GRAEME CULHAM RETURNS TO MILESTONES WITH TRIBUTE TO MASTER DRUMMER BUDDY RICH
Milestones Jazz Club kicks-off the 2010 summer programme of concerts on Sunday 4 July with a tribute to Buddy Rich featuring The Graeme Culham Sextet.
Buddy Rich was the archetypal swinging jazz drummer and fellow musician Graeme Culham has put together an up-to-date tribute to his musical hero.
‘Buddy’s Review’ is a performance of tunes based on the original big and small band arrangements that highlight the energy and swagger of Rich’s fifty-year career.
The sextet was formed in 2008 and its hard-swinging style utilizes a tight and punchy approach, full of intelligent, forthright improvisation.
Once described by the late, great Ronnie Scott as "one of the best drummers that I know of", Graeme’s own drumming is reminiscent of Buddy Rich’s incendiary style, making him ideal to lead this young band.
Graeme has worked as a professional musician since the age of 17 including forming his own big band in 1983 and has been heard on numerous TV and radio broadcasts and with Snowboy on the Acid Jazz record label.
Graeme has learnt his art from working with top British and American musicians such as Buddy Tate, Dick Morrissey, Peter King, Ronnie Scott and Don Rendell.
The band’s full line-up features Graeme Culham (drums), Chris Lamberti (trumpet), Zak Barrett (saxes), Gareth Lumbers (saxes / flute), Dan Banks (piano) and Andy Staples (bass).
Listen to The Graeme Culham Sextet at http://www.buddys-review.moonfruit.com/#/buddys-review-audio/4533418734 or visit the club website at http://www.milestonesjazzclub.co.uk
All Milestones gigs are held on the first Sunday of every month and take place at Hotel Hatfield, Esplanade, Lowestoft with the doors opening at 8pm.
Admission - £7 / £6 (concession).
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
High Victorian Cromer
Though a wonderful sunny day, the 'high' or 'late' Victorian seafront of Cromer looks almost Gothic in black and white. I really like the town. It has a real depressing pound shop feel but surprises itself with life. The carboot there was terrible but crabbing off the pier was an amazingly well attended activity. Crabbers can buy bacon on the pier to fish with - marvellous. And Cromer boasts the best 2p Arcade machines in the universe!
Selling Yourself at The Car Boot
It's important to take advantage of bargains: today was A POUND A PITCH at the Hellesden Carboot. Cyclists can sell their belongings and themselves. Don't forget to park your bicycle properly if it's not for sale.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Two Sons of Cash
The East Coast - Yarmouth and Lowestoft - boasts two great bands drenched in Johnny Cash's enduring influence - The Gutterboys and Sun of Cash. Catch them locally and remember, in these Facebook Days, MySpace is still home to music.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Out Of The Machine
I've managed to collect together my 'stuff' in the flat, loft and in a friend's garage and shed. The Art Factory is no more and I'm without a studio presently. It's difficult to move in my flat but I'm now taking stock of the last three and a half years at the factory.
From 2004 to 2008, InPrint (a collaborative group of poets and artists) vended boxes of poetry and art from a converted cigarette machine. The Poetry Vending Machine (PVM) was successful but a burden to move from venue to venue. I've managed to save the working PVM and, with InPrint's blessing, will seek to establish a permanent home for the venture.
However, while the PVM boxes were vended unseen, from 2008 to the present, I have continued making boxes of poetry and art which can be viewed before purchase. At the recent Art Factory Open Studios I sold over 40 boxes. In light of this, I shall continue to develop these 'Out Of The Machine' works.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Art Class
Herbert Loam, teacher at the Academy, was on his way up. He was going to deliver the cut backs the Academy’s sponsors desired through imaginative, ruthless efficiency.
A few spots of rain were in the air and it was cold for September. The pupils, aged eight and nine, dutifully trooped in, crisp in their new term uniforms. Sheets of A3 paper had been laid out on their desks across the classroom. As the children took off their jackets to adorn aprons, Loam shook his head. With quizzical looks on some peachy faces the children sat down, some half in-half out of their jackets.
