Electric Daybook

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.27-28.12

2012-01-28T12:14:00.000-06:00

We had a jazz quartet tonight that I had been looking forward to hearing. Jazz guitar, drums, Hammond organ, and tenor sax. No bass. I’m accustomed to seeing a big-honking stand-up on the stage and holding the beat with its heavy-raindrop sound. But it wasn’t missed. The group sounded great. I complimented the guitarist leader during a break, telling him that he’s the “epitome of cool.” He was taken aback a bit and said, “I’ve been called a lot of things, but ‘cool’ has never been among them. In fact, when I was younger, I was the kid getting the wedgie.” I said, “Your y-front is safe here, because you’re definitely cool.” The crowd tonight was modest sized. Among them was a lone wolf who sniffed out the one lone woman in the club. He was a friendly, mostly earnest, chatty guy who seemed to really like the club and the music. By the end of the night, he was very close to being irritating. There was another couple—not the wolf and wolfette I’ve been describing—that were seated in one of the three known Vortexes of Love in the club. The Vortexes of Love are cosmic anomalies where couples who are seated in them are pheromonal-driven to engage in PDA (public display of affection). There are three locations in the club where the magic occurs. This couple was seated in the weakest of the three locations, which is weaker by virtue of the fact that it encompasses a greater span than the other two locations, which are clearly two-seat concentrated vortexes. At some point, with greater observation, it may become clear if we have two overlapping vortexes or maybe it’s a zone. I’ll keep you posted. But for this night, when an out-of-town sit-in tenor was engaged in a Kansas City-style “dual to death” blow off with the quartet’s tenor, their frenetic saxophone interchange became the sound track for the Vortex couple’s passionate eating-face PDA.

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.21-22.12

2012-01-22T14:44:00.001-06:00

The full-house crowd tonight brought to mind a famous, super-short Ezra Pound poem:

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

The flow of people into the jazz club was apparitional. It was a blur of faces that all melted together into soft-edge petals. They all seem pleasant and good looking. As The Doorman, I am learning how to read people. A woman tonight reaffirmed something I’ve discovered: people receive so little positive feedback. We tromp around in the world doing our best, but rarely receive an attaboy or attagirl. As The Doorman, I try to find the balance or pivot point between a compliment and creepy. It’s difficult since there’s only so much room within the context of my relation to customers entering the jazz club. We had a woman clearly in the 30’s to 40’s age bracket. When she saw me there ready to screen and collect covers, she said: “Oh! You’re not checking IDs – I think if you asked to see mine, I’d probably kiss you!” My response: “I’m not fishing for a kiss, but you do look awfully young, so yes…I need to see your ID.” She knew that I knew differently, but in these 15 seconds I reaffirmed what she hopes… that she looks younger than she really is. As I gave her driver’s license back, I sealed the deal by saying: “Nice fake ID—be careful, not everyone will let you slide by like I did.”

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.20-21.12

2012-01-21T12:02:00.001-06:00

Cold and snow is predictable, yet when it happens there are many in our locale that adopt an Armageddon attitude. I guess they hunker down in their homes waiting for Christ to show up on a snowmobile hell bent (ooops, heaven bent?) to take on Satan for the final showdown. The club was slow. Among the hardy 15 or so who were enjoying the jazz quartet was a couple who had come to the club last weekend—a dark-haired guy and an attractive blonde. The young woman, while gently brushing her sunshine-color hair aside, said she thinks of jazz when the weather is cold. “Nothing better than being in a jazz club on a cold, snowy night,” she said. I said, I understand… it’s like listening to an original instruments, all string ensemble rendition of the Brandenburg Concertos on a rainy day. Her cute face puzzled and she responded, “I guess so.” I left her to ponder and returned to my post at the door. The mournful sound of the alto clearly defined the quartet’s version of Coltrane’s Equinox as I welcomed a couple of shivering, snow-wet guests. The young man in the pair is a singer, who was given an opportunity to sing a couple of songs with the band. He wore a retro-vintage white belt and matching white shoes, which was amusing. His voice, phrasing, and presentation needs polishing, but it was generous of the quartet to give him a shot. He’ll get there… in due time.

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.14-15.12

2012-01-15T19:21:00.001-06:00

On the bill tonight was an established local jazz guitar legend. His trio included a stand-up bass and drums. Celebrating his 79^th birthday, the guitarist laid down soulful melodies with his complex fingering on his hollow-body electric. Perhaps slower than in his youth, he still sounded damn good. The club filled comfortably and I, as The Doorman, enjoyed welcoming jazz appreciators in from the cold. Among the throng were a few familiar faces—two couples who show up with enough frequency to be remembered and “journal man,” a gentleman who sits at the bar and makes an entry into his journal while enjoying a couple of drinks and listening to the music. It’s been awhile since he was last here. There was also a single young woman who entered and tentatively sat at the end of the bar. Once comfortable, she appeared to be truly enjoying the music. It felt nice to know that our place is welcoming and comfortable for a lone person—female or male—to enjoy the live music and a few drinks without complication. As chance happens, a threesome entered the club and sat next to her. It was fun to see serendipity unfold before my eyes as the four of them seemed to become fast friends. The threesome was a couple and a third wheel guy, all about the same age as the lone lady. And yes the third wheel and the lone woman appeared to be getting along. If anything, the four of them had a good night listening to jazz and talking with each other. But one never knows how the power of jazz plays out, especially in the formation of new relationships.

