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 8.24.12

I've noticed it on other nights and simply labeled it a sign of the times. Last night I extrapolated. We will see the demise of purse snatchers and pick pockets. Better policing? Improved morals? No, no. The Debit Card Generation. Those in their 20's and early 30's don't carry cash. I had three different groups of two or three jazz customers in that age range at the door that hemed and hawed, fumbled around when I asked for the $5 cover. The generally ask for an ATM and then are faux shocked when they learn that we don't have one. Also characteristic is the discrete-transaction thinking pattern. They don't see The Door connected to the Jazz Club. It's the thinking that if they can't pass through the door, there's no option for getting in. Interesting... very interesting. Tonight we have a duet - which is always tough for filling the club. Several parties veered away when they didn't see horns or bass. We are geared for the quartet or quintet, I guess. Traditional jazz. One interesting couple we had, paid the cover with cash -- big cash. The gentleman opened his wallet and fanned through a bunch of $100"s before handing me a Grant. He wasn't doing it to show off, it was clearly his style. I remarked that he's clearly a rebellious spirit - not joining The Debit Card Generation. They laughed an understanding laugh.

The Doorman’s Diary: 8.11.12

An usually sparse crowd tonight. A young woman came to the door looking for the owner. She’s a jazz singer, whose been living in New York for the past three years. She is tentative, gentle, and very nice—all traits that get her pushed to the side in a highly competitive music scene. As we chatted further, it became clear. Her daddy apparently has some renown in jazz and she had sung with his group. She described an incident where she had sung a solo in a song and daddy had the musicians stop playing so he could chew her out for some kind of transgression. After learning about her father publically humiliating her, I understood why she is the way she is. The same night of that incident a woman walked up to her and said that her voice reminded her of her grandmother and to promise that she’ll never stop singing. That moderated the slap from her father. I felt bad for this young lady. She’s 31 and still seeking the approval of her father, who clearly is a controlling bastard who is probably threatened by her talent. In the process of talking with her I was encouraging and offered advice to listen to her own voice that will tell her what to do in her singing career. I told her to take one step at a time and make sure the steps are going forward. She thanked me for my encouragement and advice and asked how I knew all of this. I said, “Sweet young woman, I AM The Doorman.”