The Doorman’s Diary: 5.31.14

To welcome the warm weather, the jazz club’s door is propped open when I arrive for the night. The place is empty, which always makes it a challenge at first. The initial couple or group to arrive tend to be naïve to life at night, so they’ll stand near the door inquisitive but fearful. It is so tempting to toy with them. Some night I’ll laugh maniacally and holler to the bartender, “LOOK HERE…OUR FIRST CUSTOMERS IN WEEKS!!” But not tonight. The club starts filling with its wonderful mix of humanity….ahhh jazz…. how it harmonizes the disparate. The quintet was into its Latin version of Mile’s All Blues when I noticed a young couple walk past the front door and warily cock their ears for a listen. With the authority vested in me by the club owner and using my Royal Academy of Doormen training, I motion them to me with a sense of command. They both have tattoo sleeves and notable piercings—she has a septum piercing, he has ear lobe plugs. I say, “Welcome….stop hesitating, you belong here.” They stammer a bit and make motions for their wallets. “Aheh, not tonight…you’re guests of The Doorman, come on in.” From the moment they enter until they leave hours later they are perched on the edge of their barstools enraptured. Live jazz has them captivated. I feel good that I read them accurately: They do belong here.

The Doorman’ s Diary: 11.2.12

I am The Doorman at a jazz club… a jazz club that occasionally features the blues. Tonight is a blues night. Headlining is an all women blues band—a quartet. Not a fluffy pretty girl band, but women of substance who have experienced hard knocks. They are beautiful. The drummer lays down a merciless barreling straight ahead freight train, supported by the chest-throttling heavy bass beat. The keyboard plays rhythms that define traditional blues patterns but twists and bends them to suit her needs. The lead guitarist demonstrates on every song that she is not a lightweight. She bends notes, tickles the strings, and makes her guitar moan when least expected. At the end of one exceptional sweaty song, the black keyboard player says to the white guitarist, ”Whoa girl! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re black!” Three of the four musicians sing and back each other up on vocals. They sing with conviction about cheating, betrayal, and demanding, like Bonnie Raitt does, to be loved like a man. The club fills comfortably with blues fans, newbies, and a few misplaced jazz aficionados. An independent filmmaker presents herself at the door, looking for a piano bar. She loves the look of the club, but we don’t have the big gleaming grand piano. She is thoughtful, interesting, and full of creative ideas. I realize the privilege of being The Doorman is that I have the good fortune of meeting her. The downside of being The Doorman is that I can’t abandon my post and enjoy learning about her film and her life. The Studs Terkel in me got squelched. In between talking with the smart filmmaker there was the ebb and flow of customers, including the leather motorcycle couple that enjoyed road house dancing when they weren’t swigging beer and Jack, and the gaunt smoker man who wears a dark, duster coat. I let duster smoker man in for free since he’s an irregular regular. He appreciated the generosity at the door, which got me thinking that I was long overdue to give the good man a break. 

red --
the prominent role
in one life
                 - JW, 8-16-12

The Doorman’s Diary: 8.10.12

The old timer super-accomplished jazz guitarist played with a taught trumpet player, stand-up bass (YES, the way jazz bass should be), and a drummer. It felt right and clearly sounded the way jazz should sound. A small group came to the club. They are headed up by a hyper-enthused gentleman who is a long-time jazz drummer and includes a friend and her adult son who are visiting from Greece. I was glad to see an irregular regular show up with his seeing-eye dog. I made sure to phrase my greeting better than the last time, when I said something like “You haven’t seen us in awhile” – ugh! The couple accompanying him are regulars and the man in the couple is a hand percussionist. Suddenly a pair of bongos appears in his hands and he joins the group for a couple of numbers and adds some Latin spice to the music. Very impressive contribution, since the quartet clearly has heavyweights that leaves no holes in their music. It was neat to see how seamlessly they made room for very note being expertly pounded on the skins. The absorption was complete. Later in the night a couple arrives that I immediately fall in love with. I know that doesn’t sound professional for The Doorman to admit, but it was clear that they are both genuinely good, friendly, and from the astute perspective of The Doorman it was clear they belong to each other. When he was at the Men’s Room, I learn that she’s 28, they’re on their 5^th or 6^th date, she loves jazz and blues but he doesn’t, he’s a kind and gentle man, he’s more of a dog person where she is neutral on the dog vs. cat question, and she has a 9-year-old daughter. I looked into her cute face and said, “If you at all wonder whether there’s a future with this guy, let me bestow the wisdom of The Door on you… your daughter can see through any façade, game-playing, or walls better than Superman’s X-ray vision, so if she likes him and thinks that he’s genuinely good, my advice is to set the hook and reel him in.” She nodded her head vigorously and said, “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking, you’re right!” I returned to my post and crossed my fingers in the hopes that I am privileged to be witnessing the beginnings of a beautiful relationship.