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 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 2.8.13

We're both a jazz and blues club. Tonight there's an incredible all women blues band. They're middle aged so they've earned their journeyman's papers in life. So when they sing about being mistreated, there's passion there. The keyboard player with her Brillo pad snow-white hair snarled like a chained alley dog. Speaking of alleys, I could walk down a dark alley with the drummer and only she would emerge on the other side. She's a beast. They played some standard blues tunes—one of which transitioned into Sly and the Family Stone’s Everyday People. When they finished one incredible song, the bass player says, "Wow! We've never played that song together--I'm surprised we ended it so well." It shouldn't be a surprise, since they are all superb musicians. As one of them had quipped, "Unlike guy musicians, women talk--with these ladies, we all communicate.” The crowd wanted to dance, so every corner was filled with spastic footwork, hip wiggles, and gyrations. A gentleman with a well-trimmed beard and a mustache that hinted at a handlebar sat at the bar with a snifter. He has come from a theater performance -- in fact, his 53rd play he's attended within a year. He was enjoying the rhythmic writhing of one lass who noticed him noticing her. She signaled for him to join her. He obliged. I was afraid for Mr. Theater with his thick-knot tie and pocket-watch demeanor, but he surprised all observers. He did a unique halting touch, glide, swirl thing that suited him and somehow his dramatic flair complimented the shimmies and pelvic thrusts of the young woman. Don’t ask me how or why.... but it seemed to work. 

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.