Crixus

I think if I had naming rights for a baby boy today, I’d name him Crixus. I know it looks like a made-up name or the name of a software program or a drug to control something like irritable bowel syndrome, but Crixus was a bad-ass gladiator who died in 72 BC. He hung with Spartacus and Oenomaus, and led the slave rebellion in the Third Servile War. As the story goes, Roman troops, sent to quash the rebellion, caught up with Crixus and his forces. In the battle, a strategic military maneuver Crixus attempted had failed and he was forced to fight a losing defensive. Crixus was killed and his 30,000 strong army defeated. Spartacus honored his buddy, Crixus, with funeral games at which 300 Roman prisoners-of-war were forced to fight to the death like gladiators. How sweet of the Spart-man! The photo accompanying this entry? That’s Lucretia (another odd, but not that cool name) who was Crixus’ main squeeze. She was said to be cunning, insightful, and had a great wit

The Doorman’s Diary: 3.12-13.11

The club was packed. An all-ages mix from gray heads to the early 20’s. Early in the night a young couple hesitated and paid the cover—the young lady scoped out who was in the club and giggled, “Kind of an old crowd… we’ll be the youngest ones in there.” I said, “There’s a few youngins in the crowd… assuming the old people haven’t killed and eaten them already.” It didn’t take long before the average age of customers dropped considerably. Spring break was the explanation, which I suppose could be true. One group of the young included two Asian guys with cameras (I almost threw them out for reinforcing the stereotype) who were taking photos of the band. A young woman wearing vintage bohemian was carrying around a City Lights Pocket edition of Alan Ginsberg’s infamous Howl and Other Poems, from which she read to a couple of friends:

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in

the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the

suffering of America's naked mind for love into

an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone

Her friends were nonplussed. Fortunately I’ve learned impulse control over the years, or I would have abandoned the door and told her that I once introduced Ginsberg who read at a poetry reading of mine and several poet friends. And how after the reading at the bar, I needed to lean in close to hear a rapid-fire, mumbled compliment of one of my poems and how his beard smelled of tobacco smoke. I’m guessing her nonplussed reaction would have reminded me that I’m just the doorman.  

The Doorman’s Diary: 3.11-12.11

Where was she? The setting was perfect. The stage was set. And the raw, guttural electric bass played her life-music like no other. When the bass opened with the aggressive underlying hook that dominated, and then challenged the trumpet throughout the song, even Miles Davis would arch his brow to the quintet’s version of “So What.” Which is why I expected her to saunter in to the jazz club at that moment. I wouldn’t have charged her a cover, since this was clearly her exacting and perfect soundtrack. Everyone would just say, with heads nodding to the music, “yes, this is so right… it is alright.” I waited… even poked my head out the door expecting her to be exiting a taxi, limo, or Lamborghini. I would urge her to hurry, and try not to be put off by her “so what” expression. She needed to be here… the last piece in the night’s jazz jigsaw puzzle. We were all waiting. I was surprised. Truly surprised. She never showed up… the woman wearing the black slinky dress. Even her cavalier, the man in the angular suit with the narrow face, was a no show.

Tribute to the State of Wisconsin (and the entire country)

R. L. Burnside version of Dylan's "Everything is Broken."

The Doorman’s Diary: 3.5-6.11

The jazz club is not the venue for the haughty, pushy, or rude. Yet, tonight there was a difficult-to-pin-down undercurrent of that going on. It started with a pair of customers seated at the bar who claimed to be “regulars,” although I don’t recall ever meeting them at the door. With an air of misplaced confidence, they talked about the previous bartender and door man as though they have rights to the club. The bad karma continued when an older jazzman pushed his way in using his horn case as a battering ram aimed at my crotch. I was about to tell him quite sternly that The Doorman can not be violated, when he spotted the owner who invited him in—no cover charge. There are many—if not most—musicians who gladly pay, understanding that the cover supports live music. This musician was of the lowest order—not only expecting a free ride, but anticipating that he’ll be invited up to join the group. After dropping hints to the band leader, he was told there may be an opportunity later. Mr. Pushy said he’s in town from New York and can’t stick around that long. To which the band leader said, “Too bad, guess we’ll see you around.” The old jazz guy adjusted his dark glasses and grabbed his coat and left. Good riddance. Then, within a song or two later, another pair of musicians were at my door and were surprised that I insisted on cover charges. One of them fanned through his fat wallet, pulled out a ten, and then said “Looks like we won’t have an opportunity to play tonight,” re-inserted it into the wad, before turning to leave. The club owner ran outside after them. She retrieved their sorry asses and brought them into the club. Oh well.

The Doorman’s Diary: 3.4-5.11

The jazz club was mellow tonight. Steady stream of pleasant customers. A guest tenor played with the trio. The young saxman played seamlessly. I guess good musicians know how to play nice with others, but the tenor became the poster child for ease of play. He elevated the rest of the group to a higher standard. He sounded particularly sweet on a Stanley Turrentine song. Turrentine or Mr. T (the original Mr. T, before the gruff teddy bear star of the old A Team TV show) was a tenor sax known for his “big, warm, sound,” as a NPR interview noted shortly before his death in 2000. While enjoying the guest tenor’s treatment of Turrentine, I approached a young couple that had been sitting at the bar since before the music started. I told them there’s a five-buck cover, but I’d let it slide since they had grandfathered themselves in by showing up so early. The young lady said, “No, we want to pay…it’s important, ‘cause it supports the club, which in turn supports jazz.” I immediately felt a rush of human warmth toward them, as intelligent, kindred spirits. They get it. They totally understand. While I was fighting the impulse for a group hug, while slobbering “I love you guys,” the young man said “Hey, I know you from La Bou,” a now defunct café I used to frequent. When not being The Doorman, I can frequently be found in any number of coffee shops or cafes sipping dark-brew coffee, while reading or writing. We talked further, and I learned that he’s working at a placement agency that finds jobs for disabled workers. He also mentioned that in this dismal economy he’s having success, tapping into employers desire to reevaluate how they do business.  Could these guys get any better? They like jazz, they understand how they club works, he’s doing work that benefits others, and clearly they’re smart. They are in-the-flesh manifestations of the perfect jazz club patrons. How cool is that.

Long Live Gumdrops

    For some reason I’ve become addicted to gumdrops. Yes, those brightly-colored gelatin- or pectin-based pieces, shaped like a truncated cones and coated in granulated sugar. It’s a secret addiction, so keep your yap shut.

Keeping it quiet fits this candy. The history of gumdrops is uncertain, although some say they were invented in 1801 by a man named Percy Trusdale. There’s no information out there as to who he was, where he was when he invented the gumdrop, or what he did to establish himself as the inventor. There are no details about him and his invention. Did he yell, “Eureka!” Were gumdrops planned or a mistake (was he trying to create chewing gum in the form of fruit “drops?”). Did he die a happy man because of his invention? A mystery…