The Doorman's Diary 6.28.14

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There’s an edge tonight. Some are on edge; some edgy. Everyone wants to be someplace, but a map and GPS can’t find someplace. Three show up at the jazz club who are the exception. They want to be here. The jazz club is the someplace they want to be. The middle-aged couple have brought her dad here to celebrate his 84^th birthday. A good-looking white-hair gentleman….he enjoys the music. A trio of women enter all wary and on edge. They calm down at the bar. One of them keeps going outside, but not to smoke or chat on her cell. I wonder… Another of the trio steps up to me and asks in a demanding tone if a little man has entered the club. Not that I recall is what I say. She grimaces and returns to her stool at the bar. Moments later, a little man presents himself at the door. He is short, but too tall to be considered a little person or a race jockey. Yet, he’s too short to be any good at table tennis or waxing a SUV. Grimace lady rushes to me waving a five—the little man lucks out. Throughout the night, he stands behind the tables on the floor thoroughly enjoying the music. A highlight for both of us is the delicately-executed solo during the quintet’s version of Freddie Hubbard’s “Little Sunflower.” The saxman sounds like he’s crocheting a lacy brocade doily for grandma’s mahogany side table. A refreshing, unexpected, and tasteful treatment from a tenor and quintet that prides itself in its hard-driving sound.

The Doorman's Diary 6.13.14

Calamity and lunacy could reign…it’s Friday the 13^th and a full moon. Technically, we’re a couple of ticks beyond the official full moon night and as long as I keep thinking that today is merely the tomorrow of Thursday the 12^th, everything should be fine. And a fine glittery night it is. To celebrate the impending season change, the Latin jazz band plays their version of Summertime, which sizzles in a pan of congas, guitar and deep bass played by the biggest brown bear found south of the Canadian border. The sauce is further stirred by a guest tenor whose horn adds just enough pepper. At one point, a few songs later after their frenzied take on Willie Bobo’s Haitian Lady, the band leader steps out from his drum set and in front of the congas to invite what appears to be a random, nondescript woman to the stage. “She will sing a beautiful song to us in Portuguese.” With every step to the stage she dramatically transforms into the likeness of the Lisbon-born stunner singer Teresa Salgueiro and her voice is equally beguiling. She caresses the quintet and transforms the club into Hot Clube de Portugal in a cellar in Praça da Alegria, one of the oldest jazz clubs in Europe, since 1948. Tele-transportation occurs and we’re in the dark, comfort of this Lisbon jazz club. The proof: left on the side of the congas was an old time travel decal—Portugal—just like the ones travellers in the last mid-century would affix to their hard-body luggage and travel wardrobes as souvenirs of their journeys. I’m convinced. We were there… if only for her smoldering sensuous song.

 blue dusk --

 faint memories drift

 in a tenor jive

                  - JW, 5-12-13

The Doorman's Diary: 10.20.12

There’s a 14-word Imagist poem by Ezra Pound that’s apropos of this night.

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

Huh? you say. The story goes that ol’ Ezra is describing a moment in the underground metro station in Paris in 1912 as he descended and saw the massive crowd of people. The faces became indistinguishable and reminded him of glistening wet petals. The same is occurring to The Doorman tonight. We are experiencing the largest crowd ever in my history of doormanship. The faces, people, and personalities are a pleasant blur. The jazz quintet is playing hard-driving jazz to keep the crowd glued to their seats… even the folding chairs we set outside in warmer weather with patio tables have been pulled into action by an enterprising renegade customer. We’re violating fire codes left and right but the crowd is feeding off the energy of the band. Who would dare to argue with a crowd fired up on Grover Washington’s Mr. Magic… the tenor blowing his horn inside out. An old jazz crooner who typically gets invited up to the bandstand to sing Sinatra and other standards has hobbled his way into view of the bandleader with hopes of an invite up. He wants a piece of the action. I think, “Not tonight Jack, it ain’t the right groove.” I’m having no issues at the door collecting covers that will pay the band and keep a good half-dozen lightbulbs burning, until I get a quartet of attractive women who I guess expect to breeze past me. They clearly feel entitled and are startled that I’m asking for the cover. I could see one of them weighing whether to hit me with the wounded fawn or Betty Boop ploy. I turned to her and gave her my best “Not tonight Jackie, it ain’t the right groove” Doorman look and they all swiveled on their high heels and left.

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.