The Doorman's Diary 4.26.13

Clear, warm Spring eve and there's no telling how busy the club might be. A man wearing a plain baseball cap is seated at the bar near the door. I remark about the pleasant weather to make him feel at ease. He uses my vague remark to pivot into a series of questions while interweaving autobiography, intending to impress. He's a retired architect from a successful firm that has his name on the door. He plays jazz sax--both tenor and soprano, and he lives in a nice condo with some name like Vantage Peak or Exclusive Heights. He asks pedigree info about the club, the music, and the quartet playing tonight. I catch myself on the verge of defending and bragging. I don't and slip into my doorman-don't-know role, to allow him to feel smug and superior. The facelift blonde with her over-plucked brows enters with a different man than previous visits. She oddly vacillates between prancing cutely like a 16-year-old and acting aggressive like the prison yard alpha. She's scary weird. In between a Coltrane and Monk songs, she springs up from her table and storms assertively toward me, then veers sharply to go to the bar. I couldn't tell if she was going to cuff me or kiss me--either behavior would be in character. I look out the window and above the neon tattooing the darkness I see a full moon, which may explain a lot. There's a woman sitting at a table of six who clearly has been touched with lunar madness. She hasn't stopped blathering since they were seated and guffaws loudly every 20 to 40 seconds. I fantasize that they come, muzzle her, and strap her into a straight jacket. Size Medium will work.

The Doorman's Diary 12-15-12

As night sweeps over the city... bringing out the sparkles and neon of light, I am at my my post as The Doorman at the jazz club. I am the gatekeeper troll and Mr. Rogers.  I catch the overly aggressive and encourage the timid flighty. I am the force for good and evil. Tonight we have a sparse crowd, but those that come... stay for most of the night. The quintet keeps them glued in place, playing superbly. The horn players demonstrate repeatedly that they are both exceptional. The trumpet / fluegelhorn player blows clear crystalline ice, while the tenor, alto, soprano plays molten fire. A father and teenage son enter. "I want my son to hear some jazz," the dad says. "You've come to the right place...the cover is five bucks for you; your son enters free as a guest of The Doorman." On the spot, I institute a new policy: a parent bringing an underage child to the club with the express purpose of edifying them to jazz music and culture shall only pay for their admission, while the kid enters free. They enter and disappear into the club. I loose them until the night starts to finish with the last few songs. I'm off duty, enjoying a beer from the nearby boutique brewery. I look over and see the two of them at a hidden high-top, thoroughly enjoying the music. The horns were in an incredible overlap exchange--trumpet and soprano sax--pushing each other and supported by the drummer laying down a complex beat pattern that by rights should require three drumming arms. The son goes to the men's room so I seize the opportunity to speak to the dad without embarrassing the son:  "You're a good man," I say. "I try," he responds. "And succeed," I finish his statement. I tell him that it's incredibly cool that he brought his son to the club and that they're always welcome.    

The Doorman's Diary 11.16.12

The legend. Close to 80 years old if not already an octogenarian. Rumor is that he's spent more of his life stoned, than straight. It's close to performance time and he saunters in. The club owner jokes that she's afraid to knock on his car window to get him in sooner for fear the startle would give him a heart attack. His enabling band mates are waiting and have his stool and jazz guitar ready. He floats to his stool and launches the first song, playing exquisitely, albeit less aggressively than in his youth. The sax player is wonderful--alternating between his alto and soprano. He carries two songs with his soprano, one of which is Gershwin’s Summertime. I like the bass player too and get talking to him at the break (while the old guitarist gets his bearings in his smoke-filled car). I learn the bass player teaches guitar at the main university in town. His love is classical and jazz guitar but he's played bass all his life. I say, "Man, you have the perfect build for the double bass... big hands, strong forearms, and you"re tall." He responds, "I know, I know... everyone tells me I'm a bass player, not a guitarist, but the bass is too easy--the guitar is more challenging." Now, not only do I like the professor, but I respect him, and his pursuit of his elusive muse: the guitar. An interesting couple is new to the city, having moved here from the South West. He's a physician; she's using the move to start fresh, having spent 20 years as a decorative wall and trim painter. She plans to now paint canvases. An attractive young woman enters the club. The waitress' eyes light up and she hits on her while serving. I ask the waitress, "How do you tell which side of the fence a woman plays on? " I didn't hear the response because the music was too loud, but did learn the woman of her attraction is married, but had answered a critical question she asked her ambiguously... so the door, as far as she's concerned, is ajar. I wonder how many unfulfilled yearnings are spawned in this room?