Doorman's Diary 1.10-11.12

The cool dual played tonight. The old piano player and the quirky singer. The keyboard guy has been playing jazz clubs for a good 40 years or so and always with a soulful, top-notch female vocalist. I call the singer quirky because her goofy personality comes out in full bloom between songs and sometimes when she squeezes out an extra note or two confirming her incredible range that starts from a low earthquake growl and reaches an octave or two beyond Minnie Mouse. One could get the impression that she just doesn't take life that seriously, even though her singing is seriously good. She takes full control of the club when she belts out Dr. Feel Good or God Bless the Child (the Billie Holiday song she, thankfully, sang twice--once at the bequest of a drunk patron, and the second time clearly in the flow of her regular program). At one point, she invited her husband up to join her in a duet of "Unforgettable." He has a voice that would make Al Jarreau hang it up and submit an application to work at the car wash. Together they were honey and whiskey stirred smoothly into fresh-brewed coffee--hot toddy, for sure. And all through the songs was the competent key-tingling of proper-pappa-pianist--elegantly exquisite! The performance was so engaging I almost found myself getting irritated with the patrons entering the club--fortunately my inner Doorman caught me before I blurted, "Come on buster, it's pay or pass!" As the night wound down, and I was relishing my off-the-clock cognac, I got chatting with an interesting-looking couple who were bemoaning the economic gutter that has become the new norm in America. "You must be self-employed," I said to the artsy-looking woman who is accompanied by the equally artsy-looking man.  "We are," she said. "We're both artists." She then explained that they are in the process of buying a new home--a foreclosure--located on a several-block stretch of one of the most forgettable streets in the city. She was apologetic about the location, sensing that it doesn't match their artistic personas. My advice as The Doorman: "Don't fret it--you two will make it into a hidden-away oasis of cool." Just like the very cool jazz club we're all in tonight, I thought loud enough for her to hear. She nodded in agreement. 

Poetry Cream

Ralph Murre, proprietor of Little Eagle Press located in Wisconsin's Door County, is publishing a sort of "best of" poetry presented in an attractive online format that offers re-runs of previously published outstanding and accessible poetry. Each poem has an illustration or photo provided by the poet or Murre himself. Murre is an incredible and accomplished line-drawing artist (as evidenced by the artwork brightening this entry). RE / VERSE is a blog publication, which means new additions are posted when available after Murre's critical editorial review. The nine poems, which are posted thus far, are earthy, sensual, and.... at times titillating, which may make some titter and blush. I like the fact that thematically the poems flow comfortably from one to another—as though they appear in a well-edited anthology. The literary critic in me hopes that Murre holds the course and continues to add poems that can co-exist with the outstanding collection he's assembled so far.

The Doorman’s Diary: 2.4-5.12

Hope comes in many shapes. It may be Spring’s first crocuses. An uptick in the Dow Jones. A comatose patient’s flutter of eyelids. For me, The Doorman, hope came to the door in the shape of two young earnest-looking men—one white, one black—friends. They nervously asked if there was live jazz tonight while soaking in the club from top to bottom, left to right. I said the music starts in 30 minutes and there’s a five-dollar cover. I then asked, “How old are you guys?” They stuttered out, “18, sir.” Their honesty combined with a curiosity to hear live jazz made me want to break the law. I almost said, “See the high-top table in the back right next to the exit? Go outside, circle around the building, enter through the back door, sit at the table, and order two Cokes—Diet if you must. Any sign of a uniformed or undercover cop and I want you to bolt out the door and run like mad.” Instead, I said, “I can’t let you in here until you’re 21.” They bowed their heads in disappointment and were heading out the door, when I stopped them. “Listen,” I commanded, “look me in the eyes and promise me that in three years you’ll drag your sorry butts back here, because you deserve to be here.” They responded, “Oh, we will… definitely!” I couldn’t help but remember that when I turned 18 the drinking law had dropped a few months earlier to my age. I remember dragging friends to a jazz club I had discovered with the intent of impressing. In the process of showing off, I had unexpectedly learned to truly appreciate jazz. So, where’s the hope in all of this? It gives me hope that there are at least two 18-year-old guys out there with an interest in jazz. I hope they get fake IDs that could “fool me”—they need to be here. For the future of jazz, they belong in the club.

The Doorman’s Diary: 2.3-4.12

From one of the city’s ex-burbs they had traveled specifically to the jazz club… a couple celebrating the husband’s 49^th birthday. When I learned of the special day, I discreetly passed back his cover charge and wished him many more. A small token that will reverberate beyond this couple and their special night. There was only one other give-back this night. A man entered, reluctantly paid the cover, stood and watched the band play a couple of numbers, and then headed to the door. I caught him before he exited and gave him his five bucks, while saying… “It’s only fair… hope you’ll give us another try some other time.” Meanwhile the band was cooking on their version of Eddie Harris’ “Cold Duck Time,” which was the flip side of the 1969 45 rpm single, “Compared to What” that was recorded with Les McCann. It sounded great. The club was full and the crowd was younger, making the almost half-century birthday boy an elder statesman. The band’s second set kept everyone Krazy-Glued to their seats. They did an electrifying version of Freddie Hubbard’s “Super Blue,” followed by a bass driven version of Miles Davis’ “All Blues,” in which the bass player growled and scatted through his solo. The crowd kept coming, with a full 15 others filtering in during the quartet’s final half-hour of play while I was off the clock and seated comfortably at the bar with a glass of Cabernet. Clearly, we could have remained in the Second Set Bubble for easily another hour with no complaints from the jazz-lovers filling every seat in the club.

