Credit: Philip Snow 2026-10-14 (Wednesday, 14^th of October 2026 - 2 days 20 hours ago)

Credit: Philip Snow 2026-10-14 (Wednesday, 14^th of October 2026 - 2 days 20 hours ago)

Glass recording artist, The Jazz Butcher is one of pop’s most enigmatic and colourful characters. With the singles, ‘Southern Mark Smith’ and ‘Roadrunner’, he has carved out his own niche on pop’s offbeat side. Having now recruited ex-Bauhaus bassist David J. to the Butcher ranks, his acute pop sensibility looks set to spread. Jamming! asked The Jazz Butcher to pin down his mad methods in his own words

99p. packet of cigarettes and a glass of Scotch. Could be worse, really, for the time of night. Jazz Butcher at the controls here, ever grateful to Maximilian, long-term associate of suit and sunglasses notoriety, D.J. the one with the film library and ACUTE POP SENSIBILITY, and Jones, who can do anything, including cook. Do the decent thing, girls, ask him to marry you! (Wonder what he'll say). Supporting roles well and intelligently played by the likes of Dave B., Sterling, the orange cat with manners, Earl “It-wasn't-me-I-didn’t-do-it" Sikkorski and further friends, if not neighbours.

Neighbours, you see, give me trouble (did you know that I was born on the same day as W. Bragg, Esq.?). They don't like the row, and they think it's time I settled down with a regular family. I get trouble in shops too.

A true; but nonetheless typical incident. David and I are driving up the M1 on the way home to Northampton after a pleasantly successful London show. We stop at a service station (a curious misnomer, I'd say: no trains and no service) to fill up with petrol. I decide to purchase a packet of fags from the ciggomat in the corner of the petrol paying type place. Said device swallows my 50p. bit. Won't give it back. I battle gamely but drunkenly with the machine awhile, before addressing myself to the all-night petrol lady, who is regarding my dishevelled and impatient struggles with suspicion.

I try to explain what has befallen me, and mention by way of intelligent conversation (breaks the ice at all the cutest parties) that “these bloody things have never worked since they put the price up to £1.20". My frustrated but innocent remark is immediately met with an order that I fill in a FORM. “Market research?” I think to myself, “At this time of night?” — but I say nothing. Until, that is, it hits me that this lady really does want me to fill in a sort of “I just lost 50p. and I understand that the deliberate giving of false information can result in prosecution under the Watch Your Step Or I'll Have You Son Act 1979" Form. Then I give it some outraged citizen, which she doesn't enjoy at all.

By now things are getting silly. Dave has long since paid for his gas and returned to the motor where he and Sikkorski are sitting impatient for my return. Meanwhile I have reached a sort of Hungarian Impasse with the ciggylady. I “step on it”. I try to get something done. I plead for either the return of my 50p., or for my packet of fags. I have no more such coins — no more money at all, in fact — and I need a snout. I am genuine and your beastly sodding machine really did pinch my money.

I have to fill out the FORM. I give my name, address and a number of other details, which now escape me, but which probably related to my membership of political organisations. On my signing the FORM, the lady finally, and with rather poor grace, delivers me of a further 50p. I purchase my cigarettes, without having to put any more coins into the machine (was I telling the truth or what, lady?). Triumphantly I turn to the lady and show that ALL I EVER WANTED WAS 20 CIGARETTES! With a look that might cause a more sober man’s right ear to drop into his left-hand pocket, the lady says that I am A PROFESSIONAL, and had better not show my face in her manor again!

Now when did that sort of thing ever happen to you, huh? If it has happened recently, I'll bet you remember it. Trouble in shops: “That's not a donut ... that's a FINGER!"

I declare that the hidebound mentality of those who give me trouble in shops is the same mentality that presently infects the body of pop; the sort of people who call my group “The Jazz Butchers” and charge us for playing in their drafty clubs (It won't work — go away!).

Another thing: the ICA recently ran a week of shows under the collective slogan “putting the fun back into being pretentious”. Now, come ON!!! That's not going to help anyone but the fatties. What's wrong with just fun?

There's a good quote, which everyone in pop music ought to remember — especially the trouble-in-shops parasites, who might as well be soap salesmen (in fact, why not try that, boys? You might make more money). It was written on a bottle of Molson which I bought in the County Tavern in Northampton: “An honest brew makes its own friends”. Best purchase I ever made, that bottle.

Another good quote (nothing to do with pop): Doctor, when I die I want to be buried right in the same coffin as you!" William Burroughs said that, and I wish that people realised how FUNNY he can be. I never much cared for him until I heard tapes of him reading his work. There are loads of records of this, and you should have one.

My manager, incidentally, a man of immense taste and tolerance, suggested that I should mention that the Jazz Butcher group has made some records. Okay, it's true, we've made some records. You don't have to buy them if you don't want to, though.

The Jazz Butcher's fashion tip for 1985, if you're interested, is those neat Russian army hats with ear-flap things. Early in 1985 the mighty Muscovite army will liberate the ICA, to the considerable gratitude of an oppressed proletariat. So just remember who told you first.