The Doorman's Diary 10.27.12

A comfortable crowd is filling the place tonight. No rancor, rabble rousing, or rats. The door is easy. Folks pay and join in. Then I had a group of two couples present themselves at the door, and ask what kind of music we have. “Live jazz,” I say to their blank faces. The band is deep into trading solos about mid way in their version of Thelonious Monk’s Blue Monk and it’s clear they don’t get it. They decide the $5 cover is too steep and quickly turn to flit away, fearing I guess that I’ll try to pick their pockets or snatch their purses. If they had shown any remote interest in jazz or live music or the club, I would have invited them in, complimentary. But they have a suburban attitude, expecting to be entertained by reefer-smoking musicians and black turtleneck wearing patrons with black berets as they observe from their safely-ensconced monorail car. “BOO!” I shout and cackle loudly as they scurry off to their silver Toyota Camry.

The Doorman's Diary 8.31.12

The regular jazz group was back after a month and a half break. Surgery on the drummer's knee. So with his bionic knee and lack of consistent practice, it took a few songs before they were back in the groove. The trumpet player had sat at the bar before they played and was practicing with just the trumpet mouthpiece--sounding like a duck call. I said, "Don't do that outside or we'll have a flock of Mallards storming the club." I imagined well-behaved, mated-for-life pairs sitting at tables and maybe a group of rowdy drakes at the bar rudely quacking orders to the bartender. My fantasy vanished when in walked a checker-flag explosion. S/he wore checker shoes, spandex pants with one leg checker and the other white, and a checker blouse / shirt. In drag and tipsy already, she slurred while leaning into my face, "Whatcha think of my outfit?" Racy, was my response. S/he pulled out three individually crumpled bills in search of a Lincoln to pay the cover, all the while leaning into my space. Fortunately, the second greenback was a fiver. She sat at the bar near the door and ordered a beer and flirted with the bartender. She was trying to engage a guy at the bar in her monologue, but he sloughed her off. S/he got up and did a spastic dance before wandering over toward me with pack of cigarettes and BIC in hand. S/he leaned in and kissed my cheek and slurred, "I think you're cute." I shuddered and said, "I know." S/he went outside to smoke, flipping her gorgeous-looking brown hair. I prayed to all known deities that s/he would get distracted and wander off. No such luck, like a reoccurring bad dream s/he was back all duck-lips and hovering until she handed me three crumpled up cig packs and asked where she could buy more. I directed her to the gas station a couple of blocks away and after she left I ran to the Men's Room to scrub my cheek that was the recipient of so much unwanted love.

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.

The Doorman's Diary 6.30.12

Two lone wolfettes became fast friends tonight. It was happenstance that they ended up seated next to each other at the bar. Two stools. Two women. By the end of the night they were chatting away and falling into each other with laughter. Nice to see. The jazz group was without its sax tonight. The trumpet guy took over and superbly played songs that ordinarily would have been dominated by the tenor. It was actually refreshing to hear Coltrane, Sonny Rollins and Dexter Gordon songs played totally sax-less -- with the trumpet being the sole horn. We had a respectable size crowd. Someone celebrated a birthday. How old she is was not divulged, although once you get beyond milestone ages like 16, 21, and 30 does it really matter? The night disappeared quickly, just like another year in that ultimate race to reach 100 before death nabs you.