Do you recall me mentioning my music? Hoppy Head, one of the tracks is called. I suppose that's beer-related. Not that it has any words. The only words on any of my tracks are "I hate Arsenal. I hate all London teams." What a noble sentiment.
Yesterday evening Dolores had taken Andrew to his chess club and Lexxie was upstairs playing a Star Wars game. It meant I had a window of opportunity to listen to my last CD. I'm not allowed to play it when any other family member is within earshot. It's that good.
I must convert some numbers to MP3 and make them available here. There's a drum solo in Hippy Hop that I'm particularly proud of. Thuck, thick, thucky, thucky, thick, thack. That's how it goes. It's not a long drum solo. That would be pretentious.
Where is all this leading? Who knows. I often start a journey unaware of my final destination. All part of the fun. I remember. Kris.
Finnish Kris is up from Frankfurt. I haven't seen him for ages, not since he moved away from Amsterdam. We used to go clubbing together, what seems like several lifetimes ago. Mazzo was where we usually went. So often, that I became a member. The music wasn't great. Way too thumpy-thumpy for my taste. But it was a pretty cool place, so I could forgive them that. After the fire, when they temporarily relocated from Rosengracht to the Ouderzijds Voorburgwal, Lucas used to DJ in the chillout room. He played pretty good stuff. Lots of dub and ambulance music. Unfortunately, there wasn't the space for a chillout room in Mazzo's permanent home.
Rather susprisingly, Mazzo wasn't a total beer disaster. It sold Duvel. Just what you need when you're all sweaty from dancing: a strong, highly-carbonated beer. Occasionally they had a more interesting draught beer. One Easter they had Tuborg Kylle, Kylle. Not the world's greatest, but quite an unexpected choice for a club.
Sadly, Mazzo has closed forever. I hadn't been for years, but it was reassuring to know it was still there, should I ever need it. Other things - kids, a mountain of beer books - now demand my attention. There's no time for dancing.
The blackest day - I confess that I have been most remiss in my marking of International Stout Day up until now. 2017's iteration would likely have passed me by also, were it...
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