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The Supporters

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There is a correct way to purchase this recording: go see The Supporters at the Tote or the Espy, drink and dance yourself stupid, then buy the CD off the band at the show as a memento. That way, when you blearily force open your gummed-up eyes next afternoon, you'll have some chance of remembering where the hell you were and what the fuck you did. You may have more trouble working out who the person is that is passed out in the bed beside you but fair go - the band can only do so much.

Mystery Machine

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Mystery Machine

Technically, they sound like a young band in that their interestingness exceeds their technique. Not always slick, not always tight and not always singing in tune, their overall effect is yet pleasant, and even at times exciting. They might want to go a bit lighter on the guitar solos - an aspect of the era well worth not reviving unless you channel the true spirit of, say, Hendrix. And you have to give them points for giving away their (hand-produced and hand-labelled) CD free at gigs.

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Laughing At Your Expense

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It was one of those coveted gigs that every covers band craves – a week down at the snow. It was all going fantastically until our drummer dropped out at the last minute. The panic button was pushed as we rung every unavailable drummer in town. Finally we got recommended an older drummer we hadn’t met before. He ended up being a big Maori guy who could really hit those skins, was a great solid drummer and a genuinely nice, gentle guy.

So after a perfectly pleasant road trip we arrived at the hotel, tired and ready to crash. We’d managed to negotiate two rooms, quite a negotiation coup we thought as we knew most bands only usually got the band room. So while the guitarist was downstairs checking in, the drummer, bass player and I all headed up to check out the accommodation. As expected the band room was pretty basic but perfectly liveable. At one end of it, was a large, old wooden window that pushed out to open. The drummer, despite the freezing temperature outside, decided he needed some fresh air, so he decided to open the window. He gave it a shove, then another shove, then another shove, and then just as I was about to say, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you’, he gave it one final shove and the entire window fell out and smashed onto the ground three stories below.

Meanwhile downstairs our guitarist was getting irate at the receptionist who was demanding he leave his credit card as a security bond for the room. He finally talked them into being reasonable by explaining we were a jazz band and we were perfectly respectable.

Indignant he made his way up to where I was hiding away in the other room, having left the bass player and drummer to enjoy the very fresh air now whirling its way around the band room. ‘Do you know what they wanted,’ he fumed to me. ‘They wanted a credit card as bond. I said to them – what do you think we’re going to do – trash the hotel room – we’re not Alice Cooper.’ I just looked up at him and quietly said, ‘Have you been up to the band room?’ He replied, ‘No’, in a slightly annoyed tone – as I’d interrupted his cry for justice for all poorly represented musicians. ‘Go up to the band room,’ I suggested.

After inspecting the band room, our poor guitarist had to go back down to the receptionist, tail between his legs and explain the situation. Despite the irony of the situation, it all ended happily ever after. The hotel took full responsibility for their dodgy window and we went on to have a perfectly pleasant tour with the added bonus of a great story to add to the annals of our band history. We also had to admit to ourselves that, in our own humble jazz musician kind of a way, we were very proud that we could finally say that we had indeed trashed a hotel room.

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