Guitar quartet tonight. Played mostly original songs, which is always nice to hear. At their first break, I signaled the tenor to step outside and bring his horn. I wanted to photograph him in front of the club’s neon. I posed him with attitude in the neon’s red wash. I took several shots with my iPhone 4, but kept getting light flare in most shots. A couple out for a smoke saw my struggle and offered unsolicited advice. Then they said, “We know you – we remarked to each other, when we first arrived, that we know you from somewhere.” Unlikely, I said. I’m just The Doorman—new to the area—new identity—plastic surgery to the face—a past I’ll deny and won’t discuss. My delivery was dead serious, steady tone of voice. I put the kibosh on the who I am, what I’ve done, where I come from. When I’m in the hallowed jazz club, I AM The Doorman—nothing more, nothing less.
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