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.13-14.12

2012-01-14T13:55:00.001-06:00

As I entered the club tonight, I heard the Al Kooper, Mike Bloomfield, Stephen Stills 1968 recording, Super Session, playing on the sound system. Tonight would be a blues night. As the blues band was setting things up, I talked with the guitarist who made the universal pointing-to-the-sky sign to indicate the music playing. “I love this album and listened to it all through college until a roommate traded it for a pizza… the f**ker.” I commiserated, since Super Session is one of my desert island picks (you’re stranded on a desert island for the rest of your life and can have only five albums). He went on to say, “I’m Jewish, so I really like Bloomfield since there aren’t many Jewish blues guitarists.” In addition to the Jewish guitar player (who sounded every bit as good as his hero, Mike Bloomfield), there was the band leader on drums, a Bigfoot-size bass player with a huge-ass (note: official technical term) 5-string electric bass, a wild and dramatically-energetic synthesizer keyboarder, and a piano keyboard player wearing a white shirt with a pattern of multi-color dollar signs screen-printed on it. We had a nice crowd that filled the club and included an ADD-hyper woman who when she wasn’t eating her boyfriend’s face would jump up and dance. I tried not to look at her because if my head was oriented anywhere in her direction, she would lock eyes and dance in front of me. I don’t know if she wanted me to dance with her or what – I am The Doorman, I do not dance. The madness peaked when the band did its blues version of the Stones’ Miss You and she with her anorexic skinny body and blues-beaten face did her best interpretation of Mick Jagger. With eyes squinted I could claim to say Mick was in our club.

2012-01-07T17:13:00.001-06:00

day’s end

the darkness

lets itself in

- JW, 1-7-12

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.6-7.12

2012-01-07T14:14:00.000-06:00

As we enter a new year, The Doorman has a renewed resolve to ensure the jazz club patrons are welcomed into the sacred space of jazz. There is magic in the performance and the music that more need to experience. Yet, I feel a responsibility as The Doorman to usher in the true believers and bar the obstinate. In the past, I believed in conversions… thinking if the reluctant would enter and experience a few songs that they would receive the holy beam of jazz belief. No more. The conversion rate is so small compared to the disruption of the mellow aura created in the club. My approach will be: “It’s a five dollar cover and if that’s not agreeable to you, I need to ask you to please step outside, since there are strict fire code regulations about keeping the entranceway clear.” Fortunately tonight, with the large crowd we had, there were no issues requiring my new vigor in doormanship. The crowd was terrific and brought a smile to my stoic phiz as I appreciated the power of jazz as an ethnic melting pot. In our nearly full club, we had a delightful mix of black, white, brown, and yellow…all seated within arm’s reach of each other. Our act tonight is a powerful female jazz singer accompanied by a legendary piano player. There were only a few songs they performed that begged for a bass or percussion to fill in apparent holes. On one memorable song, the singer’s brother jumped on stage and played his tenor. The reaction of the crowd showed that the saxman could have played more than one song with them. The club is clearly acoustically suited for horns. This is a great start to a new year.

The Doorman’s Diary: 1.5.12

2012-01-06T09:05:00.000-06:00

The jazz club was closed during the holidays. Being ever diligent, The Doorman used the time off to reflect on his craft and create a new set of resolutions for the year having accomplished the majority of the goals I had set for the past year. My 2011 resolutions, which were handwritten with a gold-nib Lamy fountain pen on a sheet of cotton-fiber ivory paper secured from Crane & Co., are gold-framed and hang prominently in my private quarters. Yes, The Doorman is "...among millions – from the eminent to the ordinary, from heads of state to heads of households, from European monarchs to Hollywood royalty - who have relied on the fine 100 percent cotton stationery made by Crane & Co. to help shape their place in history." Thus, 2011 professional proclamations have been replaced with slightly more rigorous 2012 resolutions—The Doorman is committed to improvement. To edify myself on my craft, I used my free time wisely. I read “Confessions from the Velvet Ropes: The glamorous and grueling life of Thomas Onorato, New York’s top club doorman,” which was a gracious gift from an admirer. Although Mr. Onorato caters to the jazzed-up Paris and Nicky Hilton “beautiful people,” I am more fortunate to be serving the truly beautiful jazz-lovers who visit the club where I am simply known as The Doorman. I am ready for 2012.

Gypsies, Shepherds, and Jazz Musicians

2011-12-21T19:28:00.002-06:00

Born in Transylvania, Sánta István Csaba moved to Budapest after high school to study photography. His black and white photos are studies of light and dark. They powerfully capture the lives of gypsies, shepherds, fisherman, and everyday people waiting for trains or the market to open or coping with deep Hungarian snow. There is a sense of lots of lost time in Csaba’s photos… a feeling of trapped despair. An interesting collection in his portfolio is of contemporary jazz greats that were shot during their European tours and during Csaba’s visit to New York City (He gets to brag that he “traveled 3000 km for a concert.”). Jazz greats that he’s captured include: Joe Zawinul, Chick Corea, Sonny Rollins, Victor Wooten, Bobby McFerrin, McCoy Tyner, Béla Flack, and Benny Golson. Earlier this year, Sánta István Csaba received awards from the Association of Hungarian Journalists and as an international photography contest winner that was presented in the Parliament of Hungary.

The Doorman’s Diary: 12.17-18.11

2011-12-18T17:58:00.000-06:00

What if you throw a party and no one shows? Well, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but the jazz club threw it’s annual holiday party but very few knew about it. There were no posters hung in the club. No reminder cards handed out to jazz fans as they left the club in the weeks leading up to the party. No announcements on the club’s website. Nothing. Zip. Nada. The build-it-and-they-will-come gamble didn’t quite work. We had a big table filled with delicious food. We had extra staffing. Those who came to the club enjoyed good cheer. I was feeling bummed that there were not more jazz friends here to enjoy the great live music and good food, when I learned the name of one of our customers. I think she is an elf. A young brunette woman who had stepped out for a smoke revealed her name, which reflects the spirit of the party and the season. Her name: Noel.