“Arbright, fetch the brushes,” commanded Loam.
Arbright fetched the brush box from the cupboard and placed one brush on each desk.
“Water, Sir?” enquired Humphries.
“No water – and no paint!” announced Loam: “I’m here to liberate you today. Come on, let’s have fun!”
Taking up a large paint brush, Loam dipped it in imaginary water and paint. With renewed enthusiasm for his profession, Loam began to paint his imaginary painting, slashing, dabbing and gently stroking his brush over the paper, following his stroke-making with teacherly commentary.
“It’s a fox – or a cloud. See that whirl – it’s a cloud. Or the fox’s brush. And that’s a cliff. That line. Now I’m dabbing, dabbing – dab-dab. That’s the crumbling cliff face. Can you see that in the wash of paint? Can you see?”
The children couldn’t see but the first titters of laughter had broken through, momentarily spell bound by Loam’s antics. Loam dipped his brush into more imaginary water and paint and continued.
“See my palette? Adding colours now, mixing colours. Chrome yellow stroked into ochre – a hint of it in the sky above in the clouds of wild animal tails…”
The children were giggling. Loam knew he could “lose it” and his climb up the greasy pole might find him at the bottom, hands caked in lard.
“Join me, children, join me. Imagine what you’re painting and let your brush do the talking…”
None followed.
Come on – use your imaginations. You’ve got imaginations, haven’t you?”
Immediately Humphries joined in.
“Gold star Humphries! Imagine you’re painting with gold!”
A few spots of rain were in the air and it was cold for September. The pupils, aged eight and nine, dutifully trooped in, crisp in their new term uniforms. Sheets of A3 paper had been laid out on their desks across the classroom. As the children took off their jackets to adorn aprons, Loam shook his head. With quizzical looks on some peachy faces the children sat down, some half in-half out of their jackets.
“Arbright, fetch the brushes,” commanded Loam.
Arbright fetched the brush box from the cupboard and placed one brush on each desk.
“Water, Sir?” enquired Humphries.
“No water – and no paint!” announced Loam: “I’m here to liberate you today. Come on, let’s have fun!”
Taking up a large paint brush, Loam dipped it in imaginary water and paint. With renewed enthusiasm for his profession, Loam began to paint his imaginary painting, slashing, dabbing and gently stroking his brush over the paper, following his stroke-making with teacherly commentary.
“It’s a fox – or a cloud. See that whirl – it’s a cloud. Or the fox’s brush. And that’s a cliff. That line. Now I’m dabbing, dabbing – dab-dab. That’s the crumbling cliff face. Can you see that in the wash of paint? Can you see?”
The children couldn’t see but the first titters of laughter had broken through, momentarily spell bound by Loam’s antics. Loam dipped his brush into more imaginary water and paint and continued.
“See my palette? Adding colours now, mixing colours. Chrome yellow stroked into ochre – a hint of it in the sky above in the clouds of wild animal tails…”
The children were giggling. Loam knew he could “lose it” and his climb up the greasy pole might find him at the bottom, hands caked in lard.
“Join me, children, join me. Imagine what you’re painting and let your brush do the talking…”
None followed.
Come on – use your imaginations. You’ve got imaginations, haven’t you?”
Immediately Humphries joined in.
“Gold star Humphries! Imagine you’re painting with gold!”
The children followed Humphries enthusiastically. Loam had stopped slipping down the pole.
The children first believed this to be a game but Loam pushed them and pushed them, again and again. He implored them to summon up all manner of strange creatures and objects lost in crazed landscapes. As they dabbed, stroked and windmill’d imaginary paint, most of his charge, in planks of gulped air, described their paintings in vivid terms – a dervish dance of hands and mouths. Only Arbright stood outside the group’s activity, his eyes moving from brush to paper and from paper to brush.
