondered how he paid the electricity bill.
I doubt that approach would work now. Rents have increased, people’s habits have changed and even those of us who claim to dislike technology tend to consult it before travelling forty miles to hear a trumpet player.
The owner was probably right about one thing, though.
His regulars came for the music.
Not the advertising.
What I’d Put on a Jazz Club Website
If somebody foolishly asked me to design a website for a jazz club, I would make it very simple.
A photograph of the room. A list of forthcoming performances. The admission price. Directions. A telephone number answered by somebody who knows whether the club is open.
Perhaps a little information about the musicians.
No background music.
I feel particularly strongly about that last point.
There is nothing worse than opening a website and being assaulted by somebody’s idea of atmospheric jazz while you’re already listening to something considerably better.
And please, no photographs of saxophones unless there is actually going to be a saxophonist.
I have spent too much of my life being misled by saxophones.
Perhaps We Can Have Both
I suppose what I really want is the convenience of the modern world without losing the pleasure of stumbling across something unexpected.
A website that tells me where the music is happening.
And a slightly battered poster in the window when I arrive.
The two aren’t mutually exclusive.
I still enjoy walking into an unfamiliar bar and discovering that somebody has brought a double bass. I still like hearing a musician whose name means nothing to me and leaving two hours later determined to find everything they’ve ever recorded.
That feeling hasn’t changed since I was a young teacher wandering around London looking for somewhere to spend an evening.
The technology has changed.
The chairs, regrettably, have not.
Last week I spent twenty minutes searching online for a jazz evening that turned out to have been cancelled.
Then I walked down to our local bar, where a man was playing guitar to an audience of four people and a dog.
He was rather good.
The dog seemed unimpressed.
I stayed for another drink.
There hadn’t been a poster anywhere.
