The Doorman's Diary 2.22.13

A hard core blues night. Four weather-beaten dudes who know their howlin,' lead belly, muddy, Memphis, and pinetop. They have wrinkles. They have gravel in their voices. They is the blues. The keyboard player is a showman, bobbing, weaving, throwing his head back in agony. The lead guitarist knows his guitar like an English teacher knows grammar. He made it bend, howl, and stab to his bidding. The bass and drums were equally adept. The blues crowd is less refined than the jazz aficionados. They can be cheap and demanding. As The Doorman, I know. A short butterball woman and her boyfriend entered. She wears the pants in the couple and asserted that they should get in at half price. I corrected her illusion. She drank Cabernet and then bought blended shots for herself and a woman sitting next to her at the bar. She let out eardrum exploding whistles every time the band ended a song and stoutly stood gyrating her hips to the music (at least that appeared to be what she was doing). A blues singer joined the group for a couple of songs. I've heard her before and she's as exceptional as the members of the group. She belted out Dr. Feelgood and Gene Allison’s You Can Make It if You Try, which was matched later in the night by the drummer's snarling version of Hootchie Cootchie Man. A true blue blues night it was.

The Doorman’ s Diary: 11.2.12

I am The Doorman at a jazz club… a jazz club that occasionally features the blues. Tonight is a blues night. Headlining is an all women blues band—a quartet. Not a fluffy pretty girl band, but women of substance who have experienced hard knocks. They are beautiful. The drummer lays down a merciless barreling straight ahead freight train, supported by the chest-throttling heavy bass beat. The keyboard plays rhythms that define traditional blues patterns but twists and bends them to suit her needs. The lead guitarist demonstrates on every song that she is not a lightweight. She bends notes, tickles the strings, and makes her guitar moan when least expected. At the end of one exceptional sweaty song, the black keyboard player says to the white guitarist, ”Whoa girl! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re black!” Three of the four musicians sing and back each other up on vocals. They sing with conviction about cheating, betrayal, and demanding, like Bonnie Raitt does, to be loved like a man. The club fills comfortably with blues fans, newbies, and a few misplaced jazz aficionados. An independent filmmaker presents herself at the door, looking for a piano bar. She loves the look of the club, but we don’t have the big gleaming grand piano. She is thoughtful, interesting, and full of creative ideas. I realize the privilege of being The Doorman is that I have the good fortune of meeting her. The downside of being The Doorman is that I can’t abandon my post and enjoy learning about her film and her life. The Studs Terkel in me got squelched. In between talking with the smart filmmaker there was the ebb and flow of customers, including the leather motorcycle couple that enjoyed road house dancing when they weren’t swigging beer and Jack, and the gaunt smoker man who wears a dark, duster coat. I let duster smoker man in for free since he’s an irregular regular. He appreciated the generosity at the door, which got me thinking that I was long overdue to give the good man a break. 

The Doorman's Diary 8.3.12

When the world zigs, we zag appears to be the philosophy of the jazz club owner. This is the weekend of a nearby jazz festival, so we have blues scheduled both nights. Tonight we have an incredible old time bluesman and his group. A superb drummer, the blues guy was accompanied by guitar, bass, and keyboard. The guitarist is probably the best blues guitarist I've ever seen. Solidly middle-aged with long dreads, the guy knew his guitar better than his lover's body. He was restrained when called for and aggressive when needed. He added sparkles and flourishes when necessary. At one time he did the Jimi thing of playing behind his head and at all times knew which note to play. The band did a pseudo country tune and someone gave him a shot glass and he added slide guitar accents to the song. A similarly-aged white guy (the band was black & blues) had joined them for one set and played trumpet. He added tasteful brass zingers. At the break I complimented the guitarist and told him I wanted to be there at the moment he's unleashed and looses control. "I love the guitar," he admitted. I also caught the trumpet man when he was leaving. While I was complimenting him, he said "I think I know you from a different context--I’m sure I do." I should have said, "You’re mistaken, I am merely The Doorman." it's part of The Doorman code to never reveal any other identity than being guardian of the door. I violated a prime directive and discovered that our paths have crossed, but never intersected. Close call - need to re-read The Doorman's Handbook and abide the rules!