Praise Jah, man!

I’ve never been much of a churchgoer, to put it mildly. Even so, for years I’ve had a dream of attending Sunday service at the St. John Coltrane African Orthodox Church in San Francisco. Sometimes dreams do come true, and so it was on this sunny May day that having jumped off the grueling 13-hour flight from Sydney and dropped my bags off at the hotel, I suddenly found myself warming the back pew.

Praise the Lord and pass the French fries!

The service was composed of two parts. For the first two hours, the church band played what can only be described as gospel music according to Coltrane. It was quite obvious that they had not only studied Coltrane’s music but also internalised the spirituality that St. John had wanted to express. The last hour was taken up by a funny and poignant sermon from Archbishop King, who was not too shabby on the tenor sax either. If you’re in San Francisco on a Sunday and have a few hours to spare, you could do much worse than to stop by at the service and get some worship action happening – and I say this as a devout agnostic. How’s that for sitting on the fence? You can ask for your money back tomorrow.

Darn, just missed out on the Allman Bros.

As if this exalted experience hadn’t been enough for one day, I also had tickets to see Ben Folds at the fabulous Fox Theater in Oakland. I was kind of hoping to hear The Last Polka, but at least he played Narcolepsy, so all is well. Check out Pete Rosenblum’s pics from the gig on Flickr.

More cowbell! And just a touch of Dolby as well, please.

And so it came to pass that it was time to haul the collective behinds of Electric Mayhem to Angel Studios in search of the lost chord. A sunburned G#maj7+9 was lying in the parking lot, probably left behind by an earlier jazz session. It was not the day to go all fancypantsy though. No, this was to be a day of E and A, with the occasional D thrown in for good measure.

Alas, poor Revox, I knew him well.

Six tracks were laid down, including but not limited to Route 66, a song that will surely be the anthem of my upcoming California trip. I’m happy to confirm the rumours that the sleeve will indeed bear the magical words “NO OVERDUBS!” Also recorded were To Her Door, with yours truly on button accordion – prompting a comment from one of the studio crew: “I’ve never even seen one of those things before!“, Alone With You, When the River Runs Dry, In the Midnight Hour and Blue Hotel.

Thanks to Kim for lead(en?) vocals, guitars, and organising the session, Andrew for keeping the groove a-goin’, Brent for being there in spirit, if not in flesh, Trevor for filling in on the drum seat at short notice, Kevin for bankrolling the session, and last but not least, Paul & his angelic crew for making it all happen. And by the way – we are available for your Roman orgies, bar mitzvahs, and other occasions in and near South-East Queensland…

When I was but a wee lad – less than 5 years ago, to be exact, but who’s counting? – I lived in Adelaide for a few months. Wonderful town – at least Ben Folds seems to think so. And why wouldn’t he, seeing as he married an Adelaide chick. Yay Ben, whom I will incidentally be seeing live in San Francisco a week from now, unless jet lag gets me first.

Anyway, even if at the end of the day I just had to escape, I have many fond memories of Adelaide. One of them would definitely be Coopers Stout on tap at the Crown & Sceptre. If you’re ever in town, do yourself a favour and go there, if for nothing else, then at least to marvel at the recursion in the symbiosis of the bar and the painting depicting the bar hanging on the wall behind it.

The Coopers brewery is kind of the Olvi of Australia – an independent brewery that is not exactly small but definitely not a megaswillery (is that a word? I guess it is now) either. In addition to the Stout, which by the way is perfectly fine in the bottle as well, they do a mahvelous Sparkling Ale, identified by its red label. Walking back from the Brisbane Powerhouse, where I indeed indulged in a stubby of the Stout, I was inspired to swing by a bottle-o and grab a six-pack of said ale.

But oh! Woe is me! Being the carefree lad that I am, I did not take appropriate precautions and ask for a plastic bag. Instead, I foolishly thought the flimsy cardboard binding the six torpedoes of bliss together would suffice as an implement of transportation. How wrong I was. Suddenly and without any warning, the evil cardboard decided to give way in the middle of Merthyr Road, cruelly letting gravity do its worst to the contents.

The story has a happy ending, though. Not one of the bottles broke. One of the twist tops did come loose, which meant I had no option but to consume the attached stubby on the spot. Which I then swiftly proceeded to do.

It baffles the mind, though, to think that if the stubbies truly are that strong – how come they get recycled along with other glass garbage, instead of heading straight back to the bottling plant after a quick shower? Answers on a postcard please.

…to the show that never ends, or, as Canada’s poet laureate Neil Peart would have it, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

In case you were already reading this blog when Jesus was a boy and dinosaurs roamed the streets of Brisbane in search of an establishment that would serve a decent meal after 9 pm, you might recall that I used to publish each and every entry in two languages. I have decided not to do this any longer – if you can’t read English, feel free to give me a call and I’ll give you a quick synopsis. Our operators are standing by. Your call is important to us. Please hold.