Change is constant here. Recently, I found myself with enough singing gigs that I decided to bid "adieu" to Tom and the Scottsman, the famous Interior Decorators. I began working as an office assistant in the firm and, by the end of my tenure there, I was promoted to Assistant Designer and ran my own small jobs (the largest being a three bedroom apartment). I didn't really make any design decisions, but I would manage the details of the work and try to make sure that things ran smoothly.
To say that it has been a good job is an understatement. The Scottsman is a great guy and he and Tom took such good care of Kitty and I while I was working there. We stayed at their country homes, went to fabulous parties and enjoyed the company of all of the staff socially, as well as professionally.
To celebrate my departure, the Scottsman and his new assistant organized a big send-off for me and The Dancer, one of the other assistants who had just taken a job with another firm. When I found out that it would be in the Theater District, I was skeptical, to say the least. I don't go there very often and when I do go, I try to time myself so that I won't get crushed under the weight of so many collective tourists standing and gawking on the sidewalks.
When Kitty and I arrived, sour after getting drenched by a stormy evening, we entered a page of history. Swing 46 is a restaurant and swing bar. It feels a little bit seedy as you go in. The decor is straight out of the twenties. I mean that it was decorated in the 1920s and it hasn't been updated since. It wasn't that it was ugly, just slightly used. The details of the space were not clean and fresh, but showed the liver spots and wrinkles of a generation of lonely drunks and cheap jazz. There was water leaking from the ceiling near our table, but once we got comfortable in our seats and had a drink, we were in for a surprise.
The Food
Again, I wasn't expecting much. American food. Rubber chicken. Why did he choose this place? Then I saw the menu. Slightly nouveau American and French food. The appetizers were delicious and as we were wrapping up, out attention was brought to the band that had been quietly setting up. "Felix and the Cats" broke out into a lively swing number. This was going to be no average night.
The Band
There are hundreds of musicians here in New York. They are singers, instrumentalists, jazz-cats, musical theater pretty boys, and infinite small groups performing every manner of music from around the world. In addition to many bad musicians, there are some of the best that you have never heard of in your life.
As a professional, I could see that many of the musicians in Felix and the Cats were just session players. They had received the charts for the first time that night, looked them over, talked out the tempo and then they ROCKED! There was only one false start that night and I forgive them that because the solos were uniformly outstanding, the rhythm was tight and the band leader and singer had great energy.
The Main Course
I had the steak. It was perfectly cooked. Kitty had the salmon. It was outstanding. The big surprise? The presentation. It looked like they opened a Gourmet Magazine up on our table. Artful displays of shredded vegetables, layers of potatoes to frame my steak-- it was a genuinely exceptional culinary production.
The Dancing
It was absolutely a blast. By the time we finished the main course, the band was on their first break. A couple came out and gave a brief lesson in swing dancing. I was all left feet as we worked in the group. When I sat down, my co-workers looked at me skeptically. "You kind of fell apart out there, man." "I thought you said you were a singer who could move. What the hell was that?" Friends can be too honest sometimes.
By the time the band kicked up for their second set, I had processed the lesson. Kitty and I hit the dance floor and I made vast improvements by the end of the first song. I sat down to, "Well, we were worried about you after that class, but you really pulled it together out there." It's not like I'm a pitcher in a Major League Game, guys.
As we rested and had our sixth glass of wine for the night, we saw Bill Nye across the dance floor, sitting alone and drinking water. It was our Celebrity Moment of the night and though no one else could care less, I was thrilled. I can still sing the main riff of his kid's show. He was awesome with his lab coat and wicked cool experiments. Ok. I digress.
That cat can dance. After checking out people for awhile, he came over to our table and asked my co-worker (a former professional dancer) if she would care to dance. She said yes and we watched the best dancing of the night. She came back all flustered and said, "Damn. He is good. That man KNOWS how to lead."
And you thought