The Doorman's Diary 6.6.14

The jet-black-hair man with tattoo sleeves is here with a seductive, breasty friend. Four middle-aged men who have the wherewithal to afford what they want are at the door, they balk at paying the cover, pivot, and walk on. Good riddance cheapskates. The club owner chases them down, placates then with a twofer deal and seats them at the bar, next to sleeves and the stunner. I glare at them. The trio launches into a Miles Davis song after apologizing that the horn player is a no-show. Apologies not needed. The jazz club fills to a comfortable level, when it happens. A vaporous vision-ghost appears in the doorway. We are blessed with a visit from a jazz faerie. She enters all tall and willowy with a halo of light around her sweet face. I know and she knows I know that she doesn’t need to enter through the door. I stuff her five-dollar cover in a side pocket wondering if it may contain magic. She floats into the club and I don’t see her again until she leaves.

The Doorman's Diary: 2.1.13

It happens infrequently, but it happens. We get a woman with Queen Bee Syndrome. I'm at the jazz club early chatting with the bartender before our night truly begins. The tender is tending a couple in their thirties who sit comfortably at the bar. The woman has switched from wine to a cosmopolitans when a group of young guys fresh from a tour of the microbrewery down the block stumble in with their tokens for free beer. She perks up as the seven boisterous guys occupy the stools across from the couple. They're joking, swearing, and intending to maintain the buzz started while sampling the brew from the tour. With her cosmo smile, the woman scans the lineup and hooks into one of their jokes with her own quip and cackle. This starts a quip-cackle exchange that she relishes. She has made herself the center of attention. She beams across the bar at them and says, "You guys are cute; I want to buy your next round." A couple of the guys stumble over to the couple and are chatting her up. After a couple of minutes they wander back to the group and return to their inanity. Sensing that the focus is fading from her the woman beelines it over to the drunken guys' side and singles out one guy and rests her hand on his chest while intently explaining something (quark theory or challenges to the Austrian economy?). I speculate that the plan is to incite jealousy among the other bucks with hopes of regaining the center focus. It doesn't work. She ends up back with her date or mate who retains a patient and indulgent smile, clearly understanding her adoration needs or enjoying the fact that "his woman is desired by others." Fortunately others start filling the club, their interest being jazz. The quartet features a guest tenor who excels. His playing is like condensed type--every note is there and played with fluid grace. They play Eddie Palmieri's “In Walked Bud” and Miles' “All Blues,” in which he competently plays the dominating trumpet role but with his tenor. They launch into Clifford Brown's “Sandu,” and he switches to his flute. The music was so invigorating that a couple of women got up and started dancing. The blonde with arms in the air was gyrating and writhing. I could imagine her in a mini-skirt on an elevated platform or a dangling cage--1960's style go-go dancer. For a night where our expectations were as low as the temperature outside the crowd pleasantly surprised us. Even the far suburban man who came from his downtown job to hear the guest tenor left with a smile on his face.