The Doorman's Diary 9.8.12

The jazz club feels better tonight in comparison to last night. The jazz group is ready to play. They respect the music, jazz club, and audience enough to dress nice – ties and suit jackets. The club fills to a comfortable level. Jesus shows up and I charge him and his cute Mary Magdalene each a five buck cover. I felt bad afterwards, but I figure if he’s all-knowing he already knew I’d charge him and that it was done to help keep jazz alive. If it wasn’t the J-man himself, it was a dang good impersonator—tall, slender, long-brown hair, beard, and benevolent eyes. Somewhere in between the quintet’s versions of Miles Davis C.T.A. and Charlie Parker’s Scrapple from the Apple, the club had its first Sikh visitors--two couples. None of them wore turbans, but the women wore traditional head scarves. It was confirmed that they are Sikh because the guys’ names on their charge plates end with Singh. Singh, from Sanskrit for lion, is an essential component of every Sikh male’s name. Historically, this was so ordained by Guru Gobind Singh on March 30, 1699. So, here we are 313 years later and the head honcho guru’s name is embossed on Visa cards paying for jazz-loving followers’ drinks. Pretty cool.

The Doorman's Diary 9.1.12

A slide trombone fills in for the tenor giving the jazz quintet a different texture. Their version of Eddie Palmieri’s Listen Here is delightful with the trumpet and trombone. The evening gets better and more interesting. A young lady, who manages the tasting room bar of a local boutique distillery, and her boyfriend, rush in breathless saying, “I’m playing hooky from my job, but have been dying to come here—can’t stay long.” I wave them in. “I’ll be leaving in about 30 minutes—can I come back later after I close our place and I’ll pay you then.” I say jokingly, “Yes, but the price of re-admission will be a bottle of your gin.” The distillery’s gin is exceptional and has literally won awards for small batch gin. An old singer in the audience was invited on stage to sing a few songs. In a strong, clear voice he belts out a couple of Sinatra tunes and finishes with Hello Dolly, sung at times in a Louie Armstrong voice. The night was nearing its end and the tenor showed up from his previous gig and jumps in with the trumpet and trombone to create a terrific horn blending. I'm outside folding up the tables and chairs for the smokers when two bicyclists whiz into the scene and start locking up their bikes. “I’m back…and here’s your gin.” You knew I was joking, right? “Yeah, but you ARE The Doorman, so I figure you deserve this.” Amazing, I thought, someone who accords me the respect I deserve. I thank them profusely and urge them inside to enjoy the last 30 minutes of music. After folding up the sidewalk I sit at the bar and enjoy a drink. A couple I haven’t seen in awhile arrives and sits at the opposite end. They catch my attention and I nod my greeting. When leaving for the night, I chide them for showing up late. We talk and I learn that she lives about 200 miles away. I say, “It’s clear… you need to move here.” She says, “I would… but I’m a traditionalist and he hasn’t proposed yet.” I ask them my 10 questions of compatibility to confirm the obvious… they are a perfect-match pair. “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be married, so as The Doorman I plan to invoke my authority as The Doorman of the Jazz Club to officially wed you right here and now—are you both willing to do what is obvious and predestined?” With their agreement, I join their hands, which I hold tight in mine, and have them exchange vows. In the sacred hall of Miles, Ornette, Dexter, Grover, Monk,and Sonny I had officiated... and a union is consecrated! 

The Doorman’s Diary: 8.10.12

The old timer super-accomplished jazz guitarist played with a taught trumpet player, stand-up bass (YES, the way jazz bass should be), and a drummer. It felt right and clearly sounded the way jazz should sound. A small group came to the club. They are headed up by a hyper-enthused gentleman who is a long-time jazz drummer and includes a friend and her adult son who are visiting from Greece. I was glad to see an irregular regular show up with his seeing-eye dog. I made sure to phrase my greeting better than the last time, when I said something like “You haven’t seen us in awhile” – ugh! The couple accompanying him are regulars and the man in the couple is a hand percussionist. Suddenly a pair of bongos appears in his hands and he joins the group for a couple of numbers and adds some Latin spice to the music. Very impressive contribution, since the quartet clearly has heavyweights that leaves no holes in their music. It was neat to see how seamlessly they made room for very note being expertly pounded on the skins. The absorption was complete. Later in the night a couple arrives that I immediately fall in love with. I know that doesn’t sound professional for The Doorman to admit, but it was clear that they are both genuinely good, friendly, and from the astute perspective of The Doorman it was clear they belong to each other. When he was at the Men’s Room, I learn that she’s 28, they’re on their 5^th or 6^th date, she loves jazz and blues but he doesn’t, he’s a kind and gentle man, he’s more of a dog person where she is neutral on the dog vs. cat question, and she has a 9-year-old daughter. I looked into her cute face and said, “If you at all wonder whether there’s a future with this guy, let me bestow the wisdom of The Door on you… your daughter can see through any façade, game-playing, or walls better than Superman’s X-ray vision, so if she likes him and thinks that he’s genuinely good, my advice is to set the hook and reel him in.” She nodded her head vigorously and said, “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking, you’re right!” I returned to my post and crossed my fingers in the hopes that I am privileged to be witnessing the beginnings of a beautiful relationship.

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.