Credit: David Whittemore

THE JAZZ Butcher's debut platter is the sort of record which has the bamboozled critic scratching his head after one play and asking ‘Why me?’. Not because, you understand, | do not like the Jazz Butcher — on the contrary, I'm rather enamoured by this peculiar waxing. No, it’s simply that one wonders where exactly Le Butcher is ‘coming from’.

It's obvious that the boy's influences run in two main furrows, the first being the subcultural cool-school of Lou Reed circa ‘Street Hassle’ and Coney Island Baby’, the second being the good old-fashioned funk of James Brown and his soul brother contemporaries. One knows the latter assertion to be fact when JB (Jazz Butcher, that is) quips Stay on the scene like a fruit Machine during ‘Jazz Butcher Theme’, a song mean on the downstoke with offhand, eminently likeable vocals and a closed-circuit funk that goes nowhere fast, something of a trait with JB as it happens.

Yes, this record is the sort that's both born and destined to have takeaway droppings and beer glass stains all over it, a strutting and greasy little bit of Clapham stapled to a big chunk of The Big Abbatoir; a low budget bridging of the Big Muddy.

After getting past ‘Gloop Jiving' with its lengthy thank- you's - delivered in true tawdry pro-musician style - and ingesting the aforementioned ‘Theme’, then comes the privilege of 'Partytime', ensconsed behind ritual shades, mellow and myopic in the nicest possible way and enjoying the gentle roll of an understated acoustic strum for tempo; strictly for play only past sunset. It's rather excellent.

‘Bigfoot Motel’ shuffles in on a railroading snarebeat matched to exclamatory guitar, kind of like a spastic roulette wheel. Filled with a slightly buried and slightly doopy dialogue about a variety of Americana, | suspect that JB is at heart a tremendous cornball and, yes, he wears it well.

‘Zombie Love’ ushers in side two, a frisky wire-brush of sound, youthful and playful. ‘Grey Flannellette’ is a silly parody of ‘Warm Leatherette’ complete with reedy, weedy synthesisers moping mechanically at the back while JB weaves his South London tale of woe deadpan. He then dons his French hat, no doubt a beret, for ‘La Mer’ which is Continental fare at its dogiest but the side really picks up with ‘Poisoned By Food’ where, as per usual, the music takes a back seat to the maestro’s lyrical sketchings which succeed in being witty, somewhat sardonic and at times even perversely insightful and wise.

JB is obviously a temperamental fellow dying to be indulged and although he does at times test the listener, the investment in patience is alway rewarded. Such is the nature of true prodigality, | suppose?

And that is the Jazz Butcher. Being a total Philistine when it comes to jazz, | won't even venture to explore his worth as a jazz artist and it’s just as well | don't, | dare say, ahem, however, this is a record that grows likeable in leaps and bounds and | recommend it to all seeking an experience beyond the norm.

Bath Of Bacon

It's really just the sound of a few mates failing to take seriously the fact they they've got an l.p. to make. It seems VERY early eighties now, but you must remember that there was a LOT of crap for us to clear out of the way in those days.

Glass Records LP;CD