I phoned a guy called Frank Brown who ran the Westfield Club in Cottingham, in the leafy suburbs of the city. By our standards, it was top of the range.... 'Frank. Can you do me a favour? Joe Harriott's in town and needs a blow. Can I bring him down?'... Joe played a set with the house band, a trio of musicians who, to their surprise and delight, found themselves backing a legend... Joe played sweet music: a couple of bossa novas, as promised, plus a few standards. He played, as always, like a fallen angel. And he was totally ignored. The only people who applauded were the band and a small group of us standing at the bar. Musically speaking, it was one of the bleakest evenings of my life. << less