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In the esco's where I buy my lunch, they have a pile of Edinburgh Evening News under the sign that says: "Reduced for Clearance".

Newspapers

In the esco's where I buy my lunch, they have a pile of Edinburgh Evening News under the sign that says: "Reduced for Clearance".

Cats

We have two cats. They have names, of course, but usually I just call them, “cat”. Sometimes “puss-cat”, sometimes “bloody cat”, but usually just “cat”. Both of them.

The male is cute-but-stupid; the female, sensible-and-shy.

One male and one female – they are brother and sister, about eighteen months old, so they are still quite frisky and kittenish. They play a lot, they chase each other; they fight.

At moment, what CBS seems to play with most is the water-bowl. He pushes it around the kitchen, leaving puddles of water on the lino, as if trying to get at something underneath. He moves the bowl – now, actually a bowl within a bowl, since we got fed up with mopping floor – quite a distance and at quite a speed. Like cat-curling (only without the ice. Or the broom).

I thought maybe he had rabies, and had become hydrophobic, determined to rid the bowl of water. But then, they don’t go out (their choice); and I certainly hadn’t bitten him.

We thought perhaps there was something wrong with the water; Edinburgh water can be a bit chlorine heavy. (It gives a nice tang to the liquid. Bad for whisky, though.) So I poured out some older water, left in a bottle from before this new curious catty behaviour. It seemed just the same.

My wife, worried that whilst CBS was busy slopping around the floor, his sister might be deprived of drink (though since they seem to drink water from anywhere – from plant pots, from sinks and out of the bath – I didn’t believe this could really be a problem), decided they had to have fresh water to drink, and bought a bottle of mineral water. (That’ll go better in the whisky, then. If only the cats drank whisky.)

But still CBS sees the water as a toy rather than a drink. We must have the cleanest kitchen lino in town.

I have just wandered through to the kitchen, and the bowl has moved again. CBS comes up, miaows, and I stroke him; and, as he does when I stroke him, he rolls over and stretches. (It is what they do.) He rolls over; into a puddle. Cute, but stupid.

Cats

We have two cats. They have names, of course, but usually I just call them, “cat”. Sometimes “puss-cat”, sometimes “bloody cat”, but usually just “cat”. Both of them.

The male is cute-but-stupid; the female, sensible-and-shy.

One male and one female – they are brother and sister, about eighteen months old, so they are still quite frisky and kittenish. They play a lot, they chase each other; they fight.

At moment, what CBS seems to play with most is the water-bowl. He pushes it around the kitchen, leaving puddles of water on the lino, as if trying to get at something underneath. He moves the bowl – now, actually a bowl within a bowl, since we got fed up with mopping floor – quite a distance and at quite a speed. Like cat-curling (only without the ice. Or the broom).

I thought maybe he had rabies, and had become hydrophobic, determined to rid the bowl of water. But then, they don’t go out (their choice); and I certainly hadn’t bitten him.

We thought perhaps there was something wrong with the water; Edinburgh water can be a bit chlorine heavy. (It gives a nice tang to the liquid. Bad for whisky, though.) So I poured out some older water, left in a bottle from before this new curious catty behaviour. It seemed just the same.

My wife, worried that whilst CBS was busy slopping around the floor, his sister might be deprived of drink (though since they seem to drink water from anywhere – from plant pots, from sinks and out of the bath – I didn’t believe this could really be a problem), decided they had to have fresh water to drink, and bought a bottle of mineral water. (That’ll go better in the whisky, then. If only the cats drank whisky.)

But still CBS sees the water as a toy rather than a drink. We must have the cleanest kitchen lino in town.

I have just wandered through to the kitchen, and the bowl has moved again. CBS comes up, miaows, and I stroke him; and, as he does when I stroke him, he rolls over and stretches. (It is what they do.) He rolls over; into a puddle. Cute, but stupid.

Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie-Woogie Flu

A doctor writes: I get annoyed by the gross stupidity of a large proportion of the people around: the foolish willingness not to understand simple things.

Take flu, for instance.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a lot – an awful lot – in the media about bird flu. Despite bird flu infecting only hundreds of people at most (though a lot of those died), there were articles and articles of the danger to humanity should bird flu cross the species barrier. Which could happen, of course – and could be devastating – but, frankly, there isn’t much that anyone can do about it until this happens: then, perhaps, some form of vaccine might be developed (by which time the pandemic would perhaps have passed).

