RUTH AYLETT admires the blunt honesty with which a woman’s experience is recorded, but detects the unexamined privilege that underlies it
‘The day jazz washed away the dust of everyday life*’
CHRIS SEARLE pops into his local for some serendipitous jazz goings-on

IN THE upstairs room in my local pub just up the road — The County Arms in Highams Park, east London — Sunday evenings are jazz feasts.
There is always a guest musician of renown, a local accompanying trio of bass, drums and keyboards, followed by a chance for local musicians, young and old, to share the stage with the guest, and gain invaluable confidence from the encounter.
Last week it was the great veteran Glaswegian guitarist, Jim Mullen, who played an opening set including beautifully sharp ballads like I’ll Close My Eyes, I Can’t Get Started and Angel Eyes, with bop classics like Clifford Brown’s Sandu and Wes Montgomery’s Road Song.
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