The Doorman’s Diary: 12.16-17.11

2011-12-17T16:21:00.002-06:00

As The Doorman at the jazz club I encounter the whole smorgasbord of humanity. Tonight a street person entered and I asked for the five-dollar cover. He reminded me of five things I’ve learned over the years about this fringe element. They:

Violate personal space.
Spray when they talk.
Smell.
Have bone-crushing handshakes.
Talk with the logic of an article appearing in The Watchtower—the Jehovah’s Witness magazine. They start off seemingly making sense and then suddenly veer off into an unrelated direction, fragmenting beyond comprehension.

After politely listening to his spiel, I got him out the door quickly and focused on the trio—drums, stand-up bass, and archtop electric guitar—that was playing tonight. The trio played a lot of original music and was very reminiscent of jazz guitarist Pat Metheny. There were no more than 35 customers over the night who settled in on this brisk night to enjoy the trio’s fluid, smooth delivery—an intimate smorgasbord of modern sound fused with traditional jazz.

The Doorman’s Diary: 12.10-11.11

2011-12-11T16:32:00.003-06:00

When I arrived at the jazz club, there was an early couple sitting across the bar enjoying cocktails. I overheard them say something to the bartender about having a babysitter for the night. Others filtered in so when I did my collection sweep for the $5 covers, before assuming my post at the door, I said to then: Did I overhear that you have a babysitter for the night? “Yes,” they responded and looked puzzled. In that case, I said, forget about the cover—I’ve been where you’re at and suspect you don’t have enough money or time, so maybe saving ten bucks will help. Shortly there after, a good friend showed up with his two young adult children and their spouses. We had met earlier for breakfast and I had convinced him to come hear Monk, Coltrane, Hubbard, Miles. As the quintet started and my friend settled in with a smile on his face, I looked at the bright faces of the young adults flanking him, I flashed back to breakfast and the response I got from the question I had posed to the equally young and bright-eyed waitress: What are you going to do with your life? "I want to be a photojournalist." She has a university degree, a mountain of loans to repay, and no career opportunities. “Most of the wait staff, bartenders, and kitchen help are in the same boat—in fact we have enough J-school grads here to start our own newspaper.” My friend’s children and their mates are similarly situated: college grads, in debt, with no clear paths. These 20-somethings comprise what I refer to as the Efed Generation and are at the bleeding edge of the next national financial collapse… tuition loan debt. I put in my request with the band, Play Blue Monk—but not an Oslo 1966 version—play it loud, play it hard, play it to save an entire generation.

2011-12-10T14:58:00.003-06:00

dark for hours --

someone somewhere

re-enacts his day

- JW, 12-10-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 12.9-10.11

2011-12-10T14:20:00.002-06:00

As The Doorman, it’s nice to encounter those for whom the jazz club is the right place at the right time. The cosmic angels smile. One such couple were at the bar. Initially they blew past me at the door. I set them straight, and once settled in… they were fine. The quartet is especially tight tonight with masterful renditions of Sonny Rollins’ St. Thomas and Softly As In A Morning Sunrise. I could tell they were jazz lovers and loving the band. It was well into the Freddie Hubbard tune Super Blue before I walked over a commented: You seem to be enjoying the music. The woman responded: “And you too – I see you nodding your head to the music.” Yes, I replied, this is my oasis from a week’s worth of cosmic calamity. “What?” she asked as the tenor released a lightning bolt wail. Chaos! I yelled. “Ahhh, chaos, I know it well,” she mused before slipping into the comfort of the descent out of Hubbard and into Coltrane

The Doorman’s Diary: 12.2-3.11

2011-12-03T12:48:00.000-06:00

The word-a-day calendar word has to be melancholy. When I arrived, the owner and bartender were busy hanging plastic garland with red bows on the suspended ceiling lights. Bah humbug. I noticed the bartender was out of sorts so I asked and he told me why. A good friend of his had attempted suicide. Yikes. Then a lone wolf sat at the bar and said that his wife of 28 years had died four days ago of brain cancer—she had been diagnosed a month earlier. Geezus. The oppressive, depressive gloom began to fill the club like The Orkin Man’s roach fog. I was hoping the jazz duo featured tonight could lift everyone’s spirits. No chance, bucko. The singer and pianist launched into a set of dirges about lost loves, stormy weather, and missed opportunities. The Billie Holliday song, God Bless the Child, was pretty much the theme until they launched into Send in the Clowns, which is probably my single-most despised song. What made the first set especially disconcerting was the bubbly banter between the songs. The singer is this likeable, upbeat, quirky-funny woman between a collection of songs that clearly fill the hooded-executioner’s iPod.

2011-11-30T00:26:00.000-06:00

wee hour

the last taxi

arrives

- JW, 11-30-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.26-27.11

2011-11-27T15:50:00.000-06:00

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is not in London that our scene lies), rattling along the warehousetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty light of the neon that struggled against the darkness. We huddled in the jazz joint not expecting much in terms of weary music lovers. An occasional light – like a beacon of hope would play against the wet pavement from a passing automobile. “Would they be slowing to stop in yee publick house for a spirit and a song,” was the question in this darkest of hours. The jazz singer was at the ready with her torch songs of yesteryear. The tender in tie and braces took care of glass care while the waitress in her tiny dress adjusted her mascara. We waited and waited when it suddenly became evident that a respectable-sized throng had thrung and were here to hear the Monk, Sonny, and Miles. With smiles aplenty the band kicked in and the songsheets were flipped and folded to select the best of swing, bebop, blues-jazz, and funk. The drums, piano keyboard, trumpet, and stand-up double bass created the ooh and aah, which whet the appetite while wet shoes, umbrellas, and wind-flung hair dried to debunk the dark and stormy night outside.

