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 3.22.13

The bartender opens early, so when I arrive it is common to walk into the club with patrons scattered around the bar. A solid couple is there and a group of four further down. A tall bearded man stands trying to monopolize the bartender's attention. He speaks at a volume level slightly higher than the din, which makes me take notice. I look and he has the crazy eye. The tender says at a level matching his: "Here's The Doorman, he will BE collecting the door charge," while he arches an eyebrow. I could have been mean and said, "Is there something wrong with your eye?" Others filter in, but the pace is as relaxing as the jazz guitar quartet. They play John Scofield's "Cool" and it is cool. The drummer, keyboard, and bass add flourishes that match the guitar work. A pair of couples walk in lead by the boss, a dominating woman, who is fueled by alcohol. She hears cover charge and balks. She faux slaps my face but hits hard enough to make me instantly dislike her. One of the men hands me a Jackson to cover them. I was devising interesting ways to torture her when a customer walks past with the tip jar for the band. It's empty and she's making it her mission to fill it for the band. She approaches customers and asks them to toss a buck in for the band. I should have exerted Door authority, but I do what I do in cases where I'm witnessing the unbelievable....observe while thinking "is this for real or am imagining this?" I let her go. I stay at my post and enjoy their renditions of Take Five and Horace Silver's Song for My Father. I enjoy their versions and wonder what it might be like to be on the Great Lakes boat of the one visiting out-of-town couple who promise to float into town some day this summer. 

The Doorman's Diary 1.10.13

There is a blue hue to the night...as though a backlight was being smothered  by black cotton. It's comfortable, not menacing...a perfect night for jazz. I arrive for my duty at the door knowing I will enjoy the night more than I should. We have a jazz guitar quartet. The guitarist is ancient and could easily claim to have invented jazz. As far as he's concerned, he did...at least for the greater city where we live. He created the jazz program at the local music conservatory where most everyone in jazz with local roots has studied, taught, or tutored. He is a god. And like all old gods, he's cranky, impatient, and less perfect than he used to be. He still plays exquisitely but the the frenzy is gone. He's more relaxed, which matches my need for the night. It also matches the needs of a young couple, in town here for a government employee convention. They melted into their stools at the bar and had exhale aaaaaaahhh grins of satisfaction -- as did a foursome sitting next to them. I notice that two guys of the three guys and a young woman foursome has ordered Jameson neat. I mention to the Jameson sippers that they need to someday soon try the 18-year-old Jameson. I learn that they are both a couple years within university graduation--one is a CPA and the other a mechanical engineer. "You guys defy the stereotype of being quiet introverts," I say--realizing as I say it that I'm being rude. "Oh, not at all," they say. "In most instances, that's accurate." They are genuinely nice and likable guys, and emblematic of a generation that goes to a university for a profession, not to expand one's view of the world, and gets a high-paying job after graduation. The expectations are realized. The well-ordered plan is followed. I break from them and watch the old guitarist finger his way through a lovely solo and smile in appreciation knowing that my enjoyment--as well as everyone else's in the club--is his pay.

The Doorman's Diary 12.14.12

Mellow jazz guitar quartet. A couple sitting at the bar near the door proved interesting. The guy steps outside to have a smoke as I was propping the door open to let cool fresh air in. We get talking and I learn that he has history working jobs through a temp agency. Long term--like years--at these jobs. He had been security at a huge music hall that brings everything from metal to hip hop to country. Currently he works at a huge web-press magazine and catalog printer. "Any chance of being hired direct?" He says: "I  don't have a car, so I can't get there and I can't afford a car 'till I get paid better." So he lives a Catch-22 life of treading at $8 an hour with the temp-agency van driving him to work and back. Been doing this for years. I was happy to see again and old jazz cat. A wizened face and black beret. Said to him: "Good seeing you, it's been awhile." He recently returned from New York where he was helping on his son's campaign for Congress--going door to door in Harlem. Tells me he turns 84 in four months. His life:  Born in Texas, near Louisiana border...orphaned, then adopted...troubled youth...joined the Air Force when facing a join or jail choice...his all Black unit were guinea pigs in jet propulsion testing, 16 died during the testing...got Bachelor's and Master's at George Mason University...married a Jewish woman in the 1960's which was a convictable offense (the police chief and circuit court judge at the time would have gleefully arrested him and locked him up)....went to Kansas to get married...raised five kids, all successes...helped found a neighborhood association in one of the city's first integrated neighborhoods. He mentions all the hassles in trying to uncover his roots. My advise is easy, but I think pretty accurate: forget about your past, you’ll hit nothing but dead ends and misery when faced with your slavery lineage. You are living a successful life and you're the grand patriarch of a wonderful extended family. The history starts with you, my dear friend. You are the center of your family's universe! 

The Doorman's Diary 11.16.12

The legend. Close to 80 years old if not already an octogenarian. Rumor is that he's spent more of his life stoned, than straight. It's close to performance time and he saunters in. The club owner jokes that she's afraid to knock on his car window to get him in sooner for fear the startle would give him a heart attack. His enabling band mates are waiting and have his stool and jazz guitar ready. He floats to his stool and launches the first song, playing exquisitely, albeit less aggressively than in his youth. The sax player is wonderful--alternating between his alto and soprano. He carries two songs with his soprano, one of which is Gershwin’s Summertime. I like the bass player too and get talking to him at the break (while the old guitarist gets his bearings in his smoke-filled car). I learn the bass player teaches guitar at the main university in town. His love is classical and jazz guitar but he's played bass all his life. I say, "Man, you have the perfect build for the double bass... big hands, strong forearms, and you"re tall." He responds, "I know, I know... everyone tells me I'm a bass player, not a guitarist, but the bass is too easy--the guitar is more challenging." Now, not only do I like the professor, but I respect him, and his pursuit of his elusive muse: the guitar. An interesting couple is new to the city, having moved here from the South West. He's a physician; she's using the move to start fresh, having spent 20 years as a decorative wall and trim painter. She plans to now paint canvases. An attractive young woman enters the club. The waitress' eyes light up and she hits on her while serving. I ask the waitress, "How do you tell which side of the fence a woman plays on? " I didn't hear the response because the music was too loud, but did learn the woman of her attraction is married, but had answered a critical question she asked her ambiguously... so the door, as far as she's concerned, is ajar. I wonder how many unfulfilled yearnings are spawned in this room?