Get off your butt Guy Buttery!
From someone who has followed you for years, bought the CDs, supported you in a crowd of six, last night’s attempt at crossing over into the world of jazz left me feeling you were in danger of becoming a bit of a granny-panny.
You had the best jazzos by your side, your majesty. To your right was 2014 Sama winner for jazz, bassist Shane Cooper, and to your left, the sharp, hipster percussionist Ronan Skillen. Was that a sort of chilled vibe you had going or were those compliments or backhanders?
My previous jazz outing the night before saw The Kiffness and Mathew Gold totally nail the fusion of electro-pop, trance, R n B and jazz. They were generous and accessible.
But Buttery’s beautiful soundscape and unique and organic rhythm and pressure-point notes felt too aural and drifty to jiggle the hips and get the toes tapping.
In fact, the only fusion I heard was that of pelvic bones being welded into permanent, arthritic fixture.
You needs to lift the cheek, get off that bladdy chair and pop a few jazz moves, dude. A once off? We will not laugh. We will be relieved. Joni Mitchell went through how many incarnations and we love her. Frank Zappa would not be amused.
If Dan Patlansky can shift over time from a wooden onstage body presence to vein-popping, shirt open, face-warped, rocking banshee, maybe you could bring a bit of body performance beyond flicking away those admittedly gorgeous straight-shiny locks from getting in the way of those bewitched fingers.
The audience loved the show but I tend to hit a barrier. My inner animal gnaws at the same bone. I can go so far with awe at your virtuosity and then … sameness. The Wall.
Maybe if I you could dare to hit just one or two Afro-blues notes AKA James Philips or Philip Tabane in those compositions, I could cross over with you.
Sorry maestro, but you can’t you give a little bit?
You might be amazed at our response.
And remember, we still luff you. XXX