The Doorman's Diary 7.22.17

For a Saturday night, we're starting out slow and easy. We're expecting to Tina-Turner-Proud-Mary it into a full-club frenzy, but right now the goal is to reach the pivot, and beyond. The pivot point is when the number of jazz patrons in the club matches the number of staff and musicians. Here is where my experience and trained understanding of human behavior as a professional doorman come into play.

A group of young customers appear at the door so I say: "Great, get in here quick...we just opened the door and since you're the first ones here you get in free. Grab stools at the bar or a couple of tables on the floor, because the place will fill up quick. And one of you definitely needs to try our Tropical Jazz Zombie cocktail -- it's one of our signature drinks!" With a sense of urgency, making them feel like special insiders, and suggesting that one of them be brave enough to try something different, we've got a mini-crowd of six seated in view of the entrance so when others arrive they don't feel like they're entering a dead club. Now I just need to answer the stare of my bartender when he is asked to make a Tropical Jazz Zombie cocktail.

 

The jazz club is filling and the band is deep into their version of Dexter Gordon's 1962 zinger "Cheese Cake." The crowd is in sync with the tenor's retro mood as he swings through the tune. An older man with a gray fedora tilts his head back, eyes closed, and smiles broadly. The waitress deftly tucks a fresh whisky old fashioned into the relaxed grip of his hand resting on the table and gently squeezes his fingers tight around the tub glass, completing the transaction without resting him from his music stupor.

The music glides the crowd through the delightful moody night. Well into the second set, an East Indian couple appear at the door. The man is wearing a full-length plain maroon gown and she is dressed in a traditional saree. As striking as their appearance is they easily melt into the crowd -- jazz is the ultimate melting pot and at the jazz club no one is judged.

  

The Doorman’ s Diary: 9.14.12

Easy going night. It seems like we were getting just enough people to form an open-weave crowd, which is respectable considering how dead the streets are. Minimal car traffic, several bicyclists whizz by, and a pair of ooh-lah-lay young ladies hobble past on their stiletto heels and wearing sausage-casing minis. I say hello to the pair but I’m considered nothing more than building ornamentation—a gargoyle—and my greeting probably registers as the wind burping. I guess when they get to their destination club they must just stand somewhere on display—like fly paper, hoping to catch the right guys. Back at the door, I’m trying to fill it so I let some in at two-for-the-price-of-one and others for free. A fun couple in their late thirties or early forties greets me at the door. The woman says, “I suppose you wanna see our IDs?” I say, “Damn skippy I do, although I’ve seen so many fakes tonight. Take that gray-hair guy at the bar. I know he’s under age but his obvious amateur-hour driver’s license claims he’s 67—what a scammer.” Since her birthday was yesterday, I only collect for him. While the night wears on, the band pulls out songs they haven’t played for awhile. I especially enjoy their version of Cannonball Adderley’s Jive Samba. As the end comes near, I notice four different couples each cocooned in worlds of their making. If it wasn’t so authentically sweet, I would have puked.

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.

    jazz club --

my cognac snifter fills

with lost bop

           - JW, 6-30-12