"Landing"
I won’t say jazz saved my life. I mean, the blues helped, too. Ha. Also, I don’t want to say it because it sounds trite—a little fake. People always say something “saved my life.” It’s rarely true. It’s not like jazz took a bullet for me or donated a kidney to me, man. The “saved my life” claim is generally hyperbole in its essence, if you ask me. But jazz was a voice of reason. Jazz can be an oracle. Jazz is a cup of coffee during an all-nighter. It’s a tank of gas.
Jazz makes sense.
And I never knew it until I stumbled into Jim Cullum’s Landing on a cloudy January day in search of a job. Twenty-one years old and broke, I needed something to get my mind off of everything else, y’know? I had just finished smoking the last of the pot at my house and realized that I needed dinner. That’s the worst part about smoking when you’re poor—after you buy the herb, you just get hungry and spend more money on food. With all of those expenses, my account was forcing me to choose between paying rent or eating. Stress, man.
I guess I should probably give you a little bit of background. I wasn’t the type of guy who usually did drugs or drank too much. But after Addie broke my heart, I was driftin’, man. Sleeping too much. Dating girls I didn’t even like. Trying to get through school with classes that you hate and going to sleep alone every night can tax a man. So I lost myself for a bit. Grew a beard. Not saying that a beard is a bad thing. Sometimes it’s liberating. I just thought shaving was pointless. Laundry, too. And when the last of the weed was gone, I got a little wistful. But mainly hungry. Either way, it gave me the motivation to make a positive change for myself.
So anyway, I’m walking down the Riverwalk with this lady friend of mine, and she points out the Landing and tells me to check it out, maybe apply if they’re hiring. Half of me thinks about my comfort zone, rock music, all the things I’m used to. But then I figure that life was kickin’ me around anyway—why not take a shot? So I walk in.
Straight off the bat, two cute girls tell me it’s closed. I smile at them. These girls could say anything and keep my attention, at this point. Plus, I’m just looking for an application so they let me stay and start telling me about the job.
“It’s pretty good money,” says one.
“Yeah, and everyone is laid back,” adds the other.
The bartender comes walking out to shake my hand. Turns out he’s in charge. He’s about my height—six feet or so—and wears some slick, black-framed glasses. He gives me an application to fill out and we do a little small talk. Where you from? Have you been here before? That kind of stuff.
“How’s the music?” I ask.
“Do you like jazz?”
“Yeah, of course,” I say—anything to get the job at this point.
“They play Dixieland, old school jazz. Some swing and blues, too. It’s pretty hot.”
I’m trying to pretend like I know what he’s talking about. The only swing I know is Brian Setzer. Blues? B.B. King. Ha. I’m really going to have to work on this. I look around the place. Pictures of Louis Armstrong everywhere. Other guys I don’t recognize playing trumpets, saxophones, you name it. It’s a pretty cool place—I got to say. Everything looks vintage—but authentic vintage, not desperately retro. I’m intrigued.
“When can you start?” he asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“Be in at 6:30.”
And that’s how it started. That day, it was just a job. It was something to pass the time. Something to make me a little more productive. On the way home, I picked up a razor at the store. Slash—slice—slit. Beard gone. I looked in the mirror and thought about the money I’d make. I thought about the food I’d serve. And I thought about Addie. I always thought about her before I went to bed. And I didn’t know it, but someone—something—was about to soothe my mind about this lost love. This pain. And I had no idea what I was in for.
So I’m on my way to work after getting in a fight with the ex. It’s funny how after four months of a breakup, you still do something wrong every day. Just taking a breath can set someone off at that point. Damn. I’m in a huff, but I roll into the Landing on time, wearing all black and a tie. Lookin’ sharp.
“Music starts at 8.”
Sounds good to me. I roll some silverware, learn the menu, and meet my co-workers. Everything is relaxed. Being somewhere else, besides my house, makes me feel better. But still, the stress, man—it’s there. I know it. It’s nibbling on me.
Right then, people start coming in and sitting down—martinis are being passed around the place—women in evening dresses, men in slacks and button-downs—everyone is dressed to the nines and I’m thinkin’--I could like this gig.
By 8:00, I’m ready to see what this place is all about. The band is set. “1, 2—1, 2, 3, 4.” And they’re off. The cornet, clarinet, and trombone find the key, while the bass, banjo, and piano provide some subtle backbone to the tune. All along the cymbal on the drum is playing a little tss—t-t-tss—t-t-tss to help everyone keep pace. And at that moment, this is jazz to me.
And then snap I’m back at home, brushing my teeth. Washing my face. Thinking of her. The rush, it’s gone. The horns have faded. The drums went on break. And I got sad.
