downtown club
sound of a sax stabs 

the neon glow

                           - JW, 5-24-14

The Doorman's Diary 3.22.13

The bartender opens early, so when I arrive it is common to walk into the club with patrons scattered around the bar. A solid couple is there and a group of four further down. A tall bearded man stands trying to monopolize the bartender's attention. He speaks at a volume level slightly higher than the din, which makes me take notice. I look and he has the crazy eye. The tender says at a level matching his: "Here's The Doorman, he will BE collecting the door charge," while he arches an eyebrow. I could have been mean and said, "Is there something wrong with your eye?" Others filter in, but the pace is as relaxing as the jazz guitar quartet. They play John Scofield's "Cool" and it is cool. The drummer, keyboard, and bass add flourishes that match the guitar work. A pair of couples walk in lead by the boss, a dominating woman, who is fueled by alcohol. She hears cover charge and balks. She faux slaps my face but hits hard enough to make me instantly dislike her. One of the men hands me a Jackson to cover them. I was devising interesting ways to torture her when a customer walks past with the tip jar for the band. It's empty and she's making it her mission to fill it for the band. She approaches customers and asks them to toss a buck in for the band. I should have exerted Door authority, but I do what I do in cases where I'm witnessing the unbelievable....observe while thinking "is this for real or am imagining this?" I let her go. I stay at my post and enjoy their renditions of Take Five and Horace Silver's Song for My Father. I enjoy their versions and wonder what it might be like to be on the Great Lakes boat of the one visiting out-of-town couple who promise to float into town some day this summer. 

The Doorman's Diary 1.10.13

There is a blue hue to the night...as though a backlight was being smothered  by black cotton. It's comfortable, not menacing...a perfect night for jazz. I arrive for my duty at the door knowing I will enjoy the night more than I should. We have a jazz guitar quartet. The guitarist is ancient and could easily claim to have invented jazz. As far as he's concerned, he did...at least for the greater city where we live. He created the jazz program at the local music conservatory where most everyone in jazz with local roots has studied, taught, or tutored. He is a god. And like all old gods, he's cranky, impatient, and less perfect than he used to be. He still plays exquisitely but the the frenzy is gone. He's more relaxed, which matches my need for the night. It also matches the needs of a young couple, in town here for a government employee convention. They melted into their stools at the bar and had exhale aaaaaaahhh grins of satisfaction -- as did a foursome sitting next to them. I notice that two guys of the three guys and a young woman foursome has ordered Jameson neat. I mention to the Jameson sippers that they need to someday soon try the 18-year-old Jameson. I learn that they are both a couple years within university graduation--one is a CPA and the other a mechanical engineer. "You guys defy the stereotype of being quiet introverts," I say--realizing as I say it that I'm being rude. "Oh, not at all," they say. "In most instances, that's accurate." They are genuinely nice and likable guys, and emblematic of a generation that goes to a university for a profession, not to expand one's view of the world, and gets a high-paying job after graduation. The expectations are realized. The well-ordered plan is followed. I break from them and watch the old guitarist finger his way through a lovely solo and smile in appreciation knowing that my enjoyment--as well as everyone else's in the club--is his pay.

The Doorman’s Diary: 7.28.12

When they walked into the jazz club it was clear. Summer had walked in. Summer was in the form of a black couple dressed in white. The woman wore a white pants suit with white-frame glasses. The man with white suit, white collar-less shirt, and white brim hat. Even his beard was frosted in white. They were cool. When Mr. & Ms. Summer were seated they got to enjoy a dynamic trio—jazz guitar, electric bass, and drums. The jazz guitarist alternated between angry-hornet, superfast playing and intricate fingered rhythms. I greeted two other couples of note beside the epitome of summer couple. There was a couple decked out in black leather that hopped off their Harley and a cute couple with three young kids out celebrating their 12^th wedding anniversary. There was also a lone wolf who sat at the bar writing in his notebook (different from the notebook-man who is a regular) and a tall, slender cute wolfette who grabbed a table and enjoyed a couple hours of jazz.

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 5.29.12

It is a delightful jazz guitar quartet night—electric guitar, upright, sax, and drums. What I love about top-flight musicians is that a bunch that have never played together, when tossed together, can play together. The guitar leader has three new musicians that he’s never had here before (to be fair, he may play with them all the time and it may just be me that’s never seen them all play together). The tenor / alto man is noteworthy and the young kid on bass (who is actually underage) is daddio cool. The bass player has a velvet sound, which matches the music they’re playing. Several newbies have come tonight to the jazz club. A couple of women from a distant “safe” suburb made a special trip into the big city to hear jazz. A young lone wolf sat most of the night with a goofy grin of jazz joy on his face. “You belong here,” I say to him. “You know it, brother.” On the cusp of closing, a pair of women came in. The vivacious brunette in the pair functions as the fun fairy of friendship warming everyone with her smile. She has California confidence and makes sure to tell everyone that she’s visiting from California. If we sold BEST FRIENDS necklaces at the club, there would be a lot of us wearing half-heart necklaces with ST / ENDS engraved on them.

The Doorman's Diary 6-8-12

"Hello... Hello.... Hello..." Three cops on bicycles whizzed around the corner and each chirped their friendly greetings. I was surveying the newly hatching night from my post at the jazz club front door—actually just outside the door. The sunny, blue-sky day was becoming history in the making. With a 50% accuracy record, my prediction is that it will be a slow, relaxing night. There were two couples seated at the bar when I started the night. They were both reluctant to pay the cover charge. My deal: "Relax, enjoy a couple of songs. If you leave after that, no harm. If you stay, do the honorable thing and pay the cover—you'll be supporting live jazz in our city." Both couples left before my voo-doo hex could kick in, so no covers collected. An artist couple who've been in a few times before showed their intense, but friendly faces. I was zippy-thrilled to learn that they had closed on a small commercial building which will become their studio space and home. Now they just need to sell their bungalow located in a leafy suburb. Got my toes crossed for them. The quartet was terrific tonight, as always... even though the traffic was slow, as I had predicted earlier.

   city still life --

the flower planter

tethered to a wall

           - JW, 6-6-12

The Doorman’s Diary: 5.19.12

A warm night where air conditioning serves its purpose. But we were going without. Front door propped wide and windows open to the world. There was a strange vein coursing through the night. A guy with broken logic had beckoned me over and said, “I have a business proposition for you.” Nothing made sense. I excused myself and went back to the door. I was chatting with a cute young woman who had just moved to our city days ago with her boyfriend when I got the signal to go back to the troublesome guy because the owner was clearly having words with him. Now remember, I am The Doorman. I am not a bouncer, so my approach is to calmly convince, not bark orders. The owner was threatening to call the police. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on… let’s get you out of here before you’ve got cops doing a Rodney King with you.” He left. The bartender said I should have walked outside with him to make sure he moved on, but then the owner said don’t go outside, let him go and don’t touch people like that. The guy was on something – he wasn’t drunk or stoned on grass. I don’t know, nor do I have the interest to learn the typical behavior of the various street drugs. Fortunately these occurrences are rare. I may be at risk, but I got to handle things within my comfort zone.