A comfortable
crowd is filling the place tonight. No rancor, rabble rousing, or rats. The
door is easy. Folks pay and join in. Then I had a group of two couples present
themselves at the door, and ask what kind of music we have. “Live jazz,” I say
to their blank faces. The band is deep into trading solos about mid way in
their version of Thelonious Monk’s Blue Monk and it’s clear they don’t get it. They
decide the $5 cover is too steep and quickly turn to flit away, fearing I guess
that I’ll try to pick their pockets or snatch their purses. If they had shown
any remote interest in jazz or live music or the club, I would have invited
them in, complimentary. But they have a suburban attitude, expecting to be
entertained by reefer-smoking musicians and black turtleneck wearing patrons
with black berets as they observe from their safely-ensconced monorail car.
“BOO!” I shout and cackle loudly as they scurry off to their silver Toyota
Camry.
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