The jazz trio was all soft angles and complexity. On a warm summer night they were what the doctor would prescribe. One out-of-state visiting jazz fan had walked to the club from his downtown hotel. He loves jazz. Loves the urban life but lives in a rural part of the world in a house that’s paid up. He’s surrounded by people who hunt, fish, and listen to country music in their trucks. He’s single and works for a large company with headquarters here. “I’m at a crossroads in my life,” he said. I don’t know man, as The Doorman my advice is to turn left or right, since moving straight ahead will mean more of the same. He nodded his head while deep in thought, no doubt wrestling with the demons of uncertainty. Others arrived. A mature-ish couple were at the bar, clearly at the earlier stages of their relationship. At one point I glanced over and saw the woman’s nylon-sheathed leg stretched over his lap. They were deep in a discussion that I surmised was about the benefits of bonds vs. stocks in troubling economic times—but, I could be wrong. As the night approached closing time, the club had thinned to less than a handful. The trio continued to play their hearts out. A jazz singer walked in. He is the ultimate jazzman with beret, coolness, and swagger. He was called up to sing for one last song, which became three songs. These were the three best songs of the night. I realized that the jazzman has magic in him. He enjoys what he does and through example or sub-text encouragement gets the musicians he sings with to play harder and better. The shaman of jazz.
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