The Doorman's Diary 6.20.14

http://gusstoys.tumblr.com/post/4410897476/jazz-yello

When I arrive the mood of the jazz club is set by an inebriated group courtesy of the boutique brewery a couple of blocks away. We carry their beers so after taking the brewery tour, consuming massive free samples, they are shoved out the door with tokens they can cash in at the club. The concept is to expose people who get plastered for free to a club where you pay a cover to sit quietly and enjoy music. I see flaws in the logic, but what do I know… I’m just The Doorman, a piece of animated furniture in the jazz club. As the band members arrive and ready the stage, the tipsy tour starts to literally stumble out into the street. A cool jazz dude ably sidesteps a swaying guy blathering on about finding a real bar that sells beef jerky. The cool jazz dude sits down at the bar with a clear view of the stage. He removes his summer fedora and casually places it over a 5x7 sketchbook and art pen and orders a burgundy. As the quartet moves through songs by Hank Mobley, Sonny Stitt, Horace Silver, and some of their originals, I can see his appreciation grow. Later I learn he’s from the North Side and doesn’t come to this part of town without cause. The allure of jazz brought him here and his sketch of the bass player confirms that visual artists can see music. His sketch and the Romare Bearden print of Harlem jazz on the wall behind him gets my head spinning around the collision points of art and music….visual jazz.

The Doorman's Diary 6.7.14

There is gravity in the jazz club that pulls certain people to it on a regular basis. For The Doorman, these are the irregular regulars. There is no predicting exactly when they might show, but it will be sometime within a couple months to nine-month window. Cases in point from tonight’s crowd:

·      Carrot Top – A jazz-loving young artist with a wild mop of red hair. She lives six miles from the club and arrives by bus, bicycle, motorcycle, or a recent acquisition… a 15-year-old beater pick up. If The Doorman wins the lottery, a contract with a limo service will be issued so any time she has a yearning to come to the club, she can call.

·      Quiet Nerd Man – My mission is to break his code. He arrives, shoves a crumpled Lincoln in The Doorman’s hand, runs in and to the nearest bar stool, and turns chameleon by blending in as quickly as he can into the scene. He never looks anyone in the eyes—in fact, he may not have eyes, since I’m guessing no one has seen them. A social recluse who truly enjoys jazz.

·      Big Foot – A mammoth man who literally fills the doorframe and then some. Fortunately for The Doorman and the jazz club he has a Big Guy gentle spirit. I know when I sense an overwhelming presence and look up and see an enormous brilliant-white toothy grin that my end could be near—Death By Hug. For some reason this sumo-wrestler-sized guy likes me.

The irregular regulars fit seamlessly into the jazz club’s mix. I added two young women who tentatively craned their necks from the door saying, “We’ve never been here before, it looks interesting.” I said, You’re not going to see much from there…come in and take a look. The quintet, plus a phenomenal guest harmonica player (who can harmonize with the horns and take a solo) were cooking on their version of the Eddie Harris and Les McCann song, Listen Here, when it became evident they were hooked. As they dig in their purses for the cover charge, I say: Not tonight…you’re special guests of The Doorman. At this exact moment in time, there is no better place in the universe than being here in this jazz club, hearing these incredible musicians, and seeing the genuine looks of surprise radiate into beautiful smiles.

The Doorman's Diary 5.28.13

A little rain dampens the night. It also dampens interest in coming to the jazz club, which is too bad. Rain and jazz are a good match. Just like distant rumbling thunder, the jazz guitar quartet is perfect for easing into a contemplative mood. There are a number in the club's sparse crowd who get it. They know how to comport themselves in a jazz club -- you come to listen, relax, and be cool. There's a group of eight pastel people who don't understand. Every time the bass player takes one of his extended solos -- intricately fingering or strumming with his bow -- the pastels amp up their yakety yakking and cackling laughing. It's times like this where The Doorman needs special powers. I'd hit them all with the Immobolizer -- an energy beam that would render them inert. In their quiet, static state they'd enjoy the music.... hopefully. Pastel people are generally suburban residents who have taken a lark to come to the city for jazz. They wear a lot of pastel colors, horizontal stripes, or colors never found in nature. They are scrubbed clean, usually very white, and consider the chain restaurant TGI Fridays to epitomize extreme nightlife. An interesting black / blonde couple enters with their third wheel. The third wheel is crippled with motor control issues. He uses a cane with a four-point foot and uses two hands to get his drink to his mouth. He has soulful cool jazz eyes that reveal intelligence. It seems like a cruel joke to be stuck in a cattywompus body--but what do I really know? I make sure to give him my card when they leave and tell him he obviously enjoys jazz and belongs here.

The Doorman's Diary 12.14.12

Mellow jazz guitar quartet. A couple sitting at the bar near the door proved interesting. The guy steps outside to have a smoke as I was propping the door open to let cool fresh air in. We get talking and I learn that he has history working jobs through a temp agency. Long term--like years--at these jobs. He had been security at a huge music hall that brings everything from metal to hip hop to country. Currently he works at a huge web-press magazine and catalog printer. "Any chance of being hired direct?" He says: "I  don't have a car, so I can't get there and I can't afford a car 'till I get paid better." So he lives a Catch-22 life of treading at $8 an hour with the temp-agency van driving him to work and back. Been doing this for years. I was happy to see again and old jazz cat. A wizened face and black beret. Said to him: "Good seeing you, it's been awhile." He recently returned from New York where he was helping on his son's campaign for Congress--going door to door in Harlem. Tells me he turns 84 in four months. His life:  Born in Texas, near Louisiana border...orphaned, then adopted...troubled youth...joined the Air Force when facing a join or jail choice...his all Black unit were guinea pigs in jet propulsion testing, 16 died during the testing...got Bachelor's and Master's at George Mason University...married a Jewish woman in the 1960's which was a convictable offense (the police chief and circuit court judge at the time would have gleefully arrested him and locked him up)....went to Kansas to get married...raised five kids, all successes...helped found a neighborhood association in one of the city's first integrated neighborhoods. He mentions all the hassles in trying to uncover his roots. My advise is easy, but I think pretty accurate: forget about your past, you’ll hit nothing but dead ends and misery when faced with your slavery lineage. You are living a successful life and you're the grand patriarch of a wonderful extended family. The history starts with you, my dear friend. You are the center of your family's universe!