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.25-26.11

2011-11-26T10:52:00.004-06:00

A crisp autumn night. Hard to tell what the traffic will be at the jazz club but the bartender, trumpet player, and I wagered our guesses. I went with the accurate but noncommittal: Hard to tell...could go either way — dead or swamped...or in-between. I collected my starter wedge and positioned myself at the door for what ended up being an in-between traffic night. The band was well into Thelonious Monk’s “In Walked Bud,” when in walked a memorable couple. A tall, lanky dude with a hint of attitude and his kewpie doll lady. She was wearing a contraption that lifted and pushed her breasts together creating cleavage with enough depth to hide a fair-sized collection of Cracker Jack prizes. Even though the unseen blinking midway lights and pointing arrows directed me to look, I didn’t. I had also been advised to watch for a guest bass player who would join the quartet for a couple of songs. Well into the night, she showed up. She took over the regular bassist’s stand-up and ably played with the band. They were well into Duke Ellington’s “Satin Doll,” when it dawned on me how male dominated traditional jazz is. Sure, there are incredible female vocalists, but the musicians are almost always male. It was nice to see an accomplished woman playing jazz bass. Listening to her play, I celebrated women of all kind from the jazz bass player to the kewpie doll — and those in-between.

2011-11-24T12:14:00.000-06:00

bang at the door

a dark figure fills

the ripple glass

- JW, 11-19-11

Best Bird Artist

2011-11-21T09:57:00.000-06:00

As far as wildlife bird art goes, most will gravitate to Audubon, Owen Gromme, or even the national duck stamp artists. Not me. My favorite bird artist is Tom Stack, who ably captures the complex nature of birds with his clean and simple, but powerful art. His original acrylic on plywood paintings are designed to survive the test of time. Stack also creates art posters, gig posters, handbills, album art, and his signature “An Impending Doom” image is available on a t-shirt. In addition to seagulls, wrens, pigeons and other birds. Stack also captures the expressive nature of worms and grubs. Degreed in electrical engineering, Stack got sidetracked from using his EE when listening to the artistic voice in his head and picking up a paintbrush. Fortunate for us. Stack’s art makes me smile and gives me a bit of a warm glow in my belly, not unlike eating a good taco or staring into the yearnful eyes of an alpaca.

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.19-20.11

2011-11-20T17:07:00.002-06:00

Almost from the start, the jazz club started filling. An out-of-town couple seated at the bar was celebrating the gentleman’s birthday, but he wasn’t the star of the scheduled birthday party taking place tonight. That “birthday boy” arrived ten minutes later. The birthday celebrants met and ended up buying drinks for each other throughout the night. Party goers and regular customers filled the bar as the live music kicked in. A guest flute player (or if you prefer the more pretentious, “flautist”) played with the group instead of the usual tenor and trumpet. The jazz flute was refreshing. There was also a guest vocalist which added yet another dimension to the music. Two couples were moved to dance and would smoothly interchange partners so that any given time there was just one couple dancing in a confined corner. Their fluidity inspired a pronounced pear-shape middle-aged woman and a tall elderly man to dance in the area just beyond the entrance door. They were both light on their feet but required more space than their dance moves, thus the woman’s hip girth slammed into a small table with a candle, my water glass, glass coffee mug, and dish filled with wrapped hard candies that were splayed in a 180-degree arc. They paused long enough to determine if anything broke. I retrieved the candle, glasses, dish, and half of the candies while avoiding lethal hip swivels and two-step releases. They couldn’t be bothered cleaning up – guess that’s what the help is for. Toward the end of the night the cast and supporting members from a local musical theater production of Reefer Madness held their cast party at the jazz club. I congratulated one young woman on their successful run. Her response: “Thanks, but I’m not in the cast...I clean the toilets.” To which I responded, Even so...I think it was Albert Albee who correctly observed that many a creative enterprise gets its start from the perch of a clean toilet.

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.18-19.11

2011-11-19T12:18:00.002-06:00

There were barely enough customers at the jazz club to fill a family photo album — even a modest-size farm family. The jazz trio playing deserved a bigger audience. Keyboard, electric guitar, and drummer delivered smooth, smile-inducing original music. I watched the drummer effortlessly do all sorts of cross-over pattern drumming to accomplish innuendo in the beat. At one point, he literally knocked a stick from his hand but kept the timbre going will scooping up the fallen timber. Very cool. There was a couple sitting in one of the four known Votexes of Love located in the club. The Vortexes are cosmic anomalies where PDA (public display of affection) occur. When they sat there, I kept an eye on them to see how long it would take for the magic to occur. They were a bit rough looking and could easily fit into a Charles Bukowski poem. Sure enough, it happened. They were making out like they were in the backseat of a Camaro. Later, I was starting to shut down the door for the night when the guy motioned for me with a “Hey youse, come here.” I figure when a guy with tattoos on his hands beckons, it’s best to listen. His face softened into a 10-year-old boy when he gently asked: “Couldya take a pick-ture of me and my girl?” Sure. “And HEY, show her legs!” He handed me a cheap point-n-shoot and I tried to get her race-horse gams prominently in the frame. Click. I looked at the shot and saw her hiked-up short-skirt legs draped over his. They filled the filmy viewer, but their heads were cut off. Got it, I said and handed him the Walmart shooter before quickly beating ass to the other side of the bar for a shot of Jack.

Miles Davis - All Blues - 1964

2011-11-13T13:03:00.000-06:00

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.12-13.11

2011-11-13T12:52:00.004-06:00

She has a smile that could stop a freight train, which is why, when I heard the train chugging and rattling on the raised track across the street, I made sure to stick my head out the door to see how she was doing on her smoke break. Just checking, I said... want to make sure you weren’t kidnapped. “How sweeeet,” she gushed, turning “sweet” into a multisyllabic and reeling me into her vortex of charm. I quickly regained The Doorman composure and barked: Don’t stay out there long. She and her equally pulchritudinous friend are not overtly attractive, but if you violate the wild baboon rule of encounters you’re in trouble. Never look wild baboons (or these kind of women) straight in the eyes or engage them directly. Baboons become vicious; while these cuties lure you into major carve yours-and-hers-initials into tree trunks crushes. Fortunately, when I returned to my post, the jazz quintet was launching into a guan guanco Afro-Cuban rhythm version of Miles Davis “All Blues.” Thank goodness for jazz, thank goodness. Which is also the sentiment of the couple sitting at the bar within a long arm’s reach of the door. They had been sitting with broad smiles of their faces, bobbing and weaving with the music. I said, Enjoying the music...? “Thank goodness for live music, thank goodness for live jazz,” is what they said. I agreed and let my head-nodding follow the beat.

