The Doorman's Diary 5.28.13

A little rain dampens the night. It also dampens interest in coming to the jazz club, which is too bad. Rain and jazz are a good match. Just like distant rumbling thunder, the jazz guitar quartet is perfect for easing into a contemplative mood. There are a number in the club's sparse crowd who get it. They know how to comport themselves in a jazz club -- you come to listen, relax, and be cool. There's a group of eight pastel people who don't understand. Every time the bass player takes one of his extended solos -- intricately fingering or strumming with his bow -- the pastels amp up their yakety yakking and cackling laughing. It's times like this where The Doorman needs special powers. I'd hit them all with the Immobolizer -- an energy beam that would render them inert. In their quiet, static state they'd enjoy the music.... hopefully. Pastel people are generally suburban residents who have taken a lark to come to the city for jazz. They wear a lot of pastel colors, horizontal stripes, or colors never found in nature. They are scrubbed clean, usually very white, and consider the chain restaurant TGI Fridays to epitomize extreme nightlife. An interesting black / blonde couple enters with their third wheel. The third wheel is crippled with motor control issues. He uses a cane with a four-point foot and uses two hands to get his drink to his mouth. He has soulful cool jazz eyes that reveal intelligence. It seems like a cruel joke to be stuck in a cattywompus body--but what do I really know? I make sure to give him my card when they leave and tell him he obviously enjoys jazz and belongs here.

The Doorman's Diary 4.26.13

Clear, warm Spring eve and there's no telling how busy the club might be. A man wearing a plain baseball cap is seated at the bar near the door. I remark about the pleasant weather to make him feel at ease. He uses my vague remark to pivot into a series of questions while interweaving autobiography, intending to impress. He's a retired architect from a successful firm that has his name on the door. He plays jazz sax--both tenor and soprano, and he lives in a nice condo with some name like Vantage Peak or Exclusive Heights. He asks pedigree info about the club, the music, and the quartet playing tonight. I catch myself on the verge of defending and bragging. I don't and slip into my doorman-don't-know role, to allow him to feel smug and superior. The facelift blonde with her over-plucked brows enters with a different man than previous visits. She oddly vacillates between prancing cutely like a 16-year-old and acting aggressive like the prison yard alpha. She's scary weird. In between a Coltrane and Monk songs, she springs up from her table and storms assertively toward me, then veers sharply to go to the bar. I couldn't tell if she was going to cuff me or kiss me--either behavior would be in character. I look out the window and above the neon tattooing the darkness I see a full moon, which may explain a lot. There's a woman sitting at a table of six who clearly has been touched with lunar madness. She hasn't stopped blathering since they were seated and guffaws loudly every 20 to 40 seconds. I fantasize that they come, muzzle her, and strap her into a straight jacket. Size Medium will work.

The Doorman's Diary 12.1.12

The jazz club is filling comfortably tonight. When I first arrive, I sit at the bar with the bartender and share a cup of coffee. A couple of women walk in and sit at the bar and order drinks. When the bartender serves them, he says to me: “I’ve got their cover charges.” I couldn’t help it, so I say: “I don’t know… two beautiful women… I’m not sure I would have collected a cover.” They’re flattered and literally giggle. My intent is a compliment, which is how it is taken (I think), but I think afterwards: “You idiot… don’t say stuff like that because it can easily be interpreted as being smarmy.” Later I learn that they are a daughter and mom—the daughter bringing her mom to enjoy the jazz music. How sweet is that? A guest vocalist joins the quintet tonight. She incorporates African chants, as a form of scat singing. She does a very interesting West African tribal chant as a prelude in the Horace Silver “Song for my Father.” She’s delivering the chant with vim and power while the keyboard, bass, and drums lay out an extended baseline for her exotic vocals. A young blonde woman jumps out of her chair, throws her arms in the air and dances freeform hippie style. She runs back and pulls a young Asian gentleman into her Dawn of Aquarius dream state. Only in America does it seem so natural that in a small jazz club there can be a black singer singing indigenous West African chants that move a blonde white woman and her Asian friend to spontaneous, impromptu dancing.

The Doorman’ s Diary: 9.21.12

Epitome of a jazz-cool night. Trio is exceptionally crisp. The drummer shows virtuoso competence beyond compare. He clickety-clacks the rim and under taps the cymbal all in a manner of maintaining the rhythm. The stand-up bass and electric piano aren’t laggards either. Later they are joined by a cool cat singer and then the kid on alto – both have wandered in to the club and are pleasant diversions, although unnecessary. The trio is that good and each song is passionately fresh. There are three jazz appreciators of note tonight. An early 20’s couple approaches me at the door but like frightened sparrows they flit away after I ask for the cover. “Hold on,” I command. “I’ll let you in free, but you must pinky swear that  you’ll come back, if you have a good time.” They come in and clearly enjoy themselves, ballroom dancing to a couple of songs. When they leave they effuse as to how much they enjoy the music, like the feel of the club, and how they owe it all to me. “We’ve never had a door man pinky swear with us and make us feel so welcome.” I fight the temptation to burst their joy-joy bubble with a snide remark and surprise myself by saying something gracious like, “Glade to hear it… you two made my night.” The second guest of interest is a transgender individual. Broad shoulders and hands of a union steamfitter, this woman-man is clearly a knowledgeable jazz appreciator. S/he is earnestly happy to have found the club and is pleasant and likeable. She’s a relatively recent transplant from Brooklyn, so I connect her with a regular to the club, a jazz-loving truck driver who is also from Brooklyn. They were talking about streets they lived on and all the saints and sinners places they used to frequent. In the end, s/he’s giving him her business card and he’s saying “I’ll definitely call you and I’ll take you out for dinner.” I love the jazz club. Differences and oddities make no difference and people are liked for who they are. The last jazz fans of note had snuck in while I’m taking photos of guests for the club’s Facebook page. It is too late to collect a cover, so I don’t bother. As I’m leaving for the night, I ask if I can photograph them for the FB page. They’re a pleasant and friendly black couple, so I felt comfortable complimenting the young woman, “You look amazing,” I say. “Your blonde hair is remarkable and really flatters you.” And it does.

The Doorman's Diary 5.25.12

The jazz club looked welcoming tonight. There was the promise of rain in the night air, but promises can be broken. A tall, solid-built blonde towered over me while asking if we give a military discount on the $5 cover. I said, Of course, it’s only five bucks for you. Later I got talking to her and her friend. I asked what branch of the military she serves in? “Spent 16 years in the Army and it’s going on eight years now in the Air Force.” Why switch branches? She said, “I’m getting too old to jump out of airplanes.” I looked puzzled, because I am. “Jumping is the only way to get personnel in areas where they need to be. With the Air Force, we land the plane and walk off.” Where have you been deployed, I asked? “I just finished a year going all over the world.” Like where? “All the places you see on CNN.” So, Special Ops…? She looked surprised by the question but then answered, “You know the drill… if I tell you…” About then, the band was between songs and the band leader says into his mike, “Look, there’s The Doorman busy talking to a couple of beautiful women… hey you know he’s married and has about 35 kids.” Not missing a beat, my Amazon warrior turned to him and yelled, “So, one more won’t be a big deal then.”