The Doorman’s Diary: 4.29-30.11

We missed an opportunity at the jazz club. Since the Royal Wedding had taken place earlier, we should have hosted a night of royal jazz and let anyone wearing a hat in for free. The more Dr. Seuss-looking the hat the better. The band could have jazzed a version of God Save the Queen to be in he spirit. No such luck. Instead, we had a relaxed night dominated by couples (perhaps a Will & Kate ripple effect?). Pleasant-looking, happy couples of every ethnic stripe—ahhhh, American jazz…the grand melting pot. One couple, who live 45 minutes away, said they were very happy to be here—a rare night out. When I learned they have five kids, I discreetly slipped them their cover back. Told them that we “don’t want anything impeding your decision to come back here again, when you have the opportunity!” The dad laughed in gratitude and said, “Wow, we didn’t even have to tell you about our youngest child who has a disability.” Turns out their three-year old daughter has brittle bone disease or Osteogenesis Imperfecta—a one in 20,000 likelihood. Apparently in her short life, she’s had 40 broken bones vs. The Doorman’s zero broken bones in a much, much longer life. In my brief conversation, I began to admire this upbeat, loving couple and felt my day was complete. I had met an authentic royal couple truly worth admiring.

The Doorman’s Diary: 4.22-23.11

It was a sepia night. Warm browns set in a nostalgic jazz setting. The trio captured the oasis-from-the-storm mood that was necessary on this rainy spring night.  Couples were in a romantic Coltrane-induced mood. As the trusted doorman, I contributed to the ambience by wearing a 1940’s vintage tie that has a jazz pattern that would never be found at a men’s clothier today. The trio played their version of Alone Together that dates back to the sepia era that the night appeared to draw its strength from. One could feel the 1939 Artie Shaw & His “Symphony of Swing” Orchestra nodding their approval of the trio’s version of this now old standard. The small, but enthusiastic crowd gave the club an after-hours feel, as the musicians played for their own enjoyment between their martini breaks.

The Doorman’s Diary: 4.16-17.11

The jazz club was abuzz with activity. An extended cluster of 20-somethings permeated the club with their smaller groups tentacle-connected to the host group. The band played more aggressively to match the energy. Two c-notes came through the door, which meant I had to cash them at the bar—bye, bye Ben Franklins. Two alleged dignitaries came through the door—one is a member of a 1960’s British invasion band that sold 52 million records and had 24 gold hits. I made them pay the cover. Even though they hesitated, since they expected to get in free. They didn’t. Makes no difference to me—old or current pop star, Pope, or President—entering the jazz club is the equalizer. Everyone pays… especially those that easily can

The Doorman’s Diary: 4.15-16.11

The rain-soaked black streets were near empty last night. Occasional smear of red taillights added color to the black and white film noir setting that was just outside the jazz club’s door. Occasional sheets of rain tried, but could not wash away a sense of desperation that hung in the air. But for a few, the jazz habitué stayed home. Several couples, a trio of women, and an unsavory lone wolf were the only ones to brave the twilight-zone night. The demiworld character paid the cover and had a drink at the bar. He smelled as foul as a slaughterhouse in summer. Apparently, his b.o. is minor compared to other habits that make him unwanted in our establishment. Fortunately, he left after his drink, saying he’ll be right back.  The club owner and bartender descended on me as soon as he left and said “don’t let him back in!” To which, I responded: “Do I look like a bouncer?” We discussed various strategies (lies) for keeping him out—weighing pros and cons of each. It was becoming tedious and absurd so I said, “I am not a bouncer, but I AM The Doorman… I’ll take care of it.” The solution is so simple and powerful that I regretted wasting the eight minutes of discussion we had. He never returned but I was prepared to tap into the base level of universal human doubt. All humans are riddled with self-doubt. I planned to tell him: “You and I know you’re not wanted here. I don’t need to say the reasons out loud. You know what they are. So, to be fair to you…here’s your five-dollar cover back. And I think it’s very honorable of you to not make a big deal about this. Thank you.” 