Now, it appears that people are so worried by the threat of bird flu that they have all had flu jabs. Which will do nothing to stop the spread of bird flu, should it ever crossover.

Lots of people having flu jabs will have other benefits, apparently – there will be less of a reservoir of “normal” flu, so we may all be a bit healthier this winter.

Until bird flu comes a long…

Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie-Woogie Flu

A doctor writes: I get annoyed by the gross stupidity of a large proportion of the people around: the foolish willingness not to understand simple things.

Take flu, for instance.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a lot – an awful lot – in the media about bird flu. Despite bird flu infecting only hundreds of people at most (though a lot of those died), there were articles and articles of the danger to humanity should bird flu cross the species barrier. Which could happen, of course – and could be devastating – but, frankly, there isn’t much that anyone can do about it until this happens: then, perhaps, some form of vaccine might be developed (by which time the pandemic would perhaps have passed).

Now, it appears that people are so worried by the threat of bird flu that they have all had flu jabs. Which will do nothing to stop the spread of bird flu, should it ever crossover.

Lots of people having flu jabs will have other benefits, apparently – there will be less of a reservoir of “normal” flu, so we may all be a bit healthier this winter.

Until bird flu comes a long…

I'm Doing Fine with my Whisky and Wine

Last week, we went to a wine tasting at Valvona & Crolla, a wonderfully delicatessen and wine shop in Edinburgh. (If you know New York, think Zabar’s or Balducci’s, only smaller and much more pleasant.) They do several tastings, and I go to quite a few, but my wife could make this one, too, so it was more sociable than normal.

The wines were all from Produttori del Barbaresco, a co-operative in Piemonte; all were nebbiolo, and all were delicious. There was the second wine, Langhe – not labled as Barbaresco since it isn’t aged enough to meet the standards; then the standard Barbaresco; and then a whole string of estate riservas, from a couple years and five different estates.

Like I say, they were all good (they were all expensive!); but although they tasted different, I really couldn’t say why. It was really hard to compare on to another – there were a couple I liked more than the others, some I could have drunk on and on, but why those and not the others? All of the estates were nearby – within twenty kilometres or so – so this was a perfect argument against those who dispute the effect of terroir.

V&C’s were generous with their glasses – my wife drained all her’s dry, and had a soar head on Saturday. (“I was fine until I got up”, she told me.)

But god knows why I liked Pora ahead of the others.

And then a couple of days later, I went to a whisky tasting at the Scottish Malt Whisky Society. (Wine; whisky. I see a pattern developing.) The venue was their fine building in Queen St; during the summer, there are fine views to the evening sky in the north, but with darkness falling round about dawn, it was dark; instead of the evening light, the street lights and chemical flares of Fife could be seen across the Forth.

The aim of the tasting was to focus on the different smells, mainly – taste being largely dependent on smell. There were five different whiskies: a southern, Bladnoch (I smelt toffee apples and cough medicine, and tasted vanilla custard; mmnnn, delicious); Royal Brackla, a Speyside (rubber and tyres, pear drops; tobacco, nail polish and liquorish); a 31-year old Cragganmore, another Speyside, which was just delicious (Evostick, flowers and oranges); a wonderful Bruichladdich (we were over in Islay recently; but that is another story), with seaweed, peat, honey and roses; and lastly, a surprising delicious Cooley – surprising because I don’t like Irish whisky; well, I didn’t, before; but this was really good, a find for the night.

Tasting whisky is an odd game, since – like wine – it is all about the smell. Tasting comes right at the end. Normally, you pour the whisky and neck it down – warmth and flavour mixes into one; and nearly everything tastes good. (It isn’t just me: my wife didn’t like whisky, but early on in our relationship we went to Skye, and we stayed across the road from the Talisker distillery [a few miles away from Talisker burn itself]. She tried to put off my insistence that she give it a try, but she had a sip; and she has only ever tasted one whisky since that she didn’t like; and she has tried quite a few whiskies.) But in a comparative tasting – although ultimately everyone is there because they like whisky, and they want to drink whisky – it is bit more refined: the quality is better than one would normally have in the bar around the corner (however elite the corner may be), and the common interest is in the whisky itself – that is why everyone is there.

There was a lot of good chat – you get a good bunch of people – and like I say, a common interest. And the whisky was good: the only one which didn’t make me think wow! was the Royal Brackla, which seemed a bit ordinary.

