I guess that's why they call it the Blues

If you discount the daily road antics of auto-rickshaw drivers and bikers – live entertainment is somewhat thin on the ground in Bangalore. It was so bad that we were forced to enter the dark shadows of the world of karaoke last week at a Goan themed bar close to the house. Mrs Reiver went initially on a works outing, and just as I was settling into a quiet evening in with a beer and Star Trek – The Next Generation Series 1, when I was called up to provide moral and vocal support. Mrs Reiver’s boss looked somewhat askance as we duetted all over Hotel California, and my miming of ‘stabbing with their steely knives’ left him checking where security were. The evening degenerated in predictable fashion and it was a merciful release, at least for any music lovers and all our livers, that Bangalore has good old fashioned chucking out time at 10:45.

We assumed the quality would be better at the Jazz and Blues festival at the weekend. What happens when you assume – it makes an ASS out of U and ME! The venue in the centre of Cubbon Park was pleasant enough, and of course it started late – but only fashionably late by Inidian (or Virgin Rail) standards. The singer from the first artists was described as a Mystic, a World Traveller, a Women’s Right Campaigner and a singer – Uh Oh. The content, mostly latin, was pleasant enough but the links about world peace and harmony had the alarms going off in my head. We thought we would at least give the next act a go. First of all they were French, nothing per-se against the French, but this guy was using urban backing tracks, had blond dreads, was wearing MC hammer pants, his physical stylings were pure 90s techno and he was playing the sitar as if he thought he were the re-incarnation of Hendrix. Three tracks from this outfit had me reaching for the lighter fluid! – so before I gave them some real audience feedback we left.

For a jazz and blues festival, sponsored by a whisky company the evening was entirely devoid of all three. In recession and credit crunch hit times you would think that the blues would prosper, there should be plenty of stories to tell. I soon realised that the whole event was a cryptic Indian joke with the music being so bad it made you depressed enough to drink their aptly named ‘Black Dog’ whisky. Churchill apparently coped with his ‘Black Dog’ by laying bricks to relax – so perhaps this blog should be regarded as ‘just another brick in the wall’.

To counter all this doom today’s picture is an un-identified pretty flower from our garden – which looks to me suspiciously like one of those killer ones from the original Star Trek series?!