The Doorman's Diary 2.8.13

We're both a jazz and blues club. Tonight there's an incredible all women blues band. They're middle aged so they've earned their journeyman's papers in life. So when they sing about being mistreated, there's passion there. The keyboard player with her Brillo pad snow-white hair snarled like a chained alley dog. Speaking of alleys, I could walk down a dark alley with the drummer and only she would emerge on the other side. She's a beast. They played some standard blues tunes—one of which transitioned into Sly and the Family Stone’s Everyday People. When they finished one incredible song, the bass player says, "Wow! We've never played that song together--I'm surprised we ended it so well." It shouldn't be a surprise, since they are all superb musicians. As one of them had quipped, "Unlike guy musicians, women talk--with these ladies, we all communicate.” The crowd wanted to dance, so every corner was filled with spastic footwork, hip wiggles, and gyrations. A gentleman with a well-trimmed beard and a mustache that hinted at a handlebar sat at the bar with a snifter. He has come from a theater performance -- in fact, his 53rd play he's attended within a year. He was enjoying the rhythmic writhing of one lass who noticed him noticing her. She signaled for him to join her. He obliged. I was afraid for Mr. Theater with his thick-knot tie and pocket-watch demeanor, but he surprised all observers. He did a unique halting touch, glide, swirl thing that suited him and somehow his dramatic flair complimented the shimmies and pelvic thrusts of the young woman. Don’t ask me how or why.... but it seemed to work. 

The Doorman's Diary: 2.1.13

It happens infrequently, but it happens. We get a woman with Queen Bee Syndrome. I'm at the jazz club early chatting with the bartender before our night truly begins. The tender is tending a couple in their thirties who sit comfortably at the bar. The woman has switched from wine to a cosmopolitans when a group of young guys fresh from a tour of the microbrewery down the block stumble in with their tokens for free beer. She perks up as the seven boisterous guys occupy the stools across from the couple. They're joking, swearing, and intending to maintain the buzz started while sampling the brew from the tour. With her cosmo smile, the woman scans the lineup and hooks into one of their jokes with her own quip and cackle. This starts a quip-cackle exchange that she relishes. She has made herself the center of attention. She beams across the bar at them and says, "You guys are cute; I want to buy your next round." A couple of the guys stumble over to the couple and are chatting her up. After a couple of minutes they wander back to the group and return to their inanity. Sensing that the focus is fading from her the woman beelines it over to the drunken guys' side and singles out one guy and rests her hand on his chest while intently explaining something (quark theory or challenges to the Austrian economy?). I speculate that the plan is to incite jealousy among the other bucks with hopes of regaining the center focus. It doesn't work. She ends up back with her date or mate who retains a patient and indulgent smile, clearly understanding her adoration needs or enjoying the fact that "his woman is desired by others." Fortunately others start filling the club, their interest being jazz. The quartet features a guest tenor who excels. His playing is like condensed type--every note is there and played with fluid grace. They play Eddie Palmieri's “In Walked Bud” and Miles' “All Blues,” in which he competently plays the dominating trumpet role but with his tenor. They launch into Clifford Brown's “Sandu,” and he switches to his flute. The music was so invigorating that a couple of women got up and started dancing. The blonde with arms in the air was gyrating and writhing. I could imagine her in a mini-skirt on an elevated platform or a dangling cage--1960's style go-go dancer. For a night where our expectations were as low as the temperature outside the crowd pleasantly surprised us. Even the far suburban man who came from his downtown job to hear the guest tenor left with a smile on his face.

  

A COUNTRY A WEEK: AFGHANISTAN

Photographer Steve McCurry shot one of the most enduring photos ever in 1994, the “Afghan Girl.” Sharbat Gula, a Pashtun refugee who had escaped the Russian invasion of her country to Pakistan was noticed because of her electrifying eyes. Shepherded by her grandmother (her parents killed by air raids) she and her three sisters and brother hiked a week through mountains covered with snow to get to the camp. The photo appears as the June 1985 cover of National Geographic. Recently, at age 28, 29, or 30 she was found 17 hard-lived years later—a married mother of three (a fourth child had died)… a survivor in Afghanistan. Invasion. Resistance. Invasion. A quarter century of war, 1.5 million killed, 3.5 million refugees. She barely looked at McCurry for the reunion photo and certainly wouldn’t smile, since that bit of intimacy is reserved for her husband.

A Country A Week

In an effort to learn even a little bit about the world beyond the USA, I'm picking a country a week to learn a little bit about. There are 257 countries in the world (including 66 partially disputed). In alpha order, Afghanistan is first.

