It’s spring, 2007. I wander up St-Laurent looking for the bar I’ve been told is “really hard to find”, and stare intently at each shop face hoping the names will tell me something. It’s above Duluth, I know that much. I take out my cell phone for inspiration, when suddenly a band starts up and it’s coming from a door not 10 feet away. Aha!
I open the door and walk in. It’s a drinking hole devoid of charm. It’s a bare essentials place: low ceilings, long bar, some waist-height tables with stools, one pool table, one 16-inch TV; photos of various famous patrons plaster the walls by way of decoration along with posters from bygone or upcoming shows. In between are posters of the presently deplorable but once noble Montreal Canadiens. The play-offs are on TV, no Canadiens on the ice.
The band’s sound takes up all the psychic space in the place so all visual observations are incidental. The wall of sound from this tight, exciting big band is unrelenting. At first it’s shocking, but soon I’m warmed by it and sit down to order my first beer, a Boreale Blonde in a large cool glass.
As I sip the delicious brew I examine the band for familiar faces. Ah, yes, half the band are guys I’ve known for years but rarely see. There’s something comforting in the acknowledgement of known faces attached to memories that have gone fuzzy and nostalgic from the years.
I see Joe playing the trumpet. God, I went to school with him twenty-five years ago. I came of age in a puzzled haze, staring at Joe. He was so cool back then. Now he’s still pretty cool, just a little greyer is all. Another trumpet player, whose face is familiar, is taking an insane, high energy solo, staying as much as possible in the highest register. Despite the pain in my ears it’s impossible not to be thrilled by it.
The next tune starts with a drum solo. Again, driving energy, unrelenting; a force of nature. The drummer has an uncanny ability to keep the beat steady as fast as possible while throwing in all the necessary set-up punches to keep the band tight. Ooh, double time. The whole band abruptly slows down while a sax player wails.
I’m distracted by the hockey game, the score is 2-1. It’s the Stanley Cup finals so I can’t help myself. Ottawa Senators versus the Anaheim Mighty Ducks. How can a team be serious with a name like that? It’s a smear on the grand tradition of hockey. Ottawa has to cream them, I will it to happen. It’s the first time a Canadian team has been in the finals since 1993 when the Canadiens won it last. The Senators are so fast, they’re skating rings around those Ducks, I think with satisfaction.
Vic Vogel, venerable old band leader, counts another one in. The drummer takes up the beat as smoothy as though he was stepping on some cosmic express. The brass are playing intensely, but ever so slightly out of tune, an aural experience I’m not totally digging, but it’s still crazily impressive.
I came here on the urging of my husband, Dave, who plays in the band, but frankly, despite the magnificent intensity, I can’t subject my ears to this on a regular basis. My ears already ring from being in orchestra rehearsals all day, a different kind of intensity.
After an up-beat intro, the next tune settles back and turns out to be an unfamiliar take on Satin Doll. Fucking beautiful, and my Sweetie gets to take a solo. He’s a consummate, subtle, phrasing musician. Not crazy technical, but it sounds like MUSIC.
The drummer, the heart of any big band, owns the tune. The bass takes a solo, and I enjoy it, despite my general mystification at most bass solos. Maybe because I can actually hear him.
Yeah, they’re back in the refrain, Satin Doll. Visceral pleasure. I take another sip and bask in Ellington.
Soon, I’ve had enough, my ears hurt, but my heart is full. I wave good-bye to Dave when he happens to look my way. I blow him a kiss and put my jacket on. I slip out the same way I came in an hour before. A sweet trumpet sound follows me down the dark street.
I love to hear from you!