The Doorman’s Diary: 9.24-25.11

As The Doorman I am there to greet the public as they enter the club, comport myself in a professional manner thereby establishing an atmosphere of jazz appreciation, and collect the five dollar cover charge. The cover charge accomplishes two things: It screens out the drink-‘n-sink, non-jazz crowd and it does help pay the musicians. Tonight, the first three customers who came to the club hemmed and hawed at the cover charge before backing out. Ordinarily I would entice them in, but I wasn’t feeling generous. I discussed my frustration with the bartender who gave me the pep talk. “We’re a jazz club with live music and we don’t want just anyone – if they’re unwilling to pay a ridiculously modest five bucks to hear professional musicians play, then they are an insult we can do without.” Amen. The night of jazz turned out to be very interesting. A guest singer complemented the jazz quintet. Two other jazz singers were in the club, so over the course of the night they each had opportunities to sing as well. Three strong male jazz singers—incredible. The dance club down the block was busy, which meant the streets were alive with foot traffic. At one point I had stepped outside to make sure a couple of guests leaving our club made it safely to their car and noticed three young ladies in form-fitting mini-dresses crossing the street wearing stilettos. The one wearing hot pink was so striking she literally stopped traffic. A car full of guys literally slammed on the brakes while they ogled and made monosyllabic attempts to communicate. As the car slowly left the scene one of the guys exclaimed, “three months… three months wages just walked by.”

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.23-24.11

Guitar quartet tonight. Played mostly original songs, which is always nice to hear. At their first break, I signaled the tenor to step outside and bring his horn. I wanted to photograph him in front of the club’s neon. I posed him with attitude in the neon’s red wash. I took several shots with my iPhone 4, but kept getting light flare in most shots. A couple out for a smoke saw my struggle and offered unsolicited advice. Then they said, “We know you – we remarked to each other, when we first arrived, that we know you from somewhere.” Unlikely, I said. I’m just The Doorman—new to the area—new identity—plastic surgery to the face—a past I’ll deny and won’t discuss. My delivery was dead serious, steady tone of voice. I put the kibosh on the who I am, what I’ve done, where I come from. When I’m in the hallowed jazz club, I AM The Doorman—nothing more, nothing less.

the chosen road
   exits into
   siren's red
         - JW, 9-20-11

security screen
   madness kept outside,
   inside
        - JW, 9-20-11

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.17-18.11

He pushed past with sweat-sheen flush face and a wild look in his eyes, like a housecat with a crinkle-ball toy in his sight. Solidly 30’s, 40-something, he had prey in mind. It was very late in the night—minutes before I’d be nursing a B&B cognac and enjoying the jazz quintet’s best playing and final songs. He was quickly scanning the club while I was assessing whether to let him in—no $5 cover--or charge him 20 bucks to scare him away (or make it worthwhile to deal with his sorry butt later). “78% men,” was what he said before spinning on his heels and leaving. The club owner, who had been standing beside me in the soft yellow glow of the entryway’s light while we enjoyed each other’s quiet company, deadpanned “A little late for a hook up?”  No shit Sherlock, was my response, no shit. I went outside to fold up the LIVE JAZZ & BLUES sandwich sign, which I tucked inside the front door. I paused at my post for a final review of the remaining jazz lovers and dang if that guy wasn’t dead on: 22% of the remaining crowd were women… 78% men. 

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.16-17.11

We were anticipating an additional 30 tonight… a birthday celebration, so The Doorman was at the club early in anticipation. With my silk tie knot tight, I  was ready when our first customer arrived 15 minutes later--a solitary, blue-eyed young woman who was meeting a couple of friends. Being her first time at the club she oohed and aahed over all the features that make the place welcoming. Her friends—a couple—arrived and the woman told me, after admiring my professional demeanor, that I look like a French actor she named but I didn’t recognize. I wryly remarked that he’s lucky to be blessed with good looks. She nodded in agreement. The birthday celebrators filtered in around the regular time, so my premature arrival was for naught. Oh well. The birthday honoree arrived looking young, fresh and not a day over 25. She announced it’s her 31^st birthday but is celebrating her 30^th since last year she was pregnant and couldn’t enjoy a party. She was delightful, as were her parents who brought the birthday cake, and all of her friends. The bandleader mispronounced her Hispanic name a couple of times during the evening. In good spirit she said to him in front of the crowd, “If you pronounce my name with an O at the end, here’s who you’re calling and if you pronounce it with an A this is who will respond, but if you pronounce it with the C’s sounding like S’s you’ll be calling me correctly.” The bandleader responded, “Hell, your name rhymes with sexy, so I’ll just call you Sexy.” The three dark-haired beauties laughed and went back to the party.

The Doorman’s Diary: 9.10-11.11

There are ups and downs, yin-yang, black and white, and hot and cold in the world. The bell curve exists. For me, The Doorman, the night was O.K., nothing special. In the big scheme, a night like tonight is necessary—just like the quiet within a jazz song is important for setting off the incredible rhythmic harmony of drums, bass, and keyboard playing together so nicely or the virtuosity of the trumpet, tenor, or guitar. The ingredients were present tonight—a near capacity crowd, percussion, keyboard, drums, and trumpet. A guest jazz singer. Everything was squeezed into our cozy club. The music was great, the crowd enjoyed themselves, and our universe seemed to line up for perfect jazz geometry. But for whatever reasons, the night did not shine my shoes.