It is a jazz lounge night—piano and vocals. The duo is good; but shouldn't I be eating a meal or carrying on an intimate conversation while sipping a martini, red wine, or cognac? Our big-sound club venue doesn’t seem right. When they play—and they play quite well—I yearn for a stand-up bass and maybe a horn. Previously there’s been an alto angel in the audience to judiciously toot on a couple of songs. It has helped. Tonight a conga player was asked to play his tumbadoras. During a break he retrieved his drums from his car. They sat on the stage with him back at the bar. The duet played a couple more songs that could have benefited from the conga. It was torture to see the pair of drums gleaming in the stage light but no one playing. Finally the conguero was called up and masterfully thumped a rhythm that blended beautifully with the song. The club was packed so when he finished, there was thunderous applause (much like in the past when a sax player stood in). He was allowed just one song, even though the crowd would have enjoyed more. Frustrated like everyone else I watched another scenario of frustration unfold. A young couple had entered the bar and sat at the bar. The young woman’s face was illuminated… not by romantic candlelight or the flush of love. She literally spent the entire time they were in the club intently gazing… not into the eyes of her companion but into the enthralling glow of her smart phone. The poor chump could not compete with the seduction of her text messages.