The Doorman’s Diary: 9.7.12

A couple take up residence on the far side of the bar before the music starts. The guy is Bigfoot size and his lady friend has blonde hair with the under-side ends dyed pink. They order two whiskey old fashions. The few people that are here need stiff drinks since the fill-in band is dismal. The music reminds me of really bad CYO dance bands from te 1970’s that played popular songs too slow to dance to but not slow enough to spend a few minutes with a then 15-year-old girl’s hot, sweaty body pressed against you. Allegedly they are a blues band, but they play too many pop covers to lay claim to that label. A lead singer hits all the right visual notes—she is blonde and wearing a cleavage-displaying red dress—but her singing is passionless and off tune. They do one song I think is a country tune. The bartender and I exchange WTF? glances before I step outside to inspect the sidewalk cracks. It’s a night like this that makes the good nights all that better.

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.”

The Doorman's Diary 7.27.12

Pleasant breezy Friday eve with front door and windows wide open. Tonight will be pleasant—jazz couple on stage. Singer with incredible voice. When they were getting the mike volume set, she sang “1 - 2 – 3.” Told her, “You can sing from one to 50 and the alphabet, and we’d all be happy.” Her husband is noted and accomplished jazz guitarist who apparently had thoroughly mastered the guitar so he designed and had constructed a three-in-one instrument. Three arms, 18 strings (I think), with bass on the bottom, then guitar, and a mandolin on top. He effortlessly roamed between each layer-cake-stacked instrument—impressive. I think there may be room above the mandolin for a ukulele. I’ll have to start an “Add a Uke” campaign. The crowd was small, because of at least two major events nearby—a big German festival and a gallery night in a nearby arts neighborhood where the artists’ studios, galleries, and two art schools open their doors for the curious public. Gallery night folks who come to the club are in a mooching mode. Filled with free cheap wine, pretzels, and cheese and crackers, they look as though they’ve been asked to explain the chemical structure of matter when a $5 cover is requested. The typical response is “What??” as though they didn’t hear correctly which is followed by a puzzled, hurt look. A couple who had arrived early before the music started was sitting at the bar. When I asked if they planned to stay for the music and then asked for the cover after they said Yes, they got hostile indignant. They demanded to see a written policy and said it’s against the law to request money since they arrived before the show. If I had been thinking, I would have said, “The club policies are all clearly stated and prominently posted outside in back… right above the dumpsters.”

The Doorman’s Diary: 7.13.12

Tonight, the vocalist-piano duet includes two other musicians—drummer and bassist—making them a singer backed up by a jazz trio. It was a necessary transformation from piano lounge act to jazz club performers. The fuller sound makes a difference. With the trio behind her, the singer’s versions of Billie Holliday’s God Bless the Child and Peggy Lee’s You Give Me Fever were over the top. A couple of fun middle-aged women came back tonight. They had been to the club a few months ago and with a little prompting I remembered them. They said they’re working on a book together addressing the issue  of when it’s appropriate to hit or spank a child. “Never, right…,” I asked? “Talk, rather than hit, right?” I was surprised to hear them say that hitting a child can be appropriate. They said that in their African American community there’s too much lack of discipline. “But you can discipline without whacking, right?” As I say, I was surprised and decided it was best to talk about the heat-breaking cooler weather. The vocalist’s husband joined her on stage and they did their unforgettable version of Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable. Hearts swooned. Then the singer and her trio let loose with Dr. Feelgood and it was as though she were leading a revival prayer meeting with her exaggerated voice and movements beckoning the audience. She moaned that when her and her man get to lovin’ they don’t have no time to sit and chat and sit and chit-chat… not when she’s got Dr. Feelgood… The child spankers and everyone else were standing and waving their arms and yelling “that’s right… you tell us, girl!” She, and her trio, made us all feel good… oh yeahhhhh.