The Doorman's Diary 6.7.14

There is gravity in the jazz club that pulls certain people to it on a regular basis. For The Doorman, these are the irregular regulars. There is no predicting exactly when they might show, but it will be sometime within a couple months to nine-month window. Cases in point from tonight’s crowd:

·      Carrot Top – A jazz-loving young artist with a wild mop of red hair. She lives six miles from the club and arrives by bus, bicycle, motorcycle, or a recent acquisition… a 15-year-old beater pick up. If The Doorman wins the lottery, a contract with a limo service will be issued so any time she has a yearning to come to the club, she can call.

·      Quiet Nerd Man – My mission is to break his code. He arrives, shoves a crumpled Lincoln in The Doorman’s hand, runs in and to the nearest bar stool, and turns chameleon by blending in as quickly as he can into the scene. He never looks anyone in the eyes—in fact, he may not have eyes, since I’m guessing no one has seen them. A social recluse who truly enjoys jazz.

·      Big Foot – A mammoth man who literally fills the doorframe and then some. Fortunately for The Doorman and the jazz club he has a Big Guy gentle spirit. I know when I sense an overwhelming presence and look up and see an enormous brilliant-white toothy grin that my end could be near—Death By Hug. For some reason this sumo-wrestler-sized guy likes me.

The irregular regulars fit seamlessly into the jazz club’s mix. I added two young women who tentatively craned their necks from the door saying, “We’ve never been here before, it looks interesting.” I said, You’re not going to see much from there…come in and take a look. The quintet, plus a phenomenal guest harmonica player (who can harmonize with the horns and take a solo) were cooking on their version of the Eddie Harris and Les McCann song, Listen Here, when it became evident they were hooked. As they dig in their purses for the cover charge, I say: Not tonight…you’re special guests of The Doorman. At this exact moment in time, there is no better place in the universe than being here in this jazz club, hearing these incredible musicians, and seeing the genuine looks of surprise radiate into beautiful smiles.

The Doorman's Diary 6.6.14

The jet-black-hair man with tattoo sleeves is here with a seductive, breasty friend. Four middle-aged men who have the wherewithal to afford what they want are at the door, they balk at paying the cover, pivot, and walk on. Good riddance cheapskates. The club owner chases them down, placates then with a twofer deal and seats them at the bar, next to sleeves and the stunner. I glare at them. The trio launches into a Miles Davis song after apologizing that the horn player is a no-show. Apologies not needed. The jazz club fills to a comfortable level, when it happens. A vaporous vision-ghost appears in the doorway. We are blessed with a visit from a jazz faerie. She enters all tall and willowy with a halo of light around her sweet face. I know and she knows I know that she doesn’t need to enter through the door. I stuff her five-dollar cover in a side pocket wondering if it may contain magic. She floats into the club and I don’t see her again until she leaves.

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.

downtown club
sound of a sax stabs 

the neon glow

                           - JW, 5-24-14

The Doorman's Diary 5.24.14

A slight chill in the air as I enter the jazz club. It is near empty, but the bartender is ready for anything. I straighten my vintage tie and count my wedge to make sure I have the starter amount for my doorman night. With the regular bass player back on stage, the quint is into a well-oiled groove. It is impossible for them to sound better. They’re playing Freddie Hubbard “Little Sunflower” and the normally dour drummer is actually smiling. It’s a frightening sight so I back closer to the door just in case his apparent glee sparks a cosmic realignment. I nearly back into a middle-age couple entering the club. The gentleman is dressed in 30-year-old dapper clothes…a dark sport coat with an assortment of lapel pins boasting Kiwanis or Moose Lodge membership and attendance at various conventions and a small flag pin from an East European country. His slacks maintain a sharp crease that only a high percentage of poly can maintain. He’s wearing a black fedora. Beneath his bearded friendly smile I spot an odd-looking tie that could have come from The Doorman’s collection. I say: “Splendid tie.” He smiles and hands me a pair of Lincolns for their cover. I’m disappointed, because he struck me as a two-dollar bill kind of guy. The club fills with a range spanning from a table of barely legals to a pair of couples from Quebec (to which I say, “so you parly-vou,” and one of the cute women sidles up to me and says in French, probably something like “that’s right dofus” – she sounds sexy) to an 81-year-old jazz crooner who later is asked to hobble up to the stage to sing a couple of tunes. I reconnect with the dapper eccentric gent and learn that he and his lady friend were sweethearts as seniors in high school, led separate lives, married others, each have a daughter, she divorces, his wife dies of cancer, and as the phenomena of fate happens… they reconnect at the 40-year-HS-reunion. He says: “We took it cautiously slow at first but it became apparent we have so much in common AND the spark between us is still there.” Amazing… truly amazing.

The Doorman's Diary 5.28.13

A little rain dampens the night. It also dampens interest in coming to the jazz club, which is too bad. Rain and jazz are a good match. Just like distant rumbling thunder, the jazz guitar quartet is perfect for easing into a contemplative mood. There are a number in the club's sparse crowd who get it. They know how to comport themselves in a jazz club -- you come to listen, relax, and be cool. There's a group of eight pastel people who don't understand. Every time the bass player takes one of his extended solos -- intricately fingering or strumming with his bow -- the pastels amp up their yakety yakking and cackling laughing. It's times like this where The Doorman needs special powers. I'd hit them all with the Immobolizer -- an energy beam that would render them inert. In their quiet, static state they'd enjoy the music.... hopefully. Pastel people are generally suburban residents who have taken a lark to come to the city for jazz. They wear a lot of pastel colors, horizontal stripes, or colors never found in nature. They are scrubbed clean, usually very white, and consider the chain restaurant TGI Fridays to epitomize extreme nightlife. An interesting black / blonde couple enters with their third wheel. The third wheel is crippled with motor control issues. He uses a cane with a four-point foot and uses two hands to get his drink to his mouth. He has soulful cool jazz eyes that reveal intelligence. It seems like a cruel joke to be stuck in a cattywompus body--but what do I really know? I make sure to give him my card when they leave and tell him he obviously enjoys jazz and belongs here.