Another magic night at the Labour Club last Friday. All the acts were on startling form Ghost Train opened, and despite the presence of a single microphone standing between them, played what amounted to a fully acoustic set. Any band that opens with "Delia's Gone" is getting off to a fine start. After a couple of appearances at the Cafe Veranda's wednesday night acoustic sessions, they played with calm and confidence. They were rewarded with plenty of attention and applause, except for one noisy soul who just couldn't keep it all in. He was like that Cat Stevens, in fact: he had to let it out.

This he continued to do through the first couple of numbers from the sharp-suited Micky Greaney. Then Micky caught him out applauding a tune. "What are you clapping for?" he enquired, "You haven't listened to a note of it." And then, with exactly the speed and grace of an entirely sober man moving to hit another man very hard, the diminiutive songwriter heaved his microphone stand up into the air and planted it firmly in front of Mister Noisy. "Tell you what - why don't I sing this one just for you, and we'll see if you can't shut up and listen for five minutes?" You guessed it. He shut up. Which enabled the rest of us to spend half an hour listening to the astonishing set that Micky had come to play. A wonderful set of classic songwriting. The voice is everything I've been told and a bit more. Special thanks to John Purcell for suggesting him for a gig here in the first place, and for going way, way beyond the call of duty in delivering him safely among us. We trust that they will both be back.

Hot Mocambo swarm onto the tiny stage area like giant tea-head locust people (if I've remembered that bit exactly right...) and there is hot jazz for the lucky punters. The evening is changing gear again.

Damn rhythmic they were, with Steve playing a full kit and Becca at his side with her percussion. The Duke played electric bass and the twin guitar strikers span melodies, counter melodies, rhythms, polyrhythms, multitap ping-pong poly-meta-rhythms and shit like that around the place like they had an urgent appointment to keep. For a moment or two they searched around for the right sound, but by their second tune they were blazing. Great musicians with great sounds playing Django jazz and a sort of mutated Latin bop at high speeds well loud. A marvellopus set that earned the band two encores, including a dreamy "Nuages" to close on. Marvellous.

By this stage the Masters of Budvar were in full physical control of my frame, so naturally I found myself compelled to spend some time just veering around grinning like an eejit saying "thank you" to people. As you do, I suppose. But really, sincere thanks to all the players for three great sets.

Or should that be four? For when the Masters of Budvar made it back to their Secret Antarctic Headquarters, the Mojo Soul Riot (c) came off almost straight away for another live set of songs from Micky. Then guitars began to pass around and something of a workshop was developing with Micky, Joe Woolley and me. Fortunately, the arrival of The Drummer brought us all back to our senses and we got on with the drinking and the smoking and the talking rubbish. Brilliant. Trebles all round.
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