Top Shelf Jazz

"AB MUTULO SUMMO""TopShelfJazz: An Apocryphal Biography of Mr. Arthur Foxaque “The Caustic Crooner”, Singer & Gentleman Socialite with a band." As an honest tax-payer, Foxaque was obliged to sign up to the great war in 1916 becoming a commissioned officer. For the most part he managed to avoid combat as he was signed up to a reservist artillery regiment. but during the German offensive of 1918, his position was over-run receiving a bayonette wound in the process. Foxaque only survived after he was stretchered off during a successful and quickly organised counter attack. He recovered miraculously from his wounds just after Armistice Day. But never shook off the morphine addiction and remained an opium fiend. Not being of use at anything much, the army was the best place for him. So he was delighted to be posted in India in 1920 at the regional Army HQ in Peshawar. Having set out on one particular operation from Peshawar in May 1921, the recently promoted 1st Lieutenant Foxaque was put in charge of a company of light infantry and sent in the direction of Jelalabad on an extended patrol of the frontier to gather any intelligence and watch for smugglers and whatnot. Foxaque thought, on the side, to also broker a deal with some local Pashtun tribesmen. They’d loaded donkeys with boxes of poorly made Italian carbines and some rum (though they forgot to supply the ammunition). All this was in preparation for an exchange in order to procure some precious opium. Foxaque had is eye on a get rich quick scheme. They toiled through the baking heat of dusty valleys and canyons until they finally decamped on the tribal boarders. They waited for the local chieftain and his entourage to arrive. This involved 2 days of heavy drinking and vile hangovers as they cooked under their canvas tents in a vein bid to avoid the sweltering mountain sun. The officers’ garb of parade dress and collars was particularly impractical and a sniper’s dream but he had obliged himself, thinking it would impress the wild and savage natives. The Chieftain finally showed with his troop of hardy mountain warriors. Foxaque secretly suspected the tribesmen had been watching them all this time while they had been suffering under the local conditions… The deal was struck, the goods exchanged and a ceremonial feast of local dishes (what little of it could be described as such) was indulged in the officer’s tent. Foxaque broke out the rum. The chieftain and his men, having only really heard of wine and ale, hadn’t the foggiest what this strong, vaporous drink was and quite enjoyed it. There was much singing and exchanges of handshakes. As the celebrations were getting into full swing, Foxaque nipped out to relieve himself. Quite forgetting his fatigue and dehydration, he busily collapsed in a nearby ditch unseen in the quickly gathering darkness. At this interjection, things began to take a turn for the worse… It was spotted by the chieftain, that the local guides and translator weren’t enjoying the exotic drink Foxaque had so generously handed round. Upon enquiry, the Chieftain’s religious sensibilities became so enraged (partially due to the nature of the strong drink and their religious customs that forbade alcohol) that swords were drawn immediately. As the wild-eyed tribesmen cut their way out of the tent, killing the guards in the process, they made for their own guardsmen, who were dutifully waiting for orders. It didn’t take long. A full fire fight ensued; many men were killed as the Pashtun chief made off with his boxes of carbines, leaving the opium behind in the confusion. The British infantry gave chase immediately, thinking that one of the tribesmen (who was wearing Foxaque’s stolen parade uniform as a trophy) was indeed Foxaque taken prisoner. They were never seen again… Foxaque awoke with a start in the blinding rays of first light, bewildered, quite worse for ware and flippant in his unconcern for his missing infantrymen or the ruined camp around him, he took charge of the donkeys laden with his prize and slowly stumbled back to safe territory and civilization. Having finally arrived at Peshawar Army HQ in June, Foxaque busily concocted a fantastic story of sacrifice and bravery regarding the interception of smugglers, pitched battle, victory and the bitter struggle for survival on the return journey. He sold some of his opium to the C.O. and the local governor for a tidy sum of cash and the turning of a blind eye to any official enquiry that might reach those parts and Foxaque made his merry way to Lahore. Suited and booted with a small guard of soldiers lent to him ensuring the safe passage of his precious charge. With the bartering power of his new acquisition, he brought his way out of military service, and into high society. However, rumours of a British detachment having been slaughtered in a drunken altercation with warrior tribesmen abounded and persisted and made their way into the social circles of the British Raj. When Foxaque caught wind of this some 2 years after the event he quickly brought a ticket for a steamer to Southampton and disappeared. It is known that he started performing on stage having put together a band with various comings and goings of musicians in every conceivable combination (known as Top Shelf Jazz) in smoky clubs and bars singing those racy old jazz numbers and living in the gutter, drinking rum and chasing showgirls, not seen in polite society again until becoming a jazz crooner during the 1930's era. Upon visiting gay Paris, Foxaque was enchanted by the great Josephine Baker, who became a muse and inspiration, though she rejected all of his marriage proposals.... ....here's a song Foxaque wrote about her.... ...the band were and remain, popular in France... ...whilst touring Berlin in the late 20's, Marlene Dietrich offered to manage Foxaque's band until film opportunities caused her to make a more sensible career choice... ...in the US, they started with a very small, but obsessed fan base... ...culminating at a high point in America, where even local hero, Harold Lloyd, was almost trampled by enthusiastic Top Shelf fans who wished to display their modest indifference to their British jazz heroes... Finally gaining respectability, he swiftly became a cult underground figure on the British and Continental dancehall & cabaret circuits until WWII. He plagiarised many great tunes and butchered every popular style from New Orleans & Charleston to Swing & Gypsy Jazz. It is documented that (mainly due to his own drunken stupidity) Foxaque died in a bombing raid during Nov 1941 when he returned to rescue his guitar from the concert hall. Some individuals uncharitably conjecture that he delayed in the venue to polish off all the beverages left standing whilst the guests evacuated to the air raid shelters. No death certificate can be found in public records. However, his death was mentioned in a number of press publications. One particular example of a local article read:"Crooner Killed in Bombing Raid, November 1941. Arthur Foxaque was the only fatality as he was caught in the blasts last week after he went back to rescue his guitar from the local Dance-Hall. His body was found after the all clear at 2am 2nd November. Flying debris and bricks are thought to have caused a fatal skull injury that killed him instantly."It was accepted as fact. No one stopped to ask. Although, oddly, no one knew or heard of any funeral… But Foxaque has resurfaced on the music scene some 60 years later. Rumours and theories abound as to who he might be and how it came about. But not one theory can fully explain his presence.So Foxaque returns… He’s picked up a band. And here he is, back from the dark abyss, returned from the shadows of the underworld, crossed back over the Styx to the realm of the living, doing what he did best before he was rudely interrupted by the epic upheavals in 1940’s Europe. Foxaque's misadventures and unintentional successes, past and present, can be perused in Foxaque's Journal wherein Foxaque muses upon foggy memories and oblique observations of the baffling world he now shares with the rest of us.