Benoit Viellefon and his Hot Club • Paris 19:36 – London 20:16

As a pianist, I’m drawn to any album which puts the storehouse center stage. It’s rare that I’ll get excited about a Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, or Tommy Dorsey disc when raiding charity shop record bins—a hobby I very much hope to resume soon—but I’ll pounce on anything which flashes me that eighty-eight-toothed, black-and-white smile; some of my most-played records include those by Joe “Fingers” Carr, Nat King Cole, and Jelly Roll Morton. But there’s one eight-fingered string-slinger whose vinyls always catch my eye; a virtuoso of their belly fiddle who will always have a place on my record shelf. Of course, I’m talking about Django Reinhardt. Perhaps it’s the fact that my old Uncle Joe—whose excellent musical tastes were the crucible of my own—is a huge Django fan. Maybe it’s the timeless, effortlessly loveable, laid-back sound of French hot jazz. Either way, Django gets a seat at my top table alongside musicians wielding way more strings. So I’m a very eager (if slightly late) arrival at the “Chateau de Viellefon,” proprietor one Benoit Viellefon, another jazz guitarist who could almost be mistaken for his late compatriot’s ghost (in look and sound). Hailing from Paris, Benoit is now a staple of the London jazz scene. As well as strumming around 100 gigs a year—including regular Sunday night slots at Ronnie Scott’s—he and his