World Domination of Keep It Together Records

Elkhorn, Wisconsin-based Keep It Together Records is totally global. This feisty, independent music-publishing house is amassing an impressive portfolio of post-rock, emo, and indie groups that intrepidly tromp out their own musical paths. The American-Idol-repeat-play-mainstream doesn’t want ‘em (but the feeling is likely reciprocal). Keep It Together has recorded groups from Siberia (Russia), Rockford, Long Island, Washington D.C., Ireland, Michigan, and Japan (see their tapes on display in a Japanese record shop). The preferred, counterintuitive format is cassette (with fun color cases and different-colored tape,) although a couple of their 14 releases are available on 7” vinyl. Even if you’re not fortunate enough, like me, to be driving a 2004 car equipped with a radio-CD-cassette deck, it’s still worth purchasing at least one Keep It Together cassette to support the defiance associated with an against-the-grain musical art production used on passionately independent music groups. For four measly bucks it wouldn’t even dimple your budget to buy one cassette—like my current favorite, “We’ve Been Talking,” by the Irish band Enemies—if only to place it in your sock drawer to remind you that your feet could be walking you in a different direction.

The Doorman’s Diary: 2.9-10.11

The jazz club was most pleasant. I was not feeling like wearing the formal doorman garb… so I didn’t. Wore my purple Chuckies, black jeans, black checkbox-pattern shirt, a skinny tie inherited from my father-in-law’s 1960’s-70’s wardrobe, and my pitch-black jazzman jacket. The look wouldn’t survive the corporate gray-suit expectations of a downtown bank, but it worked well at the jazz club. One of the first patrons arrived yammering on his cell phone. He looked me over and said into his phone, “Listen, the door guy is wearing Chuck Taylors with a suit and tie, we’ve found our new place.” The quintet with sax and trumpet stirred the souls of the nearly full house with their Mercy, Mercy, Mercy vitality. The eventually New Orleans-bound couple who drink Dr. Peppers (generous thirds of vodka and amaretto, topped with a lesser of Coke) showed up—the guy looking sharp with his black fedora, and his lady looked sassy cute with her short dress. Another fun couple sat a table away. She had black goth eyes, red-auburn pig tails, and a full-leafed, symmetrical tree tattoo on her backless dress back (the tease was there as to how far down the root system might reach). Her mate had a serious, but not overwhelming appearance that juxtaposed nicely against his neat, tied-back pony tail. I later learned, when I was helping them get a taxi, that they were in town on a free-get-out-of-jail respite from their three young kids granted by one of their parents. As I tucked them safely into the taxi, I said “When you come back, remind me who you are and I’ll waive the cover… as parents of young kids, you’ll never have enough money.” The surprised smiles on their faces mixed with the acknowledged “wow-someone-who-understands look” was worth it. On this night in history, the good karma of the purple Chucks was working… we had some interesting, good people in the club and the jazz group was playing tighter than Joan River’s face.

The Doorman’s Diary: 2.8-9.11

The group we had tonight at the jazz club was a quartet. It sounded more like a trio with an extra musician. The trio was comprised of drums, bass, and electric piano. When they played together, they sounded great. But then, there was the fourth musician. The extra musician played a church organ and occasionally a trombone. First, I need to come clean. I’m not real fond of trombones. I like them in circus bands, 4^th of July parades, and in certain Beatles songs. In a jazz quartet, a trombone works as well as….. a church organ. The dual keyboard thing with the occasional trombone just wasn’t working for me. It actually threw me into dark recesses of self reflection mixed with depressive anger. Fortunately, as a professional doorman I was able to sublimate all of that into appropriate behavior. The patron mix this night reflected the discordancy of the trio-plus-one. They were jigsaw puzzle parts from different puzzles thrown together into the same box. It was a strange night that could only be made right at the end of the night by several gulps of Jameson.