Erin McDougald Jazz Quartet Just In Time

The seduction of a live jazz club... Adjusting one's eyes to a cimmerian womb of shadowed profiles, the familiar ring of clinking glasses and an ambient hush of shaken cubes of ice amid a vespertine sensuality of various perfumes, which weave oblivious threads inside the flickering candlelight.    The stage.  There it is. A makeshift bandstand with curious Tudor-like paintings and blood-red drapes of velvet that swallow up the wood-and-silvery instruments awaiting their masters.  It glows in the pinkish, hot wash of spotlights.  There's a man with the smell of cigarettes and cold air circling his head as he pours through his book in a corner, biding time until he returns to his other persona-- saved for the strings of a vintage guitar.  Two well-dressed musicians huddle at the bar in casual conversation, scoping the elements of the night as they unfold.  And then the woman that doesn't exactly float between admirers as much as she imposes her burnished, unabashedly open charm to soften their presumptions of her interior as she dons a decadently exposing cocktail dress and stilettos.  As the awkwardly comedic bartender takes to the stage to introduce the band (and himself, reminding people to tip heavily), the smoker, the bar-squatters and the animated vocalist scurry into position, sifting through charts and whispering the plan for the song ahead.  You smirk, unaware of yourself in her line of sight, holding your heavy-handed pour of Oban and thinking "Where are the women in this place?", you also prepare yourself for another standard of Sinatra or Lady Day, watching this singer saunter up to her microphone, fidgeting with her velvet wrap.  And then it happens.  The drums are blistering and the guitarist (who also plays keys) is just sitting, without intent to play.  The bass player has his hands rested on the nape of his instrument's neck, casually just... watching.  Drums and voice play tag with recognizable lyrics but inspired delivery. She cues the others and bam, the dynamics explode into a song of spontaneity.  Chorus after chorus of... pontifications and revered remarks to and from the members of the unified group.  The solos are like gregarious accounts of a party or re-invented folklore.  And the singer.  That velvet-wearing, figure-flaunting flirt... well, she SINGS.  She has something to say.  And she ever so subtly nods your way as if in full cognizance of your cynicism, and winks with a coy but tender "See?" and "Thank You" at the same flash of her smile.  It's jazz.  And this moment, it will never repeat itself.  You were there when her strap broke in the middle of her 2 minute scat.  You were there when the drummer took the room into his hands.  And you were there when the guitar spilled his guts and wept, cradled in the arms of a man that was not to be bothered just moments ago.  The bass player literally pulled each person closer by their chins with his tender bowing in a nameless ballad.  And the singer, well, she kept saying "thank you for being here with us" and you thought, "thank you".

And THAT is why jazz venues need to be supported: these experiences only happen when you are a part of them.   The music is alive and pulsating but it only truly thrives when it touches the hearts of others... strangers, like you once were.