Review: Yard Flying Funk Orchestra

LeftBank, Friday 16 December

Like Christmas, it sometimes seems that the mighty Yard Flying Funk Orchestra appears but once a year, bringing mass happiness in its train. Or at least as much mass happiness as can be squeezed into (and out of) the cramped confines of a packed LeftBank bar on a Friday night. Obviously practical considerations mean that the band’s loose collective of some of the best-loved jazz musicians in Bristol is all-too rarely brought together by Pushy Doctors keyboard player Dan Moore. When they do assemble, however, it usually means a fine celebration of the highly dance-friendly jazz potential of great funk and soul music.

The gig was a late starter, largely because many of the players were coming over from other gigs across town, but once the nine-strong line-up was in the house it locked in almost immediately. This was pure pleasure music, powered along by the pairing of two kit drummers (Matt Jones and Matt Brown) with Guy Calhoun’s bass underpinning five brass players, and the night’s repertoire celebrated the sad losses 2016 had brought to the musical world. Thus we had a downright funky Sharon Jones’ What If We All Stopped Paying Taxes? followed by a gospel elegy reading of Prince’s Count The Days and a does-what-it-says-on-the-can Let’s Dance. Dan Moore’s church organ haunted the bitter-sweet Prince song, topped by a gentle flugelhorn payout from Gary Alesbrook, while the drums and bass let rip on the Bowie number until Jonny Bruce’s trumpet cut through and Craig Crofton blew it away on tenor sax. 

All three numbers featured Erik Okafo’s vocals, splendidly unhinged for the Sharon Jones groove-thrash and suitably sweet for Count The Days. There’s a rocky edge to his soulful style that recalled Joe Cocker and, sure enough, a cover of the man’s Delta Lady brought that out a treat helped by a thumping brass arrangement and a clever guitar solo from Neil Smith that quoted Cocker’s other rock hit Little Help From My Friends. There was a more obscure cover, too, in Let A Woman Be A Woman from 60s funk pioneers Dyke & The Blazers given a stripped-back arrangement that emphasised the rolling bass and vocals.

Given the almost impromptu nature of the band it would have been forgivable if they had relied on straightforward grooving and fancy solo work – they certainly had the chops for it – but each number had a mood and arrangement that both took from the source material and fleshed it out in their own style. This reflected well on the bandleader, overshadowed as he was in trademark cowboy hat, leaping up from his seat at the keyboards to count in the changes. The result had the perfectly funky floor-scuffed combination of musical precision and rough-edged informality that well earned the appreciation of a rammed and dancing audience intent on wringing the last drop out of the occasion.