JOHN CLARE

This folder is dedicated to the work of John Clare, who began writing in the early 70s, and has long been regarded as the doyen of Australian jazz writers. Helen Garner, in her preface to Clare's book Take Me Higher, describes how she used to cut out his writings under his Gail Brennan pseudonym and paste them into her diary. Originally she thought the articles were written by a woman. She describes his writing as "superbly literate and articulate, deeply informed, yet completely ordinary in tone, even at their most elated. A relaxed freedom flowed through everything he wrote. He was fearless. He rejoices. He celebrated”. Many of John Clare's articles that were published previously in various publications are collected here. Click on the INDEX button for a list of articles in this folder.

INTO THE DYING LIGHT

by John Clare

TEN PART INVENTION Live at Wangaratta: The Music of Roger Frampton (ABC Jazz)

Several things persuade me that music comes from somewhere else. One is the number of intelligent, sensitive people I've known who loved music but could never play well enough - while certain boofheads played like angels. The evidence on this disc is of a different kind. In 1999 Roger Frampton was dying. He was sick from brain tumours in his motel room until just before his appearance at the Wangaratta Festival of Jazz, yet he played the piano with fluency and rhythmic drive. Three months later he died at 51…

TO THE POWER OF TEN

by Gail Brennan/John Clare

Sydney Morning Herald, August 20, 1993 

Among the many misunderstandings surrounding jazz is the idea that it is all smooth, cool, and to be played late at night at low volume. One of the first jazz records I bought was Duke Ellington's Jam With Sam, on a 45 rpm disc with the bass up at juke box level and Cat Anderson's trumpet screaming over the band. I played it very loudly and thought I'd discovered the next phase of rock 'n 'roll — this was even more exciting than Little Richard. At one time, bands like Ellington's and Count Basie's bussed all over America to play in joints that were not much bigger than your local scout hall. They were loud. I heard the Ellington band in a broadcast studio and the Woody Herman band at Ronnie Scott's club in London. Loud? Don't ask…

KING JOHN, THEM CROCODILES, AND THE LAST STRAW

by John Clare

Nation Review, July 14, 1977

John Pochée's phone calls are seldom private. His voice is admirably projected, not to say loud, and his eyes flick round the room for reactions. He is now bullying the one-legged pianist Chuck Yates. "Why aren’t you here, Chuck? Everyone is here, we're listening to music, and it is important that you hear this music. McCoy Tyner, Chuck. What do you mean you feel shithouse? You feel shithouse because you're there and we're here. There's not a man here feels shithouse, Chuck!" Chuck is coming, but someone else says they have to leave. "You can't just come here and leave," John protests. “You have to lie down in the sand, drag yourself along and roll around”…