The rest were lovely; and I’m doing fine.

I'm Doing Fine with my Whisky and Wine

Last week, we went to a wine tasting at Valvona & Crolla, a wonderfully delicatessen and wine shop in Edinburgh. (If you know New York, think Zabar’s or Balducci’s, only smaller and much more pleasant.) They do several tastings, and I go to quite a few, but my wife could make this one, too, so it was more sociable than normal.

The wines were all from Produttori del Barbaresco, a co-operative in Piemonte; all were nebbiolo, and all were delicious. There was the second wine, Langhe – not labled as Barbaresco since it isn’t aged enough to meet the standards; then the standard Barbaresco; and then a whole string of estate riservas, from a couple years and five different estates.

Like I say, they were all good (they were all expensive!); but although they tasted different, I really couldn’t say why. It was really hard to compare on to another – there were a couple I liked more than the others, some I could have drunk on and on, but why those and not the others? All of the estates were nearby – within twenty kilometres or so – so this was a perfect argument against those who dispute the effect of terroir.

V&C’s were generous with their glasses – my wife drained all her’s dry, and had a soar head on Saturday. (“I was fine until I got up”, she told me.)

But god knows why I liked Pora ahead of the others.

And then a couple of days later, I went to a whisky tasting at the Scottish Malt Whisky Society. (Wine; whisky. I see a pattern developing.) The venue was their fine building in Queen St; during the summer, there are fine views to the evening sky in the north, but with darkness falling round about dawn, it was dark; instead of the evening light, the street lights and chemical flares of Fife could be seen across the Forth.

The aim of the tasting was to focus on the different smells, mainly – taste being largely dependent on smell. There were five different whiskies: a southern, Bladnoch (I smelt toffee apples and cough medicine, and tasted vanilla custard; mmnnn, delicious); Royal Brackla, a Speyside (rubber and tyres, pear drops; tobacco, nail polish and liquorish); a 31-year old Cragganmore, another Speyside, which was just delicious (Evostick, flowers and oranges); a wonderful Bruichladdich (we were over in Islay recently; but that is another story), with seaweed, peat, honey and roses; and lastly, a surprising delicious Cooley – surprising because I don’t like Irish whisky; well, I didn’t, before; but this was really good, a find for the night.

Tasting whisky is an odd game, since – like wine – it is all about the smell. Tasting comes right at the end. Normally, you pour the whisky and neck it down – warmth and flavour mixes into one; and nearly everything tastes good. (It isn’t just me: my wife didn’t like whisky, but early on in our relationship we went to Skye, and we stayed across the road from the Talisker distillery [a few miles away from Talisker burn itself]. She tried to put off my insistence that she give it a try, but she had a sip; and she has only ever tasted one whisky since that she didn’t like; and she has tried quite a few whiskies.) But in a comparative tasting – although ultimately everyone is there because they like whisky, and they want to drink whisky – it is bit more refined: the quality is better than one would normally have in the bar around the corner (however elite the corner may be), and the common interest is in the whisky itself – that is why everyone is there.

There was a lot of good chat – you get a good bunch of people – and like I say, a common interest. And the whisky was good: the only one which didn’t make me think wow! was the Royal Brackla, which seemed a bit ordinary.

The rest were lovely; and I’m doing fine.

Now's the time: recent jazz in Edinburgh

There has been a spate of jazz gigs in Edinburgh recently; big, international gigs (Edinburgh harbours a healthy jazz scene, and a new club has opened up replacing Henry’s Jazz Cellar – Henry’s was voted one of the best venues in the world – I’ve been to a few, and I’d agree with that: a wonderful dark cellar, the bar away from the stage, sight lines ruined by pillars… a great place; let’s hope the Lot in the Grassmarket matches it; anyhow, there is a fair bit of jazz in town of an evening, if you want to find it).

There hasn’t been a theme – it is more spill-over from the London Jazz Festival.

Last month kicked off with Abdullah Ibrahim at the Queen’s Hall. This gig had personal significance, since when I started seeing my wife (a while back), Abdullah Ibrahim was the first jazz piano gig I took her too; and she loved it.

