Jazz: delicious hot, disgusting cold

It’s the Singapore International Jazz Festival this weekend, and although the tickets are extortionately expensive and I’ve never been that big a fan of some old geezer parping on a saxophone or playing all the wrong notes on a piano or some sho-wop-a-booby-bop whatever or shooting up heroin in grainy black and white photos, my wife was super keen to go. So it was super fortunate that a friend got six free tickets from work, and so we were off to the races. Well, off to the jazz. 
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Neko Case


Whenever I go on work trips to Bellevue, WA, and I arrive in my luxuriously appointed, yet essentially lonely, hotel room, I always listen to Neko Case singing songs about heartbreak, small town animosity, and Tacoma, which lies somewhere down the road from Seattle and is locally most famous for a paper mill and monster truck rallies. Neko Case is one of those modern country singers that it’s acceptable to listen to; lots of banjo and pedal steel, less of some mulleted inbred singing about his pick up truck.
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