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.11-12.11

2011-11-12T12:59:00.007-06:00

Occasionally I’ll wear dark blue jeans with my coat and tie. It offends the bartender’s sense of decorum, which is not my intent. I need to feel casual every so often, plus it was also a full moon, by my examination of the East sky’s low-hanging orb, so I wanted to be comfortable in anticipation of loons and trouble (actually, the official full moon was the night before at 8:16pm). Over the night we had a small crowd which included, a repeat-visit couple I like, a gentleman from Spain who came for blues that I convinced to stay for a few songs, and three young women initially deterred by the cover charge that I allowed in because they wanted to have only one drink and move on. One of the trio later asked if we’d have live music the next day since she wants to bring her boyfriend here — so, the investment will pay off. Somewhere in the midst of the jazz quartet’s Freddie Hubbard, Super Blue… Thelonius Monk, Blue Monk… and Sonny Rollins, Doxy… the clock struck 11:11pm with today being 11-11-11. The band jumped into Auld Lang Syne as a way to honor the oneness in this one and only alliterative blip in time. Good old Robert Burns is likely winking from his Scottish grave upon seeing his 1788 poem emerge with yet another new use.

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.5-6.11

2011-11-07T07:48:00.001-06:00

The jazz club was half-filled with half-crocked people when I arrived. They were shoulder-to-should forming a “J” around the bar. If we were a ship we’d be listing to the starboard side and rapidly taking on water. They had apparently finished taking a brewery tour of the micro-brewery down the block. Since I was early, I poured myself a cup of black lightning from the coffee pot and sat down next to the empty stool where the bartender sits. The barman was happily pouring beers, mixing drinks, and keeping everyone lubricated. I scanned the crowd to get a sense – they are young and happy. Settled my gaze on a couple seated the height of a basketball player away from me. I could see the young man’s face and the back-of-head brown hair of the young woman he was talking to. His eyebrows gave him an earnest look as he talked. I tried to use my Doorman radar, which if used properly can be as accurate as bat echolocation, to get a sense of whether she is amused, bemused, or bored. Since he was starting to slur his eyebrow nonverbal words, it was clear that even with bumpers he wouldn’t be rolling any strikes. She wasn’t drinking so it was a train wreck in the making. Later, I watched as two friends helped earnest eyebrows out the door, as he was stumble-down drunk. He did stumble on the entry step until his friends guided him in the direction of their car. Miss Brown Hair had joined her other friends as life went on.

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.4-5.11

2011-11-05T16:36:00.001-05:00

Sepia-tinted night filled with a piano and vocal jazz duet. Both were exceptional and I was thrown into the past… we’re talking almost 40 years ago when The Doorman experienced live jazz as a newbie. The jazz music from my flashback and what I was hearing tonight were one in the same. The sound, tone and confident command of the piano keys led me to conclude that the piano player from the past was here playing in the club tonight. If it wasn’t the same guy…. it was a clone, replica, duplicate. I couldn’t wait ‘till their first break so I could talk with the older piano player to test my hypothesis. Meanwhile the club filled with jazz lovers including the young ballroom dancing couple that executed complex, sensuous moves in the cramped front wing of the club; a sinewy, attractive woman who writhed on her partner’s lap until the urgency of their private agenda took them swiftly out the door (a curtain of self-imposed privacy is after all transparent to the world); and a group of delightful 20-somethings—one of whom, was celebrating her 24^th birthday. The retro, romantic, sepia feel to the night was created by the superb piano player (who is in fact the same musician I had heard probably 37 years ago!) and the powerful vocalist who belted out Roberta Flack’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love,” Sam Cooke’s “Bring Your Sweet Loving Home to Me,” and Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable,” which they performed sweetly as a birthday present for the new 24-year-old in the audience.

2011-11-02T15:24:00.001-05:00

evil
rides a bus
somewhere
- JW, 10-29-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.28-29.11

2011-10-29T16:53:00.001-05:00

A lazy feel to the night. The Doorman fought the urge to wear an oversize wool cardigan and Acorn walnut-brown sheepskin slippers and sip Irish coffee all night. Instead—as expected—I assumed my post and greeted jazz lovers as they entered the club while collecting their cover charges. A chatty Cathy and her boyfriend were already seated at the bar when I arrived. Unbeknownst, I seated a very special guest within chatty’s range. The lopsided exchange only lasted the length of a root canal before chatty and friend left. The club was sparse all night. The jazz band played well all night, even when the crowd dwindled to a handful. To honor their professional tenacity I imagined the club filled with jazz lovers such as wild-hair Albrecht and Lavinia, the twin Brazilian models Trina and Seraphima, Nicholas and his kept lover Jasper, the bohemian concept artists--Jannie and Tomoko, and the ever cool, quiet observer in the corner wearing polarized Pit Boss Oakley sunglasses, named Bob. The band deserved a stronger showing. I just filled in the seats with an imagined, more memorable audience.