So the Landing became a little sanctuary for me. I’d come in gloomy and boom be engaged in a new world that didn’t mosy along—it hauled ass. And I’d hitch myself on with each individual note, take in the scenery, and let the rhythm flow through my soul, man. And each night, it stopped like a train wreck—and I got sad. And then once again snap I’d have Addie on the brain.
And the singer took the mic: Baby, won’t you please come home. And I’m thinkin’ He knows. But then he jabs me with: Please come home, I need money, oh, baby come home!And that’s that. A smile takes over my face. A wave of relaxation sweeps my body into this moment. And I decide to take a customer’s order.
“I’ll have the Hemingway martini,” he says to me. “The lady will have the Montgomery.” I smile at the couple.
“You got it.” And I walk to put the order in. Left-beat-right-beat-left-beat-right-beat. Snap-beat-snap-beat-snap-beat-snap-beat. Something grabs my attention. I realize the music is helping me walk. I mean, it’s not holding me up or anything, but I’m walking in time with the song. “Muskrat Ramble” is the name. We’re interacting in a unique way. It’s like we’re playing off each other, y’know? And we’re kind of leaning on each other. I feel like every step I take is integral to the song’s rhythm—and at the same time I feel like without the song, I’d stop walking. I almost forget to order the drink because I don’t want to end the song. So I keep walking beat snapping beat walking. And I’m feeling good.
And it becomes irresistible. The more often I work, the more I’m forced to cooperate with the music. Hell, the more I want to, man. I can’t take a step on an off-beat. The drums won’t let me. So what can you do? Just keep on walkin’. So I do.
And the days flow by. The weeks hum past. I find myself walking to a beat everywhere I go. There’s a new high. It’s that clarinet taking my hand in Cole Porter’s “In the Still of the Night.” Or when the bass hypnotizes me in “Big Noise From Winnetka.” It don’t matter what I’m holding—what I’m doing—my thumb meets my middle finger and snap I join the percussion. I’m on a ride.
And all I am doin’ is serving three pretty ladies some frozen margaritas.
“Thanks,” says the blonde with a smirk as she slides me a piece of paper. I return the look and the other two giggle at either the friend or me. I can’t tell. I don’t care. Nothing stops time and space more than a pretty girl smilin’ at you, y’know?
So I strut back across the club, paper in hand, waiting to see what’s on it. The music controls my body, my movements. My head bobs, I don’t even know it. It’s a phone number.Snap-beat-snap-beat-snap. My eyes close and I smile.
“Look at you, hot shot.” I hear it, but I don’t know who said it to me. “You’re one smooth cat.”
I’m laughing, but I still don’t know who’s talkin’. I look at the stage. “Now you got it—carry on.” It’s the cornet. It winks at me. No, not the cornet player. He’s just playing the cornet. The instrument itself is talking to me.
I look around the bar. Nobody’s acting strange. Am I going crazy? I turn away. But something tugs at my sleeve. I turn around—nobody there. Then the trombone joins in. “Hey, brother, you don’t need that dame. You ain’t worried.”
Paranoid, more like it. I’m looking left and right to see who is pullin’ a fast one on me. Nobody around. The banjo hits a note in my direction—it’s got a little twang to it—like it’s laughing at me and saying, “Just grab a drink and hear me out.” So I do. Enough said. And suddenly, jazz became something new to me.
The more I felt the music, the more my body, my mind, my soul found a rebirth. It didn’t matter if it was the beautiful “Reverie” taking my emotions through a house of mirrors or if it was “S.O.L. Blues” encouraging me to laugh a little. The music was therapy.
And when the snap-beat-snap-beat-snap brought me home every night, I was sleepin’ like a baby. I didn’t get sad anymore. Because I wasn’t lonely. When Loneliness knocked on my door, Irving Berlin’s “All By Myself” escorted her to the exit. Sure, she tried to come back, but the drums stayed honest with me. “I’m with you, baby.” Ha. And I had a friend. Sometimes you find your best companions in places you’d never expect—and jazz had a note to relate to every thought, sentiment, notion, or reaction I could produce. Jazz was a doctor, a psychic, an entertainer, a parent, you name it, man.
I told you earlier that jazz just makes sense. Remember? Yeah, well I’ll never forget when I first heard that. I thought it was the perfect description. Listen to this:
I’m cleaning up some martini glasses and wiping down a table as the band starts playing a piece called “You Do Something to Me.” I’m swaying, falling in love, and walking on air all at the same time that I’m tossing a wet napkin into the trash can by the door. I see an older woman smiling, eyes closed, and I swear to God there’s a tear near her left eye. It’s the end of the night, and the band always finishes with the slow songs, y’know? So I sidle up next to this woman and quietly say, “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“This is my favorite song,” she says to me without opening her eyes. The bliss on her face is calming, it’s arresting. Magnificent. Gorgeous.
