606

It was the archetypal jazz joint. On an unspectacular street in Chelsea, opposite a formidable Victorian factory, a single lamp lit the door labelled simply “606”. Through the door to a heavy wire mesh gate at the top of a staircase. An intercom button summoned a man to the bottom of the stairs, who checked us out then buzzed us through. We descended down into the club.

This is a joint for musicians. After gigs elsewhere, the musicati relax here with a drink. Last night: the Robin Jones sextet playing Salsa at the 606 club. Brownyn's friend Claire, a jazz singer herself, had booked the table and ushered us into this smoky and at least seemingly secretive world of the London jazz scene. The food was expensive, and we made a strange group between three of us drinking mineral water while Claire's it-turns-out-alcoholic friend generated a Class 3 Cringe-field. But she left early, apologising, leaving a £16 tip and paying the entire table's bill on her way out, so she's redeemed her reputation as far as I'm concerned!

We left at 1:15am, just as the band were starting their third 45-minute set. These guys (and by that stage, girl) had stamina. Head still reeling from salsa rhythms and decibels. Two terrible bus connections home made for a 45-minute longer journey than required. Meanwhile I'm cultivating a nice flu, that should have kept me home from work on both Thursday and Friday, if I hadn't had critical work to do. Guess we've no-one to blame but ourselves at this point, though. Still, with only one more Friday night in London, I've no regrets...