My guitar playing blends into glistening leather furniture. A frenetic bar hoping for sub woofer mayhem. I muse whether playing dinner jazz to a deluge of Arsenal fans is one of my poorer judgments. The thought is expelled, as it seems heinously elitist. ‘Mate, that’s a fucking lullaby,’ thunders a colossal lout. In being the overly sensitive, Apple Tizer drinking variety of man, this feels like a cataclysm. Nevertheless I persist with my fret board meandering, which becomes spasmodic with the interference. I remember that Arsenal embraced one of the few openly gay footballers in their side, so maybe they’ll change their tune tonight and show a shred of sensitivity. The facts may have been confused! The towering lout’s cronies join him in a chorus of ‘sing you wanker.’ This infringes, as all of my pieces are instrumental. ‘Surely the percussive stoff, will silence them’ I think as I pummel a beloved instrument to reach an even keel with ones who rule this bar. Astoundingly it grabs their attention… for a nanosecond. Amidst the heckling I shimmy up to the mike to seek retribution; ‘umm, you gotta love the….. rugby buffoons.’ The host truncates my set because the roaring becomes too consuming.‘Well played man, but who would have thought the most benign acoustic music would cause such friction,’ is his passing comment as I hand over the guitar. It feels like the Hindenburg of conversation killers after the ordeal. Yet as I slump in a chair the compare’s words ring true as he bellows ‘My Sherona’ and the boozehounds are diffused to a civilized level of sound. The peril of being an internalized guy means I brood until my head feels near combustion, while being vanquished in a glower off with the main lout. I gradually disconnect as the guttural roar of a ‘Superstition’ rendition governs my attention. This player has reached a happy medium with the unruly audience, as he is absorbed in the iconic Wonder riff and soaring vocals. I ponder over whether the next performer will engage an erratic audience as they expressed such vitriol towards the Spanish Jazz section of my set. The lads on tour reveal a thirty second quizzical look as they process the distinctive African voice. But proceed to parody the voice, presuming that he’s singing in gibberish. Apparently their bracket of ignorance felt confined as xenophobia makes the cut. The Zambian performer is a relentless optimist so he feeds off their enthusiasm. Fortunately the ambience in the bar is too distorted for the Zambian legend to register the sacrilege. In completely thinking on his feat the host bolts up to the raucous punters. he receives curious kudos-‘Eh its stevie wonder, super kitchen right back on my wall,’ they bellow. An attempted harmony with ‘super kitchen’ as the chorus ensues. As they deem it the pinnacle of hilarity, they slap each other. ‘Ah yes, nice parody fellas, I see what you did there, and with a timeless Wonder track, good taste’, humors the host. He finally manages to catch the eye of the ringleader. ‘Buddy, you seem distracted,’ enquires the host. ‘What the, why are you talking to me?’ retorts the punter with a accusatory glare. ‘I was just wondering why your wasting time at this dive, when there’s a night at Club Explicit which is dedicated to last ten years of Magaluf,’stolidly mutters the host. ‘What’s your point’ grunts the lout. ‘Well it says girls get in free, come on man, you have to work out the numbers, the ratio is in our favor, I might go so far to call it a hotbed for talent.’ I clock the cogs turning in the man, here it is…. A crystallizing moment-‘um mate, I’m not simple, I was watching Mr. Kyle the other day and he talked about a hurt wife using this thing called reverb psychology on her husband, don’t try any funny business.’ The host’s expression froze as he tried to comprehend the plan floundering. The lout continued, ‘Why don’t I make the most of the tail here.’ The boys heard the tail end of his declaration and did numerous rounds of cheers. The next performer was a man with pallid unhealthiness to make you estimate his age a couple of decades over the reality. In being a very affable chap I couldn’t look as he guzzled neat Grouse. He sluggishly churned out brooding anthems. You could see and smell his ‘sweet nectar’ oozing out of him. He had a vantage point over me in the way that when the philistines showed their umbrage he relied on the ‘behind song’. The utmost statement of masculinity that expressed these feral characters reason for remaining the whole night. ‘I like your weight, it makes me masturbate,’ didn’t tally with this performer’s life style as he was a family man. Yet it allowed the horny bar dregs to be on his side. A strategy for teasing in sensitive tracks afterwards. Musical heresy use to be deemed Bob Dylan playing an electric guitar! There’s no signs of the Judas label being thrown around tonight even though the ‘Behind song’ fuels the lechery of the football buffoons. A girl’s rape alarm sounding, curtails the alcoholic’s set. The bruisers with tunnel vision hurtle out the bar, not out of embarrassment. One of them had caught the eye of a hen party crew dressed as angels. In their absence genuine ammo for the louts appear on the stage. A man with an air of Axl Rose begins to slaughter Thin Lizzy classics and becomes restless with the stolid audience. Spitting on the tiny stage and storming off while exclaiming the most offensive reference to a woman’s entities is his calling card for a passing career.
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