“Why’s that?” I ask. I’m expecting a story from the past, a memory or two, a lost love, a magical night, a dance under the stars, an embrace…
She looks at me and says, “It just makes sense to me.”
Enough said.
Jazz makes sense.
And I never knew it until I stumbled into Jim Cullum’s Landing on a cloudy January day in search of a job. Twenty-one years old and broke, I needed something to get my mind off of everything else, y’know? I had just finished smoking the last of the pot at my house and realized that I needed dinner. That’s the worst part about smoking when you’re poor—after you buy the herb, you just get hungry and spend more money on food. With all of those expenses, my account was forcing me to choose between paying rent or eating. Stress, man.
I guess I should probably give you a little bit of background. I wasn’t the type of guy who usually did drugs or drank too much. But after Addie broke my heart, I was driftin’, man. Sleeping too much. Dating girls I didn’t even like. Trying to get through school with classes that you hate and going to sleep alone every night can tax a man. So I lost myself for a bit. Grew a beard. Not saying that a beard is a bad thing. Sometimes it’s liberating. I just thought shaving was pointless. Laundry, too. And when the last of the weed was gone, I got a little wistful. But mainly hungry. Either way, it gave me the motivation to make a positive change for myself.
So anyway, I’m walking down the Riverwalk with this lady friend of mine, and she points out the Landing and tells me to check it out, maybe apply if they’re hiring. Half of me thinks about my comfort zone, rock music, all the things I’m used to. But then I figure that life was kickin’ me around anyway—why not take a shot? So I walk in.
Straight off the bat, two cute girls tell me it’s closed. I smile at them. These girls could say anything and keep my attention, at this point. Plus, I’m just looking for an application so they let me stay and start telling me about the job.
“It’s pretty good money,” says one.
“Yeah, and everyone is laid back,” adds the other.
The bartender comes walking out to shake my hand. Turns out he’s in charge. He’s about my height—six feet or so—and wears some slick, black-framed glasses. He gives me an application to fill out and we do a little small talk. Where you from? Have you been here before? That kind of stuff.
“How’s the music?” I ask.
“Do you like jazz?”
“Yeah, of course,” I say—anything to get the job at this point.
“They play Dixieland, old school jazz. Some swing and blues, too. It’s pretty hot.”
I’m trying to pretend like I know what he’s talking about. The only swing I know is Brian Setzer. Blues? B.B. King. Ha. I’m really going to have to work on this. I look around the place. Pictures of Louis Armstrong everywhere. Other guys I don’t recognize playing trumpets, saxophones, you name it. It’s a pretty cool place—I got to say. Everything looks vintage—but authentic vintage, not desperately retro. I’m intrigued.
“When can you start?” he asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“Be in at 6:30.”
And that’s how it started. That day, it was just a job. It was something to pass the time. Something to make me a little more productive. On the way home, I picked up a razor at the store. Slash—slice—slit. Beard gone. I looked in the mirror and thought about the money I’d make. I thought about the food I’d serve. And I thought about Addie. I always thought about her before I went to bed. And I didn’t know it, but someone—something—was about to soothe my mind about this lost love. This pain. And I had no idea what I was in for.
So I’m on my way to work after getting in a fight with the ex. It’s funny how after four months of a breakup, you still do something wrong every day. Just taking a breath can set someone off at that point. Damn. I’m in a huff, but I roll into the Landing on time, wearing all black and a tie. Lookin’ sharp.
“Music starts at 8.”
Sounds good to me. I roll some silverware, learn the menu, and meet my co-workers. Everything is relaxed. Being somewhere else, besides my house, makes me feel better. But still, the stress, man—it’s there. I know it. It’s nibbling on me.
Right then, people start coming in and sitting down—martinis are being passed around the place—women in evening dresses, men in slacks and button-downs—everyone is dressed to the nines and I’m thinkin’--I could like this gig.
By 8:00, I’m ready to see what this place is all about. The band is set. “1, 2—1, 2, 3, 4.” And they’re off. The cornet, clarinet, and trombone find the key, while the bass, banjo, and piano provide some subtle backbone to the tune. All along the cymbal on the drum is playing a little tss—t-t-tss—t-t-tss to help everyone keep pace. And at that moment, this is jazz to me.
And then snap I’m back at home, brushing my teeth. Washing my face. Thinking of her. The rush, it’s gone. The horns have faded. The drums went on break. And I got sad.
So the Landing became a little sanctuary for me. I’d come in gloomy and boom be engaged in a new world that didn’t mosy along—it hauled ass. And I’d hitch myself on with each individual note, take in the scenery, and let the rhythm flow through my soul, man. And each night, it stopped like a train wreck—and I got sad. And then once again snap I’d have Addie on the brain.