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.22-23.11

2011-10-23T16:29:00.000-05:00

Considering last night’s blah combined with the scammers at the door, I figured that tonight could only be great… and it was. The jazz quintet delivered Herbie Hancock, Sonnie Rollins, Les McCann, Dexter Gordon, and Grover Washington. The place was packed with gentle jazz lovers. It was a pleasant, beautiful crowd. After midnight I got a small group, followed by several more, who were all young—just barely north of 30. They were all good looking… as though a casual fashion wear catalog had spilled its models into the club. They had arrived in that final hour of music where I customarily waive the cover, which I did for them. I was still at my post and thinking it was almost time to fold up the easel-sign outside and turn in my wad of door money when one of the cute young women from the group handed me five bucks and said, “The band is playing so hard, we want to pay for at least one admission.” That simple, symbolic, single gesture smashed my humanity-is-no-better-than-pond-scum sensation I had lingering from the night before. Fortunately, I fought my spontaneous reflex to hug her and lip-smack her cheek. As one would expect, I comported myself within the limits of The Doorman and allowed an ever-so-slight-smile to form on my face and said: Thank you m’am, this unexpected generosity is greatly appreciated.

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.21-22.11

2011-10-23T15:19:00.000-05:00

When I arrived, the jazz trio was already set up. The trio—jazz guitar, electric bass, and drums—was a different sound from what we usually hear. I know this is awful to say—and I likely will regret it at a later time—but it had a plain-vanilla, Muzak feel at times. Both the guitarist and bass player had wonderful and dynamic fingering and the drummer kept the beat moving forward, but…….. Our crowd for the night appeared to enjoy the trio, so I’m hoping my critique is way off. I had two problematic customers who I’ve encountered before that I, The Doorman, handled quite well. The first was a middle-aged couple who tried to walk through me. He said, “We don’t pay the cover; we’ll spend more than enough at the bar to cover it.” I remember them from a previous time and I had let them in, but later when I had checked with the bartender he said “They had one drink and pretty much drained their water glasses several times after that, and didn’t tip.” So this time, I insisted they pay. They paid with his condition that I never agreed to: “If we don’t like the music, you’ll refund one of the covers.” They went to a table and I watched the waitress’ face as they tried their “let’s make a deal scam” with her. Later I learned that they asked what drinks are for free tonight—insisting that they always receive a free drink because they paid the cover. The second problematic customer was the wheelchair scammer. The guy pushes a wheelchair around like it’s a walker and appears to be fully capable of walking unaided. I stopped him outside before could bang his wheelchair through the door and said firmly, five dollar cover. He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out receipts, spent tissues, scraps of paper, and one crumpled Washington. “All I’ve got is a dollar, talk to the bartender, he’ll let me in.” Alright, I said, and closed the door in his face. Went inside, waited 40 seconds, then opened it and said the bartender agrees with me that you need to pay the cover, plus he won’t let you stay unless you buy a drink…. sorry, man.

2011-10-19T08:00:00.001-05:00

windowless...
the corporate guy foams on
about blue-sky plans
- JW, 10-18-11

2011-10-17T11:48:00.001-05:00

inky dusk --

on the vacant loading dock

a smoker's chair

- JW, 10-17-11

2011-10-17T07:45:00.003-05:00

red door --

the certitude of not

wanting to know

- JW, 10-17-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.15-16.11

2011-10-16T17:32:00.001-05:00

I arrived early and was relaxing with the bartender when three couples arrived. They asked when the music starts and I said in 90 minutes but come in, have a drink, and you literally will have your own private club. “Capiche?” They bought it, settled in nicely, and became the anchor store to the diverse jazz mall of customers we would be adding. The music started and the quintet pulled everything together. The band was into a Freddie Hubbard tune when two attractive young women stepped outside to smoke. They were out there less than a minute and I had a bad sense, stepped outside, and was greeted by a street person with an “Excuse me sir, can I ask you something?” (always a lame intro to a request for money). As The Doorman, one would expect a snappy response, but I responded with: Sure, ask away. So, he hands me 97-cents and says that he needs $2.25 to take the bus. (O.K., someone explain why panhandlers always need money to get somewhere? They need to “get home” or to another city to “visit my sick aunt.” If a panhandler leveled with me and said, “I need money to get drunk or to buy a twist or a rock,” I’d probably say, Here’s 20 toward your goal—good luck.). I handed his change back and said I can’t help and promptly went inside. Then it dawned on me that I left two cuties out there with the I-need-bus-fare guy, so I quickly went back outside and the panhandler scruff was gone. I apologized to the damsels in potential distress who were chuckling about the whole affair. One of them formed her sweet soft lips into a sneer, blew smoke out, and said, “Don’t worry, if he’d tried to pull anything we would have kicked his ass.” I looked at both of them and could tell only a fool would ever cross either of them. I went back inside and knew that, with them out front, the club is safer than ever.

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.14-15.11

2011-10-16T15:02:00.002-05:00

An unbreakable, kryptonite-strength benefit of being The Doorman at the jazz club is that I get to meet people… well….. sort of. Mostly it's a meet-and-greet “welecome-to-the-club-there’s-a-five-dollar-cover,” but sometimes there’s more. Try as I may to maintain a hard, all-business demeanor, there are those for which I have a WELCOME-mat face. They see right through The Doorman façade and can tell I am actually a trustworthy, nice guy. In some, just looking them in the eyes and asking for the cover becomes a key that opens up an entire speed-dating-style summary of what’s on their mind and who they are. Or there is always someone in a jazz night where I think – “they’ve got a story to tell and I want to hear it.” Countless intriguing people with life stories pass through me at the door, spend time, and leave without being asked and attentively heard. Remember, I am The Doorman, so it can be seen as intrusive and inappropriate if I start doing the whole Studs Terkel interview—tempted as I am. But sometimes interactions occur organically. Tonight there was a couple with intensity in their eyes and plenty of connect-the-dot awareness that I made a point of learning who they are. From what I could glean, they've created a community space for creative ventures and entrepreneurial start-ups. Very intriguing. I was just learning about their organization and the interesting things they’re doing when just like an enjoyable dream, reality entered. “Hey, Jeff,” the jazz club owner said from behind the bar. “The door!”

