By Jason Pierce-Williams

When I think of Prague I see a chocolate St Sebastian on a wedding cake. But that executioner in the foreground is not reloading a crossbow, he’s putting new film into his Canon Eos. I see the poor bastard punctured not by bolts but a trillion darts of auto-programmed infra-red. But like any happy hooker, he’s young and needs the money.

And the analogy is nowhere more evident than on the Charles Bridge - or Karlovy Must - punctuated as it is by large, black statues of various saints and sinners which perch on the stone walls on either side of the heaving causeway.

And Prague’s clients are legion; they flow like one river over another to the accompaniment of motorwinds, shutter-releases, expansive eulogies on high-art and low-cost and – thank God – Jazz.

They’re a motley crew, the younger members bearing pusses of such acidity you might think they’d been press-ganged into the whole enterprise, while the more seasoned mob are quite obviously understudies for the commanders in Das Boot – final episode.

There are several of these gangs knocking about and they clearly borrow members from one another, but a typical line up will be double-bass, clarinet, banjo, trumpet and washboard, all topped off with a vocal, amplified by nothing less than an ancient, brass megaphone.

As for the music, the noticeable absence of trombone, along with the very particular, softening acoustics of (I suppose) long, stone bridges over wide, slow rivers, lends a peculiar presence and levity to the sound which seems to compliment the light-heartedness of the performances themselves. But this is in no way suggests a lack of energy, for this is very authentic, very competent jazz indeed. Tight, controlled, uncluttered; it skips and shuffles its way through all your favourites as unhurriedly and comfortably as the broad Vlatva, bubbling away a few feet below.

There are, of course, one or two gangs which should be described more as an ‘act’, really, what with the make-up, rolling-eyes and that ‘ohmigodhereitcomes’ scat vocal designed to butcher any song ever written (I know, I know, I just couldn’t ever get my head round anyone opening their mouths to sing anything other than intelligible words – as far as I’m concerned the whole thing was a contingency for performers so stoned they couldn’t stand, let alone remember the lyrics). Nonetheless, if you’re ever in Prague and find yourself on Karlova st. drowning in leafleteers and Saga tour groups, head for the Karlovy Must, look for a grizzled old duffer in a Union cap, grey windcheater ,and brandishing a brass milk-jug, grab a seat under a statue, and enjoy.

Watch out for the cops though. You can’t miss them – all Dark-Star, armed to teeth stuff. But like most authorities which have had their nails somewhat clipped, they’re after any excuse to throw their weight about – so they’ll sling you off – either that or they just want the spot for themselves!