The Doorman's Diary 7.29.17

Tonight's sax and flute player was a highly-paid sales exec with a large local company until he took early retirement a few years ago and returned to music. "The company owned my body and soul in exchange for a great salary," the former captain of industry tells me. "Of course, when I retired, my huge salary disappeared ...as did my wife--guess she loved money more than me."

He's recouped, remarried and blows his tenor with the soul of experience and the blues of a survivor. He is effing good! From where I stand at the door, I cannot see the horn players so I can blot out the image of the well-manicured retired business exec playing like the stereotype of the hard-scrabbled, cool jazz cat living in a central-city, cold-water flat. For me, he's a good slap in the head reminding me that the jazz club is the grand equalizer and magnet pulling in all, including a guy that plays phenomenally and has flown in business class more miles than I'll ever be in the air.

The ex-biz-guy tenor is stretching his reeds on a Sonny Rollins tune as the club fills with summer warmth and he and the quintet paint memories of a jazz-hip night for all. A fair-hair Irishman from Dublin is quietly conversing with the mysterious pair of Puerto Rican locals who are rumored to host after-hour parties for artists, poets, theater actors, and musicians where they serve abundant helpings of bacalaito, alcapurria, and pionono. One wonders if the Irishman will luck into the wee-side of tomorrow party.

It's getting within an hour of closing and the jazz club becomes the catch-all for stray cats, the disenfranchised, and the bar-hopping drunks, who I try to deflect into waiting cabs. 

I admit to not being good at consistently recognizing the inebriated. Case in point: A 30-something guy presents himself at the door but doesn't want to pay the cover, saying he just wants to get one drink and see if his credit card and ID are here. He takes a couple more steps in and looks around and says: "I've never been in here before." As I grab his arm to gently steer him to the door, he says: "This looks like a great place, I'll have to come back." I try to hand him my professional business card that has the jazz club name, address, and my title, "The Doorman," but he pushes it back saying, "I have a hard time holding onto things, so I'll probably lose it... but thanks."  

The Doorman's Diary 6.28.14

http://www.ebsqart.com/Artist/Marcia-Baldwin/5960/Art-Portfolio/

Gallery/Abstracts/NOLA-JAZZ-SAX/507909/

There’s an edge tonight. Some are on edge; some edgy. Everyone wants to be someplace, but a map and GPS can’t find someplace. Three show up at the jazz club who are the exception. They want to be here. The jazz club is the someplace they want to be. The middle-aged couple have brought her dad here to celebrate his 84^th birthday. A good-looking white-hair gentleman….he enjoys the music. A trio of women enter all wary and on edge. They calm down at the bar. One of them keeps going outside, but not to smoke or chat on her cell. I wonder… Another of the trio steps up to me and asks in a demanding tone if a little man has entered the club. Not that I recall is what I say. She grimaces and returns to her stool at the bar. Moments later, a little man presents himself at the door. He is short, but too tall to be considered a little person or a race jockey. Yet, he’s too short to be any good at table tennis or waxing a SUV. Grimace lady rushes to me waving a five—the little man lucks out. Throughout the night, he stands behind the tables on the floor thoroughly enjoying the music. A highlight for both of us is the delicately-executed solo during the quintet’s version of Freddie Hubbard’s “Little Sunflower.” The saxman sounds like he’s crocheting a lacy brocade doily for grandma’s mahogany side table. A refreshing, unexpected, and tasteful treatment from a tenor and quintet that prides itself in its hard-driving sound.

 blue dusk --

 faint memories drift

 in a tenor jive

                  - JW, 5-12-13

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 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?