Bangin'

Observations from a Tito Puente tribute gig at the Charles Hotel.


- Jazz is great, but mambo is awesome.

- The barmaid is either new or used to a lower order of clientele. I order a gin & tonic, a vodka & tonic and a bourbon & Coke. All arrive in beer glasses.

- The band leader claps at the performers to spark them up into mambo mania, and a single old duffer in the audience takes this as a cue to clap along... completely and vigorously out of time.

- At the next table is a party of Jazz Jews, complete with retro clothing and yamulkes. When two of them get up to dance, they demonstrate all of the natural rythmn for which their race is famous*.

- It occurs to me that playing the congas is halfway between percussion and dancing. It's one of the few instruments that requires you to jump around while you're playing it.

- Both of the latin percussionists wear little smirks on their faces, as if to say, "Yes, I do realise that I am far cooler than every one of you bovine lumps. Also my girlfriend is hot, and uninhibited."

- In an effort, perhaps, to attract a hot uninhibited girlfriend, a pugnacious, possibly steroid-abusing old man over at the bar is pounding along on an empty stool as if it were a conga drum. And when I say pounding, I mean beating the crap out of it. The vibrations travel down the stool, across the floor, and up our stools. It is the most annoying thing since Fran Drescher.

- Seriously, is there any music better than mambo?


*ie none whatsoever.