The Aesthetics of Decay

2011-10-14T10:52:00.001-05:00

I have to admit that I’m fond of industrial decay and the faded past. Growing up in the rust belt, where factories and industry were a part of life, it was understood that people worked for companies that made stuff. And having visited and toured a fair number of manufacturing plants I grew to appreciate the aesthetics of labor, machinery, and industrial spunk. That’s why seeing an old, abandoned facility deteriorating or a faded wall advertisement for a long-gone business opens up the imagination. Like many others, I’m drawn to the old factory building that had been a productive hub with people producing stuff until one day somebody locked the door for the last time and walked away. Was there any sentiment before the key clicked the bolt tight? Sadness, remorse, or relief? And what does one do with the key? Is it tossed out? Thrown into a junk drawer? Carried around on a key ring until someone, somewhere after death, while sorting through personal affects asks, “What’s this key for?”

2011-10-11T17:49:00.003-05:00

dark lot

in a steel dumpster

rats scramble

- JW, 10-11-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.8-9.11

2011-10-09T11:51:00.001-05:00

It was an odd night, which doesn’t say much. Every night at the jazz club is different. An early couple balked at the cover, paid it, had a drink, then left before the music started. I offered a refund, but they refused it. Oh kaaay? The band started and was especially loud. Sharpened No. 2’s in the ears would have been preferred to some of the notes the trumpet was hitting. Several customers left. When I tactfully pointed it out to the club owner, who believes loud music creates a party atmosphere, it was blamed on someone unnecessarily fiddling with the controls. Oh kaaay? The drummer in the jazz quintet took a solo—not unusual. But what was fun is that he was playing only cymbals. Rhythmic, but furious, splish-splash sounds were filling the club. It was going on record as the first cymbal-only drum solo until the lure of the skins possessed him and he hammered away. To balance it out, he returned back to the cymbals and finished to a rousing applause. Expertly executed. Interesting customers included two different couples trying to maintain long-distance relationships—one dark-haired beauty from the Dominican Republic, the other black haired beauty from Chicago; an old guy with penny candy as his economic reference who snarled “five dol...LARS!” at the cover charge as though it should be 50¢; and a group of young folks dressed in thrift shop finery—two of which are opening an art gallery in a transitional neighborhood. All in all an odd night… oh kaaay?

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.7-8.11

2011-10-08T16:04:00.001-05:00

Our scheduled group had to do some reshuffling last week. Today is Yom Kippur, perhaps the holiest and most solemn high holiday for the Jews. The band's leader and two members are Jewish and would be observing the Day of Atonement. The tenor and singer, whose voice I absolutely adore, were here, as well as fill-ins for drums and bass. And replacing the group-leader, was an incredible guitarist. When the jazz vocalist wasn’t singing the group ran wild with jagged avant-garde. The singer did an incredible slow-pace, Porgy and Bess-style version of Summertime in honor of our unseasonably warm weather. With door and windows wide open to the warm air, her smooth and controlled voice carried lazily outside the club like a do-nothing summer day. I’ve never heard the song sung more beautifully. As I was imagining myself laying on a South Carolina sand dune soaking up summer, I was happy to see BPB show up. Big Pappa Bear is the name I’ve chosen for a customer who looks like a huge brown bear. When he filled the doorway a couple of weeks ago, my initial thought was this guy could be trouble. Then I looked into his dark, big marble eyes and could see he’s a gentle spirit. He has a giant smile, huge laugh, and a timber-rattling voice. We connected. Tonight, when he showed up with his lady, he gave me a bear hug that compressed all 24 of my ribs, the sternum, costal cartilages, and the 12 thoracic vertebrae. He settled at the bar and later when the tenor who plays in the house band was called up for a number, BPB—being familiar with the musician’s talent—boomed out “THAT’S MY BOY!! HE’S SO COOL! LOOK AT HIM, HE IS SO COOL!!! The bear had spoken. And everyone in the jazz club and even those outside walking past, had heard Big Pappa Bear speak!

2011-10-06T08:30:00.002-05:00

blue day

the man in the shadows

coughs

- JW, 10-6-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.1-2.11

2011-10-03T08:57:00.000-05:00

The night started early. A delightful middle-age couple arrived while I was enjoying a pre-night’s coffee with the bartender. They came to the jazz club to celebrate their one-year anniversary. He’s an early 50’s city bus driver and his bride is in her mid 30’s—both jazz lovers. Then a group of seven arrived which included an attractive young couple. The young woman was wearing a dramatic royal-wedding style hat and her partner wore a Colonel Sanders style tie and a cream and brown fedora. I was asked if there was space to dance while I watched the hatted couple survey the space where the horn players stand. I said we’re not a dance club but that sometimes people will dance in back or on the side. The dramatic couple and their crew were clearly hoping to take control of some space to ply their talents. The trumpet player arrived and staked his claim, planting his music stand right in the middle of their imagined ballroom floor. The rest of the musicians showed up and the music kicked in. We were a good two or three songs into the night when the couple commenced dancing on the opposite side of the room from the horn section. The club’s cocktail tables are arranged on the floor in front of the band stage, so space is limited. The dancing couple quite sensuously engaged in their dips, grinds, and connect-releases. The young lady’s lithe form and asset became apparent through her moves. It was clear that they required a grander stage for their ballroom dancing exhibition, when a large jazz patron popped their illusion of fluid foreplay as she squeezed past them on her way to the Ladies Room. After the song had climaxed and the dance repertoire had ended, the couple politely listened to another song from the jazz quintet before leading their entourage out the door in search of a more appropriate venue for their breath-taking performance.

