The Doorman’s Diary: 11.17.12

The club filled completely to the point that late comers declined to enter and squeeze in. The crunch was due to two things: advertising and the regular band’s new CD launch party. Most people in the club were clueless about the brand new CD, so the crowd was there for random reasons or because of advertising. There were no announcement signs for the new CD, no sales pitches during the night, or promotional oomph at all. They opted for the Field of Dreams approach: “record it and they will buy.” I think they were expecting Sonny, Miles, and Grover to emerge from a cornfield and saunter in and christen the CD as a natural spawn of their musical lineage. As The Doorman, I was entrusted with a cache of several hundred CDs and was asked to hustle people as they left. Most, after settling up their bar bills were spent out for the night or just happy from a night of good jazz. I felt too much like a panhandler as they were departing. I did convince a couple of regulars to purchase the CD by striking a deal when they first arrived—no cover, but you need to buy the CD. At night’s end, we had sold 20 CDs—three of which I purchased for myself. All night, I listened but never heard Shoeless Joe say, “If you build it…” Had I…I would have said, “This ain’t Iowa, man.”

The Doorman's Diary 7.6.12

Tonight is a live-recording night. The jazz group whose album will come from this had done this a year ago -- it was a disaster. At that session, the band leader was striving for the impossible: A perfect, error-free performance. If someone missed a note (including himself), he'd yell "STOP!!  Do it over!" Everyone was wound so tight. The music sounded stiff and two-dimensional. The recording engineer supposedly "did a crappy job." I think the recording guy ended up getting stiffed--at least on the editing and mixing end. With that swirl of a cluster in the past, I'm nervous. They play a couple of warm-up songs and were sounding O.K. -- except the trumpet player was sounding like a teenage-boy in puberty; he'd hold a note and then it would break. "Crap," I thought, "not the time for amateur-hour." The recording engineer says, "O.K., with the next song, we're recording." From that point on, the trumpet guy was on fire -- clear, forceful playing, with little twists to add sparkle when it was needed. He was sounding better than ever. The recording session seemed to go well. Our crowd appears to be new folks with a few familiar faces. An old guy who hobbled in with his distinguished-looking cane was singled out as a tenor who had tooted on the first of the 10 albums the group has recorded. With a club that has a dozen years of history and band members who've been in the scene for 30-plus years, I'm the wide-eyed dimple-cheek chump to many who enter this hallowed space.