And the singer took the mic: Baby, won’t you please come home. And I’m thinkin’ He knows. But then he jabs me with: Please come home, I need money, oh, baby come home!And that’s that. A smile takes over my face. A wave of relaxation sweeps my body into this moment. And I decide to take a customer’s order.
“I’ll have the Hemingway martini,” he says to me. “The lady will have the Montgomery.” I smile at the couple.
“You got it.” And I walk to put the order in. Left-beat-right-beat-left-beat-right-beat. Snap-beat-snap-beat-snap-beat-snap-beat. Something grabs my attention. I realize the music is helping me walk. I mean, it’s not holding me up or anything, but I’m walking in time with the song. “Muskrat Ramble” is the name. We’re interacting in a unique way. It’s like we’re playing off each other, y’know? And we’re kind of leaning on each other. I feel like every step I take is integral to the song’s rhythm—and at the same time I feel like without the song, I’d stop walking. I almost forget to order the drink because I don’t want to end the song. So I keep walking beat snapping beat walking. And I’m feeling good.
And it becomes irresistible. The more often I work, the more I’m forced to cooperate with the music. Hell, the more I want to, man. I can’t take a step on an off-beat. The drums won’t let me. So what can you do? Just keep on walkin’. So I do.
And the days flow by. The weeks hum past. I find myself walking to a beat everywhere I go. There’s a new high. It’s that clarinet taking my hand in Cole Porter’s “In the Still of the Night.” Or when the bass hypnotizes me in “Big Noise From Winnetka.” It don’t matter what I’m holding—what I’m doing—my thumb meets my middle finger and snap I join the percussion. I’m on a ride.
And all I am doin’ is serving three pretty ladies some frozen margaritas.
“Thanks,” says the blonde with a smirk as she slides me a piece of paper. I return the look and the other two giggle at either the friend or me. I can’t tell. I don’t care. Nothing stops time and space more than a pretty girl smilin’ at you, y’know?
So I strut back across the club, paper in hand, waiting to see what’s on it. The music controls my body, my movements. My head bobs, I don’t even know it. It’s a phone number.Snap-beat-snap-beat-snap. My eyes close and I smile.
“Look at you, hot shot.” I hear it, but I don’t know who said it to me. “You’re one smooth cat.”
I’m laughing, but I still don’t know who’s talkin’. I look at the stage. “Now you got it—carry on.” It’s the cornet. It winks at me. No, not the cornet player. He’s just playing the cornet. The instrument itself is talking to me.
I look around the bar. Nobody’s acting strange. Am I going crazy? I turn away. But something tugs at my sleeve. I turn around—nobody there. Then the trombone joins in. “Hey, brother, you don’t need that dame. You ain’t worried.”
Paranoid, more like it. I’m looking left and right to see who is pullin’ a fast one on me. Nobody around. The banjo hits a note in my direction—it’s got a little twang to it—like it’s laughing at me and saying, “Just grab a drink and hear me out.” So I do. Enough said. And suddenly, jazz became something new to me.
The more I felt the music, the more my body, my mind, my soul found a rebirth. It didn’t matter if it was the beautiful “Reverie” taking my emotions through a house of mirrors or if it was “S.O.L. Blues” encouraging me to laugh a little. The music was therapy.
And when the snap-beat-snap-beat-snap brought me home every night, I was sleepin’ like a baby. I didn’t get sad anymore. Because I wasn’t lonely. When Loneliness knocked on my door, Irving Berlin’s “All By Myself” escorted her to the exit. Sure, she tried to come back, but the drums stayed honest with me. “I’m with you, baby.” Ha. And I had a friend. Sometimes you find your best companions in places you’d never expect—and jazz had a note to relate to every thought, sentiment, notion, or reaction I could produce. Jazz was a doctor, a psychic, an entertainer, a parent, you name it, man.
I told you earlier that jazz just makes sense. Remember? Yeah, well I’ll never forget when I first heard that. I thought it was the perfect description. Listen to this:
I’m cleaning up some martini glasses and wiping down a table as the band starts playing a piece called “You Do Something to Me.” I’m swaying, falling in love, and walking on air all at the same time that I’m tossing a wet napkin into the trash can by the door. I see an older woman smiling, eyes closed, and I swear to God there’s a tear near her left eye. It’s the end of the night, and the band always finishes with the slow songs, y’know? So I sidle up next to this woman and quietly say, “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“This is my favorite song,” she says to me without opening her eyes. The bliss on her face is calming, it’s arresting. Magnificent. Gorgeous.
“Why’s that?” I ask. I’m expecting a story from the past, a memory or two, a lost love, a magical night, a dance under the stars, an embrace…
She looks at me and says, “It just makes sense to me.”
Enough said.
