“There is no predicting” could be the motto of the jazz club. It was a perfect moody night for jazz. Seasonably warm, clear with occasional drizzle… an uncluttered feel to the city. A night to fill your lungs with possibility. When I entered the club, it was early and nearly empty. The young couple with their 10-month-old daughter (the club’s youngest jazz fan) were there chatting with the bartender. I joined them and the wide-eyed couple were surprised to see a professional doorman say more than “Welcome…there’s a five dollar cover tonight.” For a few moments I was a curiosity—like seeing your sweet kindergarten teacher at the liquor store buying a liter of Jack or your accountant uncle with the letter A painted on his chest standing next to the parish priest with the letter C in the 35-degree stands helping to spell out PACKERS. When asked if my doorman duty is my full-time job, I lied and said “The door is my life…. my rasion d’etre.” Some mythologies are worth upholding, others should be dispelled. With the night as perfect as it was for jazz, the club was sparsely filled. However, the band played like the place was jammed. Later in the night, the quartet was well into an amalgam of bop and swing—pure jazz—when the tenor blew his horn apart. For a moment he had the look of a kid racing downhill on his bicycle when his pedals fall off. He quickly grabbed his alto to finish the song, proving that the music is bigger than the instruments that play it.