The Doorman's Diary 1.18.13

I arrive. Man my post at the door. People come. I could end my entry right here. It is uneventful, except I am flummoxed twice. A young couple comes and I ID them, more as a show for the bartender who fights off demons all the time. There’s the what-if-the-cops-come-and demand-to-know-if-we-checked-IDs demon and the if-I-get-caught-serving-the-underage demon and there’s probably a mamma-wouldn’t-approve-if-I-get-caught-breaking-the-law demon. The young man shows me his driver’s license, while the woman shows me her passport. The passport throws me for a loop. The photo doesn’t match her in real life—hair length and hair color are different, but those are variables that 20-something females change. I wave them in. The second flumox is when two couples crowd the entrance. One gentleman offers to pay but only has $15 in cash and while we’re doing the what-do-you-mean-you-don’t-have-an-ATM dance, the other guy wips out a $50 bill. I’m confused at first and think I was just handed a $20, then learn I’m mistaken. The simple arithmetic of 50 mnus 20 elludes me. I punt to the bartender, who often struggles with simple math. He handles the transaction like the captain of the grade school math team. He looks at me like I’m an idiot, which I am at that moment. I said, “Sorry, they were changing out dfferent demoninations on me so I needed to break the flow so I wouldn’t be victim to a shell game scam.” He shakes his head and I think, “Good, keep the bartender wondering, which is fine since I am the mystery known as The Doorman

The Doorman's Diary 1.10.13

There is a blue hue to the night...as though a backlight was being smothered  by black cotton. It's comfortable, not menacing...a perfect night for jazz. I arrive for my duty at the door knowing I will enjoy the night more than I should. We have a jazz guitar quartet. The guitarist is ancient and could easily claim to have invented jazz. As far as he's concerned, he did...at least for the greater city where we live. He created the jazz program at the local music conservatory where most everyone in jazz with local roots has studied, taught, or tutored. He is a god. And like all old gods, he's cranky, impatient, and less perfect than he used to be. He still plays exquisitely but the the frenzy is gone. He's more relaxed, which matches my need for the night. It also matches the needs of a young couple, in town here for a government employee convention. They melted into their stools at the bar and had exhale aaaaaaahhh grins of satisfaction -- as did a foursome sitting next to them. I notice that two guys of the three guys and a young woman foursome has ordered Jameson neat. I mention to the Jameson sippers that they need to someday soon try the 18-year-old Jameson. I learn that they are both a couple years within university graduation--one is a CPA and the other a mechanical engineer. "You guys defy the stereotype of being quiet introverts," I say--realizing as I say it that I'm being rude. "Oh, not at all," they say. "In most instances, that's accurate." They are genuinely nice and likable guys, and emblematic of a generation that goes to a university for a profession, not to expand one's view of the world, and gets a high-paying job after graduation. The expectations are realized. The well-ordered plan is followed. I break from them and watch the old guitarist finger his way through a lovely solo and smile in appreciation knowing that my enjoyment--as well as everyone else's in the club--is his pay.

The Doorman's Diary 12-15-12

As night sweeps over the city... bringing out the sparkles and neon of light, I am at my my post as The Doorman at the jazz club. I am the gatekeeper troll and Mr. Rogers.  I catch the overly aggressive and encourage the timid flighty. I am the force for good and evil. Tonight we have a sparse crowd, but those that come... stay for most of the night. The quintet keeps them glued in place, playing superbly. The horn players demonstrate repeatedly that they are both exceptional. The trumpet / fluegelhorn player blows clear crystalline ice, while the tenor, alto, soprano plays molten fire. A father and teenage son enter. "I want my son to hear some jazz," the dad says. "You've come to the right place...the cover is five bucks for you; your son enters free as a guest of The Doorman." On the spot, I institute a new policy: a parent bringing an underage child to the club with the express purpose of edifying them to jazz music and culture shall only pay for their admission, while the kid enters free. They enter and disappear into the club. I loose them until the night starts to finish with the last few songs. I'm off duty, enjoying a beer from the nearby boutique brewery. I look over and see the two of them at a hidden high-top, thoroughly enjoying the music. The horns were in an incredible overlap exchange--trumpet and soprano sax--pushing each other and supported by the drummer laying down a complex beat pattern that by rights should require three drumming arms. The son goes to the men's room so I seize the opportunity to speak to the dad without embarrassing the son:  "You're a good man," I say. "I try," he responds. "And succeed," I finish his statement. I tell him that it's incredibly cool that he brought his son to the club and that they're always welcome.