A pleasant Spring Friday night. Two categories of jazz lovers dominated the club this night. Couples out on “date night” and lone wolves. At one point there were nine lone men and four couples. I looked over at the backside of the bar-island and a guy occupied every stool. They had the appearance of a police line up—a melancholy-looking series of guys emanating the sense that life had given them the shakedown. And just like every police line up there’s the ringer—the one they want to pin the rap on or the one just to keep the proceeding clean. In our line up, the ringer had a scruffy beard and long hair. (“She said the perp had long-hair and a wooly beard” or “She said the perp was clean-shaven, sort of Clark Kent-looking.”) In reality, I’m guessing it was just an odd conflux of happenstance. The lone guys most likely all found themselves with a free Friday night and an itch to hear some good, live jazz—which the guitar-lead quartet certainly provided. I could see them saying to themselves, “Ef-it, no one’s free and those that are don’t like jazz, so I’ll go by myself.” The Doorman has done that himself on more than one occasion. There is something freeing about being out alone, answering to no one, not worrying about whether it’s your turn to buy a round, or are you paying sufficient attention to your companion… yes, I salute the lone wolves who filled the jazz club. Good for you!
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