Whether wind turbine or ballerina, the automatic stream of consciousness and aerobics was exhausting. In twenty minutes all but Arbright were slumped panting in their seats, jackets and cardigans strewn over the floor. Loam, tired himself, slowly wandered the room, picking up the discards and muttering approval. He saved a fond squeeze of the shoulder for Humphries.
In the quiet of their tiredness Arbright stared into space: “But where are the pictures?”
Loam dropped the jackets and cardigans on his desk and felt his fingers loosen on the pole but one little girl, Aldiss, cut through the silence:
“It’s the bluest blue sky and the fields are lush with green fingers of grass. And in the middle is a silver tree and on each branch there’s a parrot carrying gift wrapped chocolates for me…”
“And the sun is gold – pure gold!” shouted out Humphries, who had risen to his feet, not to be missed out or overlooked.
As each child rose to tell of their dream, their painting, Loam carefully and with astute calculation turned the art lesson into an English lesson. He steered them towards images, image making, the analysis of making marks; and he directed them to and through the colour charts on their personal computers.
That night Arbright dreamed of black, nothing but black. Loam began building his ladder.
The Academy’s order for paint was cut. Loam worked ceaselessly all term, developing his Emperor’s New Clothes through the imaginations of his children. At such an early age his pupils could conceptualise and contextualise their visual work. More than this, movement classes became synonymous with Art and English classes, and in dance his pupils made a ground breaking sculpture.
The children first believed this to be a game but Loam pushed them and pushed them, again and again. He implored them to summon up all manner of strange creatures and objects lost in crazed landscapes. As they dabbed, stroked and windmill’d imaginary paint, most of his charge, in planks of gulped air, described their paintings in vivid terms – a dervish dance of hands and mouths. Only Arbright stood outside the group’s activity, his eyes moving from brush to paper and from paper to brush.
Whether wind turbine or ballerina, the automatic stream of consciousness and aerobics was exhausting. In twenty minutes all but Arbright were slumped panting in their seats, jackets and cardigans strewn over the floor. Loam, tired himself, slowly wandered the room, picking up the discards and muttering approval. He saved a fond squeeze of the shoulder for Humphries.
In the quiet of their tiredness Arbright stared into space: “But where are the pictures?”
Loam dropped the jackets and cardigans on his desk and felt his fingers loosen on the pole but one little girl, Aldiss, cut through the silence:
“It’s the bluest blue sky and the fields are lush with green fingers of grass. And in the middle is a silver tree and on each branch there’s a parrot carrying gift wrapped chocolates for me…”
“And the sun is gold – pure gold!” shouted out Humphries, who had risen to his feet, not to be missed out or overlooked.
As each child rose to tell of their dream, their painting, Loam carefully and with astute calculation turned the art lesson into an English lesson. He steered them towards images, image making, the analysis of making marks; and he directed them to and through the colour charts on their personal computers.
That night Arbright dreamed of black, nothing but black. Loam began building his ladder.
The Academy’s order for paint was cut. Loam worked ceaselessly all term, developing his Emperor’s New Clothes through the imaginations of his children. At such an early age his pupils could conceptualise and contextualise their visual work. More than this, movement classes became synonymous with Art and English classes, and in dance his pupils made a ground breaking sculpture.
To be continued...
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Goodbye Old Friends
MOST IMPORTANTLY, the Factory was once a cornerstone manufacturing base in Norwich, producing quality shoes and employing hundreds...
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Cracks In Norwich's City Of Culture Bid
Without an infrastructure in grassroots culture - run by the creatives in the community - the Norwich City of Culture Bid is a dead duck. Here's a picture of Art materials heading for a county landfill as the Art Factory closes.
This top-down bid has everything to do with those on the 'top table' - council and partnership - and little or nothing to do with creative activity at the base. But, as ever, make your own minds up. Visit Norwich City of Culture and see.
Friday, June 04, 2010
Moving Out - MOVING ON!
Here is a tiny part of what I have to move out of the Art Factory Norwich - with just a few days in which to move out. But, already, I see the move very much as moving on, moving forward. Watch this space!
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