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.30/10.1.11

2011-10-01T13:50:00.004-05:00

The jazz quintet was on fire. The keyboard player was exceptional—tickling, pounding, and stroking the keys like he owned them… which, actually he does. But you get what I mean. He was hot! The crowd was super receptive. A couple of tables near the stage were occupied by a half-dozen young women with long flouncy hair who literally squealed when the bass player finished some complex, cat’s cradle-type fingering solo and whipped out his double-bass bow to finish the song. He could have wiped his face with a towel—ala Tom Jones—and tossed it to them and we’d have had bedlam. Close to midnight, a woman appeared at the door. I told her the cover is 5 bucks and she asked, “What do I get for it?” I said, Live jazz and my endearing friendship for life. “I doubt the later, but I’ll take the music.” It’s her last night in town and she had been looking for good jazz, which she found here. She grew up in Watts and “escaped it by using my brains.” She’s a medical auditor, traveling to various assigned hospitals to interview the staff and perform process audits. She contributed to the enthusiasm of the crowd fanning down the tenor as he wailed on his signature Grover Washington, Jr. tune. I trust her audit report on the jazz club would be positive… very positive.

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.24-25.11

2011-09-25T20:06:00.000-05:00

As The Doorman I am there to greet the public as they enter the club, comport myself in a professional manner thereby establishing an atmosphere of jazz appreciation, and collect the five dollar cover charge. The cover charge accomplishes two things: It screens out the drink-‘n-sink, non-jazz crowd and it does help pay the musicians. Tonight, the first three customers who came to the club hemmed and hawed at the cover charge before backing out. Ordinarily I would entice them in, but I wasn’t feeling generous. I discussed my frustration with the bartender who gave me the pep talk. “We’re a jazz club with live music and we don’t want just anyone – if they’re unwilling to pay a ridiculously modest five bucks to hear professional musicians play, then they are an insult we can do without.” Amen. The night of jazz turned out to be very interesting. A guest singer complemented the jazz quintet. Two other jazz singers were in the club, so over the course of the night they each had opportunities to sing as well. Three strong male jazz singers—incredible. The dance club down the block was busy, which meant the streets were alive with foot traffic. At one point I had stepped outside to make sure a couple of guests leaving our club made it safely to their car and noticed three young ladies in form-fitting mini-dresses crossing the street wearing stilettos. The one wearing hot pink was so striking she literally stopped traffic. A car full of guys literally slammed on the brakes while they ogled and made monosyllabic attempts to communicate. As the car slowly left the scene one of the guys exclaimed, “three months… three months wages just walked by.”

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.23-24.11

2011-09-24T17:40:00.001-05:00

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.

2011-09-21T11:41:00.001-05:00

the chosen road
exits into
siren's red
- JW, 9-20-11

2011-09-21T11:30:00.006-05:00

security screen
madness kept outside,
inside
- JW, 9-20-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.17-18.11

2011-09-18T15:07:00.000-05:00

He pushed past with sweat-sheen flush face and a wild look in his eyes, like a housecat with a crinkle-ball toy in his sight. Solidly 30’s, 40-something, he had prey in mind. It was very late in the night—minutes before I’d be nursing a B&B cognac and enjoying the jazz quintet’s best playing and final songs. He was quickly scanning the club while I was assessing whether to let him in—no $5 cover--or charge him 20 bucks to scare him away (or make it worthwhile to deal with his sorry butt later). “78% men,” was what he said before spinning on his heels and leaving. The club owner, who had been standing beside me in the soft yellow glow of the entryway’s light while we enjoyed each other’s quiet company, deadpanned “A little late for a hook up?” No shit Sherlock, was my response, no shit. I went outside to fold up the LIVE JAZZ & BLUES sandwich sign, which I tucked inside the front door. I paused at my post for a final review of the remaining jazz lovers and dang if that guy wasn’t dead on: 22% of the remaining crowd were women… 78% men.

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.16-17.11

2011-09-17T16:00:00.000-05:00

We were anticipating an additional 30 tonight… a birthday celebration, so The Doorman was at the club early in anticipation. With my silk tie knot tight, I was ready when our first customer arrived 15 minutes later--a solitary, blue-eyed young woman who was meeting a couple of friends. Being her first time at the club she oohed and aahed over all the features that make the place welcoming. Her friends—a couple—arrived and the woman told me, after admiring my professional demeanor, that I look like a French actor she named but I didn’t recognize. I wryly remarked that he’s lucky to be blessed with good looks. She nodded in agreement. The birthday celebrators filtered in around the regular time, so my premature arrival was for naught. Oh well. The birthday honoree arrived looking young, fresh and not a day over 25. She announced it’s her 31^st birthday but is celebrating her 30^th since last year she was pregnant and couldn’t enjoy a party. She was delightful, as were her parents who brought the birthday cake, and all of her friends. The bandleader mispronounced her Hispanic name a couple of times during the evening. In good spirit she said to him in front of the crowd, “If you pronounce my name with an O at the end, here’s who you’re calling and if you pronounce it with an A this is who will respond, but if you pronounce it with the C’s sounding like S’s you’ll be calling me correctly.” The bandleader responded, “Hell, your name rhymes with sexy, so I’ll just call you Sexy.” The three dark-haired beauties laughed and went back to the party.

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.10-11.11

2011-09-11T13:58:00.002-05:00

There areups and downs, yin-yang, black and white, and hot and cold in the world. Thebell curve exists. For me, The Doorman, the night was O.K., nothing special. Inthe big scheme, a night like tonight is necessary—just like the quiet within ajazz song is important for setting off the incredible rhythmic harmony ofdrums, bass, and keyboard playing together so nicely or the virtuosity of thetrumpet, tenor, or guitar. The ingredients were present tonight—a near capacitycrowd, percussion, keyboard, drums, and trumpet. A guest jazz singer. Everythingwas squeezed into our cozy club. The music was great, the crowd enjoyedthemselves, and our universe seemed to line up for perfect jazz geometry. Butfor whatever reasons, the night did not shine my shoes.