The Doorman’s Diary: 5.31.14

To welcome the warm weather, the jazz club’s door is propped open when I arrive for the night. The place is empty, which always makes it a challenge at first. The initial couple or group to arrive tend to be naïve to life at night, so they’ll stand near the door inquisitive but fearful. It is so tempting to toy with them. Some night I’ll laugh maniacally and holler to the bartender, “LOOK HERE…OUR FIRST CUSTOMERS IN WEEKS!!” But not tonight. The club starts filling with its wonderful mix of humanity….ahhh jazz…. how it harmonizes the disparate. The quintet was into its Latin version of Mile’s All Blues when I noticed a young couple walk past the front door and warily cock their ears for a listen. With the authority vested in me by the club owner and using my Royal Academy of Doormen training, I motion them to me with a sense of command. They both have tattoo sleeves and notable piercings—she has a septum piercing, he has ear lobe plugs. I say, “Welcome….stop hesitating, you belong here.” They stammer a bit and make motions for their wallets. “Aheh, not tonight…you’re guests of The Doorman, come on in.” From the moment they enter until they leave hours later they are perched on the edge of their barstools enraptured. Live jazz has them captivated. I feel good that I read them accurately: They do belong here.

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.

  

The Doorman's Diary 10.19.12

Have my starter wedge and am going to touch base at the door before collecting cover charges from the early arrivals. Sitting on the stylish wood bench near the door was a mass of humanity with a mop of long hair that covered his eyes. As I approach him he takes a Sasquatch-size hand and brushes his hair aside. I ask for the five bucks and he says, “I play bass in the band.” We talk and I learn that he recently got back from playing in a trio for the past 11 months on a cruise trip—five hours every evening including Saturdays and Sundays. “So, you’re warmed up for tonight’s gig,” I say. He enjoys the cruise ship lifestyle and is signed up for a three-month commitment on another ship, which departs in a few weeks. As The Doorman of the jazz club I have astute insights. My psychoanalytic assessment from talking with and observing him is that he is a shy, insecure young man. On the ship, he is a recognized celebrity because of his role and size. At sea, he receives praise and admiration. He gets the cake and the girl (the girl may even serve him cake). As I suspected, he is dang good. He played his double bass like his first girlfriend—genuine affection mixed with urgency. The quartet played standards and originals. I enjoyed their version of Miles’ “So What,” which sounded close to the original. I like musicians who respect a piece of musical perfection enough to play it as it is rather than adding their own interpretation. The Miles Davis imprimatur was not violated.