I shaved my mohawk off on sunday evening and went to a jazz concert with my mother. She's good at winning free tickets and getting away from police tickets. This time she scored a pair to see the Oliver Jones Trio at The Center, as a part of the Vancouver International Jazz Festival.
(On a side note, if find the name of the venue mysterious. The foyer's mirrored, convexed main wall adds to the gaudy presence. Alabaster looking marble is thrown around; stair sets and ledges long to be skated but are only ever swept and brushed by hands and hems.)
After a marathon week and a short lived and volitile weekend, my batteries were running low by the sabbath eve. I was fucking tired. My mum seemed pooped too. : (
We both nooded off at various points during the opening act. The Christine Jensen Quartet failed to hold our attention. Too much cacophony, squeals and yells from a sax. One of her songs was meant as a musical reflection of her feelings on the Iraq War, the new one. It sucked. The song sucked, I mean. It was harder to take then the war going on though, because it was in my face and all i wanted to do was sleep. Squeeeeeeeeeek!
Oliver Jones and his boys came on. Mummy and I both woke up. They did a lot of Oscar Peterson renditions and I felt so knowledgeable. I hope i spelled that right.
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