A Painter's Melancholy Voice

Philip Carlton is an old soul trapped in a barely 20-something-year-old body. The St. Paul, Minnesota painter is a Coe College (Cedar Rapids, Iowa) art program graduate. He’s been painting long enough to have established his voice. Through his art, he speaks of being starkly human. His paintings define the word lugubrious: mournful; dark, dramatic, brooding. Carlton’s portraits, nudes, and “cartoon” figures are serious-looking, urban, and aggressive. Their beauty is in the sense of discomfort they create.

Here’s what he says in his Artist Statement: “The human form is inherently beautiful. When I paint, I meditate on that beauty through the two-part process of observation and presentation. I feel that observation, if perfected over years of careful practice, should lead an artist to experience their subject in a very plain and exacting fashion. When I observe something, I strive to leave my mind void of any misinterpretations or inventions. In its perfected state, my observation is precise and mechanical; it is rule bound.

“However, when I finally take brush to canvas and endeavor to present my vision of a chosen subject, my observation does not strictly govern my brushstrokes. In 2007 I began a project wherein I used multi-colored stage lighting to illuminate my models. This project set my work on a path that diverged from observed reality. The absolute freedom to manipulate existing color – or to explore new, arbitrary color schemes – is the foundation of my work. My subjects are often secondary to their presentation.

“Later in 2007, I stepped away from human models and painted, for the first time, action figures – toys – as though they were human. These figurines were a refreshingly new subject. They held many of the inherent beauties of the human form, as well as their own unique and unexplored qualities. In addition to being a deeply satisfying subject to paint, they appealed to a much broader demographic than my traditional figurative nudes did. I now paint both humans and humanoid forms: figures and figurines.

“When I create a painting, I strive for perfection. However, when a mirror-like rendition of reality is no longer the goal, perfection becomes a malleable concept. I like to think of each painting I create as a study in color and light that results in an image that is more sublime than the last. It is a process of trial and error: every painting is a thesis in beauty that will inevitably be disproved by the painting that follows it.”

Visit Philip Carlton’s website or see his latest show, “Blatant Abuse of Artistic License," at Echo Arts, 275 East 4th Street, Suite B200, Saint Paul, MN 55101. The gallery is open Friday and Saturday evenings.

Doorman's Diary 1.28-29.12

The bass player growls. When he plays his stand-up, he scats with the notes. Very jazzy. Quintessential. His playing perfectly matched the 82-year-old jazz guy sitting at the bar wearing a black beret and sipping Cabernet. With his handsome, lined face, the old jazz dude could be the poster-child for the club. Jazz does soften hard edges. As The Doorman, I see the difference between the faces of people when they walk in and when they leave. The cynic would say: "Yep, that's what alcohol does." But, the jazz club clientele is not of the drink 'till you sink ilk. The music is the magic. Harsh street faces soften and worry lines are Botoxed away with a little Sonny, Miles, and Monk. Case in point: A pleasant-looking woman had entered the club and joined two other middle-aged friends. She joined her friends late and left them early - sure sign of an active, involved person... my kind, one of my peeps. As she left, I said: "Leaving us early..." Her softened jazz face changed back to the intensity of her life as she exited while saying, "Yes, I've got commitments." I thought, yes... commitments.

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.27-28.12

We had a jazz quartet tonight that I had been looking forward to hearing. Jazz guitar, drums, Hammond organ, and tenor sax. No bass. I’m accustomed to seeing a big-honking stand-up on the stage and holding the beat with its heavy-raindrop plumping sound. But it wasn’t missed. The group sounded great. I complimented the guitarist leader during a break, telling him that he’s the “epitome of cool.” He was taken aback a bit and said, “I’ve been called a lot of things, but ‘cool’ has never been among them. In fact, when I was younger, I was the kid getting the wedgie.” I said, “Your y-front is safe here, because you’re definitely cool.” The crowd tonight was modest sized. Among them was a lone wolf who sniffed out the one lone woman in the club. He was a friendly, mostly earnest, chatty guy who seemed to really like the club and the music. By the end of the night, he was very close to being irritating. There was another couple—not the wolf and wolfette I’ve been describing—that were seated in one of the three known Vortexes of Love in the club. The Vortexes of Love are cosmic anomalies where couples who are seated in them are pheromonal-driven to engage in PDA (public display of affection). There are three locations in the club where the magic occurs. This couple was seated in the weakest of the three locations, which is weaker by virtue of the fact that it encompasses a greater span than the other two locations, which are clearly two-seat concentrated vortexes. At some point, with greater observation, it may become clear if we have two overlapping vortexes or maybe it’s a zone. I’ll keep you posted. But for this night, when an out-of-town sit-in tenor was engaged in a Kansas City-style “dual to death” blow off with the quartet’s tenor, their frenetic saxophone interchange became the sound track for the Vortex couple’s passionate eating-face PDA.