Miguel

Sure, you could call it cerebral jazz - if you’re using the part of your brain reserved for paperback pulp fiction fantasy where Shirley Temple serves cocktails to Tito Puente in a maraschino-cherry poppin’ jazz joint by a hot lazy ocean.
And if you’re thinking a blindingly bright Miami Beach circa 1950’s, where swingin’ bikinis cha cha cha with swizzle stick-em up good time dance tunes, then you’re driving down the right highway. So much the better if you happen to pick up a kerbside kicking Elmore Leonard.
If you pull over your Tbird for a martini in an ultra outré lounge, where a four piece brass cartel backed up by a damn hot rhythm section are playing sparkling, sleazy dirty blue-light jazz to small tables of single strangers, well, you’re in our neighbourhood and we’d ask that you send us a picture postcard.
Sexier than gold lamé, hotter than LA in August, and almost as good as the second highball. It’s MIGUEL the fabulous eight-piece sensation!!