The low lighting surrounded you as you walked through the narrow wooden corridor that made up the standing room bar. The host of the place had led you down some smaller than normal New York steps to the basement entrance and was walking you single file to your seats. It was dark and you were bumping into people trying to follow him. Candles lined the sides.
You had paid in advance which was more expensive, but it meant you got a seat in the listening room. And the listening room was its own place.
As you sat down, to your right was weird semi-nude abstract art that you didn’t fully understand the point of. Directly in front of you was what looked like pieces of a clock arranged to look like, well, a clock. Near the piano man was another abstract piece but one that was more fitting, a singular piano player set against bright blue irregular shapes. Behind the drummer was what looked like a scene out of Revelations.
There was a picture of a famous jazz pianist behind the bassists. You were not cultured enough to know who it was. He had a troubled, agitated look on his face. Regardless of where you were in the room he was staring directly into your eyes.
It was clear that your presence was bothering him.
About a few minutes after the music had started you noticed that your table was chipped, exposing rough granite colored material in the low lighting. It bothered you for a moment. The other tables were smooth.
Conversation from the standing room itself formed one boundary of the listening room. It would ebb and flow in volume, but felt like a physical barrier, blocking you off from the street outside. The walls of art on the two sides formed another set. And then there was the stage up front.
The fourth wall.
The music flowed through the listening room loud enough so that you could hear every part of it. Sometimes the conversation would increase. Like two walls closing in, and then merging. When they’d merge, you’d hear a disgruntled “SHHHHH” from some more attentive members of the audience.
Usually the forced quieting would happen as one piece was ending and another one was set to begin.
The wall of sound would move back.
I always thought the conversation was a part of it.
Jazz is not always something people think they like. The first few minutes of the show I wasn’t sure if I was just there to say I went to a jazz show or if I was honestly enjoying it.
And then I heard a melody that reminded me of him. There were moods like her and them. The bass was like this. The drums like him.
The piano was like home.
As I obnoxiously feel a need to share thoughts and feelings and places and things, if there’s something, anything, that you get out of this, whatever this is.
I hope it’s a little bit like jazz.