A drizzly Thursday evening. Not the best invitation to a night out. Less so, appparently, for other Sydneysiders. For, on our arrival at the bollarded entrance to Slide, on glittering Oxford Street, in downtown Darlo, the doorman confided, 'there are only two people inside'. I had to have him repeat it, even though I heard clearly, as I was somewhat incredulous. Where were you, Sydney? Fortunately, quite a number trickled in, 'though the venue was under no threat of being overcrowded. A pity, as the performers and premises deserve a full house. Happily also, Mr Manetta and co mustered all their enthusiasm to present a long and often blistering set, on the occasion of the launch of their new (limited edition) album, Sexjazz.Sexjazz kinda sums it up. This is, indeed, a trip, but it ain't necessarily jazz, being as much informed by gospel, blues, soul and funk, to say nothing of the craft of the beat poet. Manetta has something of the sartorial splendour, charisma and theatricality of Mr Graney, whose wife and bandmate, Clare Moore, was supposed to be there, as far as I knew, on percussion and vocals. Where were you, Ms Moore? Still her absence and space was comfortably filled by The Trip who are fine musos indeed, to a man: the young, elongated Sam Hall (any relation to Tobes?) on drums; Adam Spiegl, resplendent on electric bass; the versatile chameleoon, Adam Rudegeair, on piano. (I gather there are a few other members who come and go, too.)
In his black velvet suit, he looks sleek, like a lean, cool cat on the prowl. He can scat. He can purr. He can pounce. What I take to be his very own beatnik purple praise-phrase helps here: 'the falsetto swoops and lands in rasping baritone shards upon the simmering piano keys'. Yup. One moment he's channelling, I dunno, Frankie Valli; the next, Tom Waits or Louis Armstrong. Then this black cat turns out his soul: there it is, ten times as large as his diminutive frame. OMG, it's Ike Hayes!
Noone can accuse these hypnotic hep cats of choosing predictable covers: keep your ears wide open for a strikingly enigmatic rendition of World Party's tragically underrated and more-than-ever-topical Ship Of Fools, as well as an relative obscurity from Nutbush's most famous export, Anna Mae Bullock, in the form of Funkier Than a Mosquito's Tweeter, which saw The Manetta dancing like a coked Ikette. He's got all the moves, 'n' all the grooves.
'A melismatic concoction of deep jazz thought, spatial blues and in-the-pocket soulfire.' That's The Tripsters own album revue, and I sure can't top it. The Beatnik Sighed sets off with an easy swing and relates the tale of a chick, 'who knew a jazz singer when she saw one', slap in the face, perhaps, to all those among us who suss our cool from cyberspatial social media, rather than listen to what's going on between out ears. But I wouldn't dare venture an interpretation with any self-assurance; not when one has to grapple with Hen's characteristic inscrutability, as in 'unforeseen and didactically thunderstruck'. Still and all, I think it's a tale of speculated endless possibilities, between watcher and watched. It's certainly sexjazz; 'specially when Manetta, the lyrical spitfiring Baretta, invokes the muthafunking motifs. Melismatic? Yeah. Each syllable, or word, carefully matched to a single, solitary note. Each sound a moment your ears can make a real meal deal of. It's also systematic; automatic; even Hydramatic. But never high dramatic, 'cause, thankfully, these hipsters don't take themselves too seriously. Sometimes, the reshaped, fender bender aesthetic borders on self-parody. And that's, as Kevin Costner would say, neat. Get your hands on a copy of the album and you'll apprehend I Slept With The Damned is similarly chilled and late cocktail lounge; plush velour, a lonely cockroach crossing the floor, trying not to spill a martini.
The humourous sensibility rears its sarcastic head with the opening cut of HM's solo recorded set, Shiver: Don't Hold Your Breath opens with the blunt brutality of 'when we first met, I'd like to say you knocked me off my feet, but you didn't'. This is a diamond on disc and scintillating on stage.
Matt Frederick has said 'Henry is Australian jazz' most unique vocalist, bar none'. Without debating the descriptive merit of 'most unique', I second the emotion. Better yet, his cohorts are, each, as much a highlight, in their own right. They're so bloody good, one can almost overlook the fact they're from Melbourne. Almost. Well, alright!
Like your jazz cool? Stirred; sometimes shaken? Spacious, unconfined and unconventional? Then take what is a trip. The Trip. Pity you missed 'em, brothers 'n' sisters.
Henry Manetta + The Trip
SEXJAZZ
Venue: Slide Cabaret, Bar & Club | 41 Oxford Street Darlinghurst
Date: Thurs 5 November
Tickets: $60 for dinner and show from 7pm or $20 show only from 9pm
Bookings: Slide 02 8915 1899 or www.ticketek.com.au