Ibrahim comes from a South African tradition, mixing township jive with an Ellingtonian sophistication picked up in New York; he has made some lovely records, township swing to get you going. He even works well with strings – the African Suite is a lovely record. (Most jazz doesn’t work with a classical setting; controversial since I am listening to John Surman in concert with the BBC Concert Orchestra…)

So: Ibrahim was wonderful: an elder statesman of the music, there was a reverential air. (Half the audience were surprised to see that he made it; he is 71.) It was great to see him, and he played some lovely music. But – well, he played; and played. He didn’t stop between tunes, one phrase rolling into the next, one quotation mixed in within another; he just played. And played. There was no applause – he clearly didn’t want the tension to build and break, playing on as one tune morphed into another – and frankly, it was all a bit the same: one tune morphed into another, and they sounded alike too.

He played two sets; and at the end of the first, all the men were dashing for the toilets – his playing without a pause meant there had been no way to quietly leave for the loo. And by the end of the second set – well, we were both pleased to get away. It was just too samey – the same pace, the same key… maybe even the same tune a couple of times.

Next, it was Bill Frisell at the Usher Hall. This was a strange one; Frisell appears on a few records that I have, and they are all very different. It was clear that one shouldn’t have any expectations; so I didn’t.

I met up with a mate from work during the support – where I was sitting, they sounded awful – a pounding African drum resonated through my ribs, irritating my lungs. Not fun. Across the hall, where my mate was sitting – it was fine – it sounded great, actually: a strange quartet of sax, guitar, trombone, and an eastern percussion kit.

Frisell himself was in a trio – him and another guitar, and a fiddle. So not a standard jazz setting. The first tune was a Beatles number, or maybe post-Beatles Lennon. So was the next, and the next. I twigged. Frisell said, “By the way, you may have noticed…” – they were playing all Lennon and McCartney or Lennon numbers. Which frankly got a bit much. They sounded nice, but not too engaging.

And they all sounded the same. So it was good evening, but nothing too exciting.

Then we went to see the Scottish National Jazz Orchestra. A big band – and they were such fun! They have a wonderful sound – a full big band – and they have a great repertoire. They were playing tunes from their catalogue – this was their tenth anniversary tour – and they had some wonderful stuff: a lot of Gil Evans, some Ellington; a bit of basie – it was just superb.

They are a very together orchestra – although they seem to have changed their personnel a fair bit in the last years or so (bass players and drummers – the engine room of a big band – have changed). But what a glorious sound! It just raises the heart to hear those tunes live – the original recording are fifty-odd years old, for the most part. But the band bring them alive. Wonderful.

This was followed by McCoy Tyner. He too must be pushing it a bit: he was part of Coltrane’s classic quartet; and it must be a bit strange playing concerts when you know half the audience are there because of a record you made forty years ago – even if it is the most famous jazz record ever made.

Although Tyner was frail as he made his way to the stage, he playing was fine. He had Charnet Moffet on bass – who was great – and a drummer I didn’t know (according to a Radio 3’s Jazz Line-Up, he played with McCoy when they were teenagers, and retired from jazz to raise his kids in Philadelphia). It was a good gig, but didn’t quite cut it – there was something missing.

Tyner may have been pushing it a bit – someone sitting behind me expressed their surprise that he hadn’t keeled over in the interval – and maybe it was the fact that we were all there on the basis of a handful of records made in the sixties, not for what he was playing today, that counted against the gig.

Then last night I went to see Tomasz Stanko, again at the Queen’s Hall (thanks, guys). This was a different league. Maybe because Stanko is coming from a different place (I kept hearing “Silent Way” Miles) or because he has surrounded himself with three musicians from now rather than then, but the whole thing sounded great. His musicians easily held their – as a trio, their playing was incisive and exciting, really powerful (but quiet) – there was depth in their subtlety. The band was the same as his gig here last year, the “Soul of Things” band – I am afraid I can’t spell their names, anyway; they played with an intensity, an energy that was exciting. Brilliant. Abstract – no tunes, really – but brilliant.

Now's the time: recent jazz in Edinburgh

There has been a spate of jazz gigs in Edinburgh recently; big, international gigs (Edinburgh harbours a healthy jazz scene, and a new club has opened up replacing Henry’s Jazz Cellar – Henry’s was voted one of the best venues in the world – I’ve been to a few, and I’d agree with that: a wonderful dark cellar, the bar away from the stage, sight lines ruined by pillars… a great place; let’s hope the Lot in the Grassmarket matches it; anyhow, there is a fair bit of jazz in town of an evening, if you want to find it).

