The Aesthetics of Decay

I have to admit that I’m fond of industrial decay and the faded past. Growing up in the rust belt, where factories and industry were a part of life, it was understood that people worked for companies that made stuff. And having visited and toured a fair number of manufacturing plants I grew to appreciate the aesthetics of labor, machinery, and industrial spunk. That’s why seeing an old, abandoned facility deteriorating or a faded wall advertisement for a long-gone business opens up the imagination. Like many others, I’m drawn to the old factory building that had been a productive hub with people producing stuff until one day somebody locked the door for the last time and walked away. Was there any sentiment before the key clicked the bolt tight? Sadness, remorse, or relief? And what does one do with the key? Is it tossed out? Thrown into a junk drawer? Carried around on a key ring until someone, somewhere after death, while sorting through personal affects asks, “What’s this key for?”

dark lot

in a steel dumpster

rats scramble

            - JW, 10-11-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.8-9.11

It was an odd night, which doesn’t say much. Every night at the jazz club is different. An early couple balked at the cover, paid it, had a drink, then left before the music started. I offered a refund, but they refused it. Oh kaaay? The band started and was especially loud. Sharpened No. 2’s in the ears would have been preferred to some of the notes the trumpet was hitting. Several customers left. When I tactfully pointed it out to the club owner, who believes loud music creates a party atmosphere, it was blamed on someone unnecessarily fiddling with the controls. Oh kaaay? The drummer in the jazz quintet took a solo—not unusual. But what was fun is that he was playing only cymbals. Rhythmic, but furious, splish-splash sounds were filling the club. It was going on record as the first cymbal-only drum solo until the lure of the skins possessed him and he hammered away. To balance it out, he returned back to the cymbals and finished to a rousing applause. Expertly executed. Interesting customers included two different couples trying to maintain long-distance relationships—one dark-haired beauty from the Dominican Republic, the other black haired beauty from Chicago; an old guy with penny candy as his economic reference who snarled “five dol...LARS!” at the cover charge as though it should be 50¢; and a group of young folks dressed in thrift shop finery—two of which are opening an art gallery in a transitional neighborhood. All in all an odd night… oh kaaay?

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.7-8.11

Our scheduled group had to do some reshuffling last week. Today is Yom Kippur, perhaps the holiest and most solemn high holiday for the Jews. The band's leader and two members are Jewish and would be observing the Day of Atonement. The tenor and singer, whose voice I absolutely adore, were here, as well as fill-ins for drums and bass. And replacing the group-leader, was an incredible guitarist. When the jazz vocalist wasn’t singing the group ran wild with jagged avant-garde. The singer did an incredible slow-pace, Porgy and Bess-style version of Summertime in honor of our unseasonably warm weather. With door and windows wide open to the warm air, her smooth and controlled voice carried lazily outside the club like a do-nothing summer day. I’ve never heard the song sung more beautifully. As I was imagining myself laying on a South Carolina sand dune soaking up summer, I was happy to see BPB show up. Big Pappa Bear is the name I’ve chosen for a customer who looks like a huge brown bear. When he filled the doorway a couple of weeks ago, my initial thought was this guy could be trouble. Then I looked into his dark, big marble eyes and could see he’s a gentle spirit. He has a giant smile, huge laugh, and a timber-rattling voice. We connected. Tonight, when he showed up with his lady, he gave me a bear hug that compressed all 24 of my ribs, the sternum, costal cartilages, and the 12 thoracic vertebrae. He settled at the bar and later when the tenor who plays in the house band was called up for a number, BPB—being familiar with the musician’s talent—boomed out “THAT’S MY BOY!! HE’S SO COOL! LOOK AT HIM, HE IS SO COOL!!! The bear had spoken. And everyone in the jazz club and even those outside walking past, had heard Big Pappa Bear speak!

   blue day

   the man in the shadows

   coughs

               - JW, 10-6-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 10.1-2.11

The night started early. A delightful middle-age couple arrived while I was enjoying a pre-night’s coffee with the bartender. They came to the jazz club to celebrate their one-year anniversary. He’s an early 50’s city bus driver and his bride is in her mid 30’s—both jazz lovers. Then a group of seven arrived which included an attractive young couple. The young woman was wearing a dramatic royal-wedding style hat and her partner wore a Colonel Sanders style tie and a cream and brown fedora. I was asked if there was space to dance while I watched the hatted couple survey the space where the horn players stand. I said we’re not a dance club but that sometimes people will dance in back or on the side. The dramatic couple and their crew were clearly hoping to take control of some space to ply their talents. The trumpet player arrived and staked his claim, planting his music stand right in the middle of their imagined ballroom floor. The rest of the musicians showed up and the music kicked in. We were a good two or three songs into the night when the couple commenced dancing on the opposite side of the room from the horn section. The club’s cocktail tables are arranged on the floor in front of the band stage, so space is limited. The dancing couple quite sensuously engaged in their dips, grinds, and connect-releases. The young lady’s lithe form and asset became apparent through her moves. It was clear that they required a grander stage for their ballroom dancing exhibition, when a large jazz patron popped their illusion of fluid foreplay as she squeezed past them on her way to the Ladies Room. After the song had climaxed and the dance repertoire had ended, the couple politely listened to another song from the jazz quintet before leading their entourage out the door in search of a more appropriate venue for their breath-taking performance. 

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.30/10.1.11

The jazz quintet was on fire. The keyboard player was exceptional—tickling, pounding, and stroking the keys like he owned them… which, actually he does. But you get what I mean. He was hot! The crowd was super receptive. A couple of tables near the stage were occupied by a half-dozen young women with long flouncy hair who literally squealed when the bass player finished some complex, cat’s cradle-type fingering solo and whipped out his double-bass bow to finish the song. He could have wiped his face with a towel—ala Tom Jones—and tossed it to them and we’d have had bedlam. Close to midnight, a woman appeared at the door. I told her the cover is 5 bucks and she asked, “What do I get for it?” I said, Live jazz and my endearing friendship for life. “I doubt the later, but I’ll take the music.” It’s her last night in town and she had been looking for good jazz, which she found here. She grew up in Watts and “escaped it by using my brains.” She’s a medical auditor, traveling to various assigned hospitals to interview the staff and perform process audits. She contributed to the enthusiasm of the crowd fanning down the tenor as he wailed on his signature Grover Washington, Jr. tune. I trust her audit report on the jazz club would be positive… very positive.