Issue 8

Coffee
I
didn’t have my first cup of coffee till I was about twenty
years old. It was at the legendary Stagedoor in Christchurch,
as bohemian a joint as could be found in that neck of the
woods in 1965. As I recall (and I wouldn’t necessarily put
great store by my recollections) the Stagedoor had not long
been taken over from one Des Monaghan (the same Des Monaghan
currently presiding over Channel 7’s serene slide into Network
oblivion) by the family Ryan, late of Liverpool. Des had always
seen the venue as a haven for Christchurch’s enthusiastic
bevy of thespians, (one of whom was my future wife, Helen),
who practised being trees just round the corner at the local
repertory club. He’d renamed it the Stagedoor (from its original
monicker of the Kingbee Kellar) with just that in mind, and
encouraged poetry readings and the folk club (the lesser of
the musical evils prevalent at the time) in the hope that
the
crass, loud mod
music, as practised by my band, the Chants, could eventually
be dispensed with.
The reality was, as much trouble as we and our loyal band
of followers were, without us there was no turnover to speak
of, so it was actually Des who capitulated first and sold
the business on to the Ryans, who, no doubt inspired by the
famous Liverpool example of the Cavern Club, took up the challenge
with enthusiasm.
It was about this time that I first succumbed to the mellifluous
blandishments of the smell of coffee, (with the exception
of freshly baked bread, there can scarcely be a more alluring
smell), and had my first hesitant sip. Despite the fact that
I was still a white-with-two tea drinker, I took coffee neat
i.e. black with nothing. It was one of those filtered
coffee arrangements that you see most commonly these days
in yer McDonalds McCafés, and I thought it was pretty
sohisticated. What did I know? A café society in Christchurch
probably existed, (similar to the Australian experience, there
had been an influx of crafty continentals in the mid ’50s
after the Hungarian revolution), but it may as well have been
a secret society as far as I was concerned. In fact, the general
populace in Christchurch was denied the delights of true espresso
coffee for one reason or another until quite recently.
(It was only a few years ago I saw many a Christchurch sandwich
board emblazoned with the proud boast, WE HAVE PLUNGER COFFEE)..
Anyway, even this emasculated version of the real thing affected
my delicate system so radically I could only manage one cup
a week. (Remember, in those days I didn’t drink, smoke or
even use bad language!) Today I can drink one short macchiato
a day. A long macchiato, or two shorts, and I’m up
all night. (So, I’m still quite delicate, but I swear like
a fucking trooper).
With a macchiato (macchiato means ‘stained
with milk’ and refers to the modicum of milk that barely distinguishes
it from a short black, which I’m occasionally given
by mistake), you have to be satisfied that the basic making
of the coffee procedure has been done well. There is no margin
for error. If the coffee isn’t fresh, or if the product simply
hasn’t been made well, i.e. with love, then you’re
in for a rough ride, albeit a mercifully short one.
If I’ve assessed there’s little or no chance of the coffee
being wonderful, I’ll order a cappuccino, the hot
chocolate of coffees, and to hell with it. When I’m at a quality
restaurant, I might reasonably expect the coffee to be good,
even spectacularly good, but, (and here comes the gripe),
it’s astonishing how often a fantastic meal is soured with
crap coffee.
What is going on? I can’t tell you how often I’ve been scared
to death at restaurants when I’ve caught sight of the cook/s
(all right, chefs – but that’s another story), young,
(bastards!), unshaven, dank hair, rings in all the
bits, stud in the tongue (I hate that), wearing the
uniform silly checked pants that have rarely seen the laundry,
only to be pleasantly surprised to find that the food’s not
only edible, but really pretty delicious.
I don’t care what the coffee maker looks like. As far as I’m
concerned, the only qualification is that he or she must
be a coffee drinker, and must love making good coffee.
read
more

The
world of down-tuning
Welcome to Twangworld. This load of Twang is about down-tuning.
Basically, there are no rules. You can make up your own tuning
and create any open chord you like. A word of warning. Make
sure you WRITE IT DOWN. There are a lot of down-tuning books,
and you can access the same info off the Net. Some tunings
are suitable for playing chords and licks/solos, and some
are only for using slide. At the moment, I am using three
different tunings. My Yamaha classical nylon string is tuned
down to open C (c-g-c-g-c-e) This tuning is great for fretting
and slide. My 1938 Sutton Centurion Lap Steel is tuned to
open G ( g-b-d-g-b-d). This beautiful little instrument was
a gift from our manager Jenny, who spoils us rotten and plays
tricks on us. Finally, a 1960 Commodore Lap Steel, which,
much to my delight, was made in New Zealand and is one of
the funniest looking lap steels I have seen. read
more