Terry Real

It is 1971, and journalist Raoul Duke barrels toward Las Vegas - accompanied by a trunkful of contraband and his slightly unhinged Samoan attorney, Dr. Gonzo - to cover a motorcycle race. What should be a cut-and-dried journalistic assignment quickly descends into a feverish psychedelic odyssey. Director Terry Gilliam and an all-star cast headlined by Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro show no mercy in bringing Hunter S. Thompson’s excoriating dissection of the American way of life to the screen, creating a film both hilarious and savage.

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Pitting the imagination of common man Sam Lowry (the brilliantly befuddled Jonathan Pryce) against the oppressive storm troopers of the Ministry of Information, Terry Gilliam’s Brazil has come to be regarded as an anti-totalitarianism cautionary tale equal to the works of George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Gathering footage from both the European and American versions of this masterpiece, Gilliam has assembled the ultimate, 142-minute director’s cut of his most celebrated film.

The Baseline is the centre of the East London grime club scene and the queue regularly stretches around the block. Danny works on the door – breaking up fights and managing drunk kids. However, when he rescues Terry, the club owner and local gang leader, from a hitman, Danny is suddenly plunged deep into an underworld he had tried so hard to avoid. Danny is promoted to manager, but only on the condition that he turns a blind eye to the shady goings on both on and off the dance-floor. Danny and his girlfriend Jessica dream of setting up their own club, but Danny is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice when he has to choose between loyalty, morality and his own dreams of escape.

A Real Golden Age of Jazz
Mention of a so-called “golden age” is nothing new in the arts. As a creed it says, in brief, that at some time in the remembered recent past things seemed good, even better in every way than they are now. It satisfies the longing that seems to live in every breast, for a simpler time when basic rules were clear and everybody worked comfortably within them. Imagine, a Wednesday afternoon call at the 802 union floor, with Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster or Illinois Jacquet among the available tenor players. No stars, these, at least not to bandleaders. Just guys available to do gigs, needing the money — some things, naturally, never change — and happy for the work. Now all three are gone. But that was New York in the late ’50s, in every important respect a golden age, when just about everyone was available, and could be hired with a phone call. Performers were at their best, audiences numerous and avid, for what they did, with money to be earned. Opportunities to record, additionally, came up frequently, with producers who invariably understood their music and allowed them lots of leeway, muscle room, for stretching

A Real Golden Age of Jazz
Mention of a so-called “golden age” is nothing new in the arts. As a creed it says, in brief, that at some time in the remembered recent past things seemed good, even better in every way than they are now. It satisfies the longing that seems to live in every breast, for a simpler time when basic rules were clear and everybody worked comfortably within them. Imagine, a Wednesday afternoon call at the 802 union floor, with Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster or Illinois Jacquet among the available tenor players. No stars, these, at least not to bandleaders. Just guys available to do gigs, needing the money — some things, naturally, never change — and happy for the work. Now all three are gone. But that was New York in the late ’50s, in every important respect a golden age, when just about everyone was available, and could be hired with a phone call. Performers were at their best, audiences numerous and avid, for what they did, with money to be earned. Opportunities to record, additionally, came up frequently, with producers who invariably understood their music and allowed them lots of leeway, muscle room, for stretching

consists of Lightnin' Hopkins solo, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee together, and then all 3 jamming together, along with Big Joe Williams. Lightnin' tells stories to the responsive crowd and is in good form. Sonny and Brownie take you back to a real country feel -- the harp playing is wild.