The jazz club is not the venue for the haughty, pushy, or rude. Yet, tonight there was a difficult-to-pin-down undercurrent of that going on. It started with a pair of customers seated at the bar who claimed to be “regulars,” although I don’t recall ever meeting them at the door. With an air of misplaced confidence, they talked about the previous bartender and door man as though they have rights to the club. The bad karma continued when an older jazzman pushed his way in using his horn case as a battering ram aimed at my crotch. I was about to tell him quite sternly that The Doorman can not be violated, when he spotted the owner who invited him in—no cover charge. There are many—if not most—musicians who gladly pay, understanding that the cover supports live music. This musician was of the lowest order—not only expecting a free ride, but anticipating that he’ll be invited up to join the group. After dropping hints to the band leader, he was told there may be an opportunity later. Mr. Pushy said he’s in town from New York and can’t stick around that long. To which the band leader said, “Too bad, guess we’ll see you around.” The old jazz guy adjusted his dark glasses and grabbed his coat and left. Good riddance. Then, within a song or two later, another pair of musicians were at my door and were surprised that I insisted on cover charges. One of them fanned through his fat wallet, pulled out a ten, and then said “Looks like we won’t have an opportunity to play tonight,” re-inserted it into the wad, before turning to leave. The club owner ran outside after them. She retrieved their sorry asses and brought them into the club. Oh well.
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