There hasn’t been a theme – it is more spill-over from the London Jazz Festival.

Last month kicked off with Abdullah Ibrahim at the Queen’s Hall. This gig had personal significance, since when I started seeing my wife (a while back), Abdullah Ibrahim was the first jazz piano gig I took her too; and she loved it.

Ibrahim comes from a South African tradition, mixing township jive with an Ellingtonian sophistication picked up in New York; he has made some lovely records, township swing to get you going. He even works well with strings – the African Suite is a lovely record. (Most jazz doesn’t work with a classical setting; controversial since I am listening to John Surman in concert with the BBC Concert Orchestra…)

So: Ibrahim was wonderful: an elder statesman of the music, there was a reverential air. (Half the audience were surprised to see that he made it; he is 71.) It was great to see him, and he played some lovely music. But – well, he played; and played. He didn’t stop between tunes, one phrase rolling into the next, one quotation mixed in within another; he just played. And played. There was no applause – he clearly didn’t want the tension to build and break, playing on as one tune morphed into another – and frankly, it was all a bit the same: one tune morphed into another, and they sounded alike too.

He played two sets; and at the end of the first, all the men were dashing for the toilets – his playing without a pause meant there had been no way to quietly leave for the loo. And by the end of the second set – well, we were both pleased to get away. It was just too samey – the same pace, the same key… maybe even the same tune a couple of times.

Next, it was Bill Frisell at the Usher Hall. This was a strange one; Frisell appears on a few records that I have, and they are all very different. It was clear that one shouldn’t have any expectations; so I didn’t.

I met up with a mate from work during the support – where I was sitting, they sounded awful – a pounding African drum resonated through my ribs, irritating my lungs. Not fun. Across the hall, where my mate was sitting – it was fine – it sounded great, actually: a strange quartet of sax, guitar, trombone, and an eastern percussion kit.

Frisell himself was in a trio – him and another guitar, and a fiddle. So not a standard jazz setting. The first tune was a Beatles number, or maybe post-Beatles Lennon. So was the next, and the next. I twigged. Frisell said, “By the way, you may have noticed…” – they were playing all Lennon and McCartney or Lennon numbers. Which frankly got a bit much. They sounded nice, but not too engaging.

And they all sounded the same. So it was good evening, but nothing too exciting.

Then we went to see the Scottish National Jazz Orchestra. A big band – and they were such fun! They have a wonderful sound – a full big band – and they have a great repertoire. They were playing tunes from their catalogue – this was their tenth anniversary tour – and they had some wonderful stuff: a lot of Gil Evans, some Ellington; a bit of basie – it was just superb.

They are a very together orchestra – although they seem to have changed their personnel a fair bit in the last years or so (bass players and drummers – the engine room of a big band – have changed). But what a glorious sound! It just raises the heart to hear those tunes live – the original recording are fifty-odd years old, for the most part. But the band bring them alive. Wonderful.

This was followed by McCoy Tyner. He too must be pushing it a bit: he was part of Coltrane’s classic quartet; and it must be a bit strange playing concerts when you know half the audience are there because of a record you made forty years ago – even if it is the most famous jazz record ever made.

Although Tyner was frail as he made his way to the stage, he playing was fine. He had Charnet Moffet on bass – who was great – and a drummer I didn’t know (according to a Radio 3’s Jazz Line-Up, he played with McCoy when they were teenagers, and retired from jazz to raise his kids in Philadelphia). It was a good gig, but didn’t quite cut it – there was something missing.

Tyner may have been pushing it a bit – someone sitting behind me expressed their surprise that he hadn’t keeled over in the interval – and maybe it was the fact that we were all there on the basis of a handful of records made in the sixties, not for what he was playing today, that counted against the gig.

Then last night I went to see Tomasz Stanko, again at the Queen’s Hall (thanks, guys). This was a different league. Maybe because Stanko is coming from a different place (I kept hearing “Silent Way” Miles) or because he has surrounded himself with three musicians from now rather than then, but the whole thing sounded great. His musicians easily held their – as a trio, their playing was incisive and exciting, really powerful (but quiet) – there was depth in their subtlety. The band was the same as his gig here last year, the “Soul of Things” band – I am afraid I can’t spell their names, anyway; they played with an intensity, an energy that was exciting. Brilliant. Abstract – no tunes, really – but brilliant.