Tuesday, August 17, 2010


Ever since it opened a couple of years ago, I've been meaning to visit The Ellington. It's a jazz club that takes both its jazz and its exclusivity seriously. It offers the best live music available, if you're prepared to shell out the cash and jump through the hoops to get at it. It's not simply a matter of breezing in and snagging the nearest table - entry is expensive, all of the tables are numbered and must be booked for the act you want to see. Even the fabulous Bennetts Lane in Melbourne is more relaxed.

However The Ellington has been a rampant success since its opening night. Either we've been jonesing for a decent jazz club for years, or we're a shallow people who are attracted to exclusivity like moths to a flame.

I was invited along by some friends to see Courtney Murphy perform with some of the best local jazz musicians, although the style was closer to funk than jazz. In any case, they played my favourite blues song (Willie Dixon's 'I Just Want To Make Love To You') so I could forgive them anything.

But as is often the case, half of the fun of going out to see live music was experiencing the crowd. Highlights included:

1. The girls at the next table, who made me realise that to some women every night is a Hen's Night. I haven't heard so much brainless screeching since I walked past the line at the cinema waiting for entry into 'Twilight: New Moon'.

2. The homogenous nature of the rest of the crowd. There were hundreds of them, all ages from teens to seniors, and all castes from hipsters to bogans, and all classes from scruffy students to well-heeled executives. But they were as racially diverse as a Klu Klux Klan gathering. I spied one Asian girl up the back, and a striking African woman sitting near the front, but other than that it was like a snapshot from the book launch of 'Stuff White People Like'.

3. One young woman wearing a simple black cocktail dress and no jewelry, but somehow being the absolute centre of attention wherever she went. This was entirely due to her proud display of one frankly astonishing set of breasts, so large and gravity-defiant that they appeared to have been professionally cantilevered by an architect to rival Sir Christopher Wren. She was basically a pair of spectacular boobies with some sort of blonde attached to them.

I must go there again.


Blogger MC Etcher said...

You always seem to have an interesting time on outings, even (or especially) when the actual event was lackluster.

I had to google 'bogan' to properly appreciate the reference.

7:44 PM  
Blogger John said...

I haven't heard so much brainless screeching since I walked past the line at the cinema waiting for entry into 'Twilight: New Moon'.

Well, although it's possible they mistook you for Robert Pattinson, *maybe* your fame as a blogger is spreading - if any of them asked you to sign their bra 'Love from Mr Blandwagon' then definitely the latter.

PS *I* link to your blog. Where's my reciprocal link?! I demand a reciprocal link!

3:29 PM  
Blogger Blandwagon said...

I don't think they were screeching at me. They were just screeching at life in general. As Rene Descartes' 14 year old daughter once said, "I screech, therefore I am. Like, totally OMG LOL."

P.S. I link to your blog in my "People Who Link To Me" section. OBVIOUSLY YOU ARE NOT READING MY BLOG SIDEBARS CLOSELY ENOUGH! Shame on you, sir.

3:02 PM  
Blogger John said...

Quite! My apologies, sir. Clearly I have been smoking too much crack.

1:18 PM  
Anonymous Troy G said...

I hope you don't give any of that crack to your dinosaur John: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/tyrannosaur_crack

6:02 PM  

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