The Doorman’s Diary: 9.7.12

A couple take up residence on the far side of the bar before the music starts. The guy is Bigfoot size and his lady friend has blonde hair with the under-side ends dyed pink. They order two whiskey old fashions. The few people that are here need stiff drinks since the fill-in band is dismal. The music reminds me of really bad CYO dance bands from te 1970’s that played popular songs too slow to dance to but not slow enough to spend a few minutes with a then 15-year-old girl’s hot, sweaty body pressed against you. Allegedly they are a blues band, but they play too many pop covers to lay claim to that label. A lead singer hits all the right visual notes—she is blonde and wearing a cleavage-displaying red dress—but her singing is passionless and off tune. They do one song I think is a country tune. The bartender and I exchange WTF? glances before I step outside to inspect the sidewalk cracks. It’s a night like this that makes the good nights all that better.

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There’s something chaotic and cool about Sara Risley’ s digital photographs. They are abstract studies with many looking like portions of stained-glass church windows or wall panels from an industrial paint booth after months of production. I find the colors and patterns soothing, much like a 19^th century Impressionist painting. I could easily see pairing up a Claude Monet with a Sara Risley. I’ve got the perfect wall, but need to wrestle Monet’s 1872 Sunrise from the Musée Marmottan Monet in Paris to match up with a Risley print. It could easily become my favorite view point with a cup of well-brewed dark roast coffee or a Waterford crystal wide-mouth glass tastefully filled to the bulge with a full-bodied Argentinian Malbec wine. Ahhhh that could be my own slice of paradise. Risley's unique giclee prints are available on gallery-wrapped canvas or watercolor paper. Editions are limited to 25. To see Sara Risley's work, visit http://sararisley.com/home.html

The Doorman's Diary 9.1.12

A slide trombone fills in for the tenor giving the jazz quintet a different texture. Their version of Eddie Palmieri’s Listen Here is delightful with the trumpet and trombone. The evening gets better and more interesting. A young lady, who manages the tasting room bar of a local boutique distillery, and her boyfriend, rush in breathless saying, “I’m playing hooky from my job, but have been dying to come here—can’t stay long.” I wave them in. “I’ll be leaving in about 30 minutes—can I come back later after I close our place and I’ll pay you then.” I say jokingly, “Yes, but the price of re-admission will be a bottle of your gin.” The distillery’s gin is exceptional and has literally won awards for small batch gin. An old singer in the audience was invited on stage to sing a few songs. In a strong, clear voice he belts out a couple of Sinatra tunes and finishes with Hello Dolly, sung at times in a Louie Armstrong voice. The night was nearing its end and the tenor showed up from his previous gig and jumps in with the trumpet and trombone to create a terrific horn blending. I'm outside folding up the tables and chairs for the smokers when two bicyclists whiz into the scene and start locking up their bikes. “I’m back…and here’s your gin.” You knew I was joking, right? “Yeah, but you ARE The Doorman, so I figure you deserve this.” Amazing, I thought, someone who accords me the respect I deserve. I thank them profusely and urge them inside to enjoy the last 30 minutes of music. After folding up the sidewalk I sit at the bar and enjoy a drink. A couple I haven’t seen in awhile arrives and sits at the opposite end. They catch my attention and I nod my greeting. When leaving for the night, I chide them for showing up late. We talk and I learn that she lives about 200 miles away. I say, “It’s clear… you need to move here.” She says, “I would… but I’m a traditionalist and he hasn’t proposed yet.” I ask them my 10 questions of compatibility to confirm the obvious… they are a perfect-match pair. “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be married, so as The Doorman I plan to invoke my authority as The Doorman of the Jazz Club to officially wed you right here and now—are you both willing to do what is obvious and predestined?” With their agreement, I join their hands, which I hold tight in mine, and have them exchange vows. In the sacred hall of Miles, Ornette, Dexter, Grover, Monk,and Sonny I had officiated... and a union is consecrated! 

The Doorman's Diary 8.31.12

The regular jazz group was back after a month and a half break. Surgery on the drummer's knee. So with his bionic knee and lack of consistent practice, it took a few songs before they were back in the groove. The trumpet player had sat at the bar before they played and was practicing with just the trumpet mouthpiece--sounding like a duck call. I said, "Don't do that outside or we'll have a flock of Mallards storming the club." I imagined well-behaved, mated-for-life pairs sitting at tables and maybe a group of rowdy drakes at the bar rudely quacking orders to the bartender. My fantasy vanished when in walked a checker-flag explosion. S/he wore checker shoes, spandex pants with one leg checker and the other white, and a checker blouse / shirt. In drag and tipsy already, she slurred while leaning into my face, "Whatcha think of my outfit?" Racy, was my response. S/he pulled out three individually crumpled bills in search of a Lincoln to pay the cover, all the while leaning into my space. Fortunately, the second greenback was a fiver. She sat at the bar near the door and ordered a beer and flirted with the bartender. She was trying to engage a guy at the bar in her monologue, but he sloughed her off. S/he got up and did a spastic dance before wandering over toward me with pack of cigarettes and BIC in hand. S/he leaned in and kissed my cheek and slurred, "I think you're cute." I shuddered and said, "I know." S/he went outside to smoke, flipping her gorgeous-looking brown hair. I prayed to all known deities that s/he would get distracted and wander off. No such luck, like a reoccurring bad dream s/he was back all duck-lips and hovering until she handed me three crumpled up cig packs and asked where she could buy more. I directed her to the gas station a couple of blocks away and after she left I ran to the Men's Room to scrub my cheek that was the recipient of so much unwanted love.

Frank the Zombie: A Tale of Woe That Ends With a Smile

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The Doorman's Diary 8.24.12

I've noticed it on other nights and simply labeled it a sign of the times. Last night I extrapolated. We will see the demise of purse snatchers and pick pockets. Better policing? Improved morals? No, no. The Debit Card Generation. Those in their 20's and early 30's don't carry cash. I had three different groups of two or three jazz customers in that age range at the door that hemed and hawed, fumbled around when I asked for the $5 cover. The generally ask for an ATM and then are faux shocked when they learn that we don't have one. Also characteristic is the discrete-transaction thinking pattern. They don't see The Door connected to the Jazz Club. It's the thinking that if they can't pass through the door, there's no option for getting in. Interesting... very interesting. Tonight we have a duet - which is always tough for filling the club. Several parties veered away when they didn't see horns or bass. We are geared for the quartet or quintet, I guess. Traditional jazz. One interesting couple we had, paid the cover with cash -- big cash. The gentleman opened his wallet and fanned through a bunch of $100"s before handing me a Grant. He wasn't doing it to show off, it was clearly his style. I remarked that he's clearly a rebellious spirit - not joining The Debit Card Generation. They laughed an understanding laugh.