03: The world through jazz clubs
I think it might have been in 2012 when I decided I wanted to visit jazz clubs of cities I find myself in.
I was in Copenhagen, the last of three cities I was visiting on that trip, when the idea struck. On my second night there, I found myself successful in locating the Jazz House. It was off Stroget.
I’d been there in the afternoon and among the people I met was this dude in a cafe. He had a super impressive handlebar moustache and told me about the zoo and about the Jazz House.
That evening, I found the Jazz House on the second floor of a two-floor row of stuff. There were no lights and save for a low-key signage, barely a landmark. I entered thick drapes of purple velvet met me. Beyond was a narrow space at the end of which a 6-tet playing absolutely beautiful jazz was on stage.
Call me inexperienced, but it introduced me to a live music scene I was not familiar with. It was quiet with the goodlooking clientele that was well-dressed and well-behaved. The bar had a candelabra and flowers. It was pure class.
I stood there in awe: How wonderful was this! The band was not only talented but skilled. I now can’t name any of the songs they played but for all I know, they could also have just been jamming adlib.
I don’t think I ordered a drink, I may have forgotten. I just stood there and when I finally collected myself — it might have been after their set — I went to the rest rooms and fell in love even more.
It was dim, the walls were black, and on it hung this spot-on truth-teller of a poster.
I used to say it was the coolest thing I’ve experienced in my life yet. Since then I have luckily experienced a few more cool things but that night in the Jazz House remains in the top five of that list. It was just such a fulfilling experience that the following I visited one jazz club per city I went to.
I first made my way to Barre Jazz, a recording store in Oslo that transforms into a performance space in the evenings.
Unfortunately, there weren’t going to be any performances that evening. The lady behind the counter asked me if I would I like instead to visit Victoria something-something, where the Nasjonal Jazz Scene was hosting the concert of graduating students of the conservatory.
Did I ever.
I don’t even know how the three boys pictured above call themselves. I do remember thinking they sound like dream. They were so talented — and so skilled! — they produced something so surreal. I was sat on the front row and was pretty paralyzed from their performance.
From Norway, I made my way to Berlin, where I trekked to a jazz club where, in a very Berlin fashion, I found that it was experimental jazz night.
I was with other hostel merrymakers, two were musically trained and the third, a cool girl who had been in the hostel longer than I had been.
The musicians on stage were playing their instruments strangely; a musician was plucking the piano by its strings, instead of playing the keys. With two musically-trained Americans in the mix, a heated discussion ensued: about what music was, what differentiated it from noise, and all that jazz.
The girl got bored and left. Not longer after, we did too. Walking back to the hostel, I learned they were also Radiohead fans. We ended the evening talking about our favorite band in the world, our first experience of listening to In Rainbows (which happens to be their favorite Radiohead album at that time), and just feeling good and grateful.
On my final stop on that trip, in Amsterdam, I made my way to Cafe Alto, a small jazz bar that wasn’t impressive to say the least. I was hoping to get knocked down by the music, given the collective consciousness (teehee).
But the best memory I have of Cafe Alto was picking up this Dutch-Indian lad, whose look the moment he saw me was incredulous, like he couldn’t believe I was there, and where was I from? I’ve never felt so hot in my life, lemme tell you.
I should’ve known something was wrong with Josh, or my relationship with him, when we did not hit a single jazz club whenever we met.
We were together in New York when Ornette Coleman died in June 2015, and in hopes he was going to take me to one, asked if there were any good jazz bars in New York (insert annoyed face emoji). He said the best live music in New York were at the train stations.
In Prague the following year, I looked for one and we did pass by one, but Josh said it didn’t look like there was anything happening. (insert annoyed face emoji)
In Tokyo in 2017, he found one near our neighborhood but I decided against it because the musicians didn’t ring a bell. (Insert annoyed face emoji).
Finally, in 2018, my friends brought to the Green Mill, the famous Chicago jazz club Al Capone frequented. What a trip.
There was a gypsy jazz band opener, and though we didn’t make it to the main act that Jason was looking forward to, I thought it was already quite an experience. The staff was unfriendly, stern, and very transactional — not to mean they were mean. They were just, polite and professional.
Flash cameras were prohibited and proper conduct was observed. I forget the name of the opening band, but they were good. We stepped out around midnight as they were getting into the Miles Davis version of “Favorite Things” and I now wish we stayed to the end of the tune.
This is such a dumb entry, but it also isn’t final. I don’t plan on stopping any time soon anyway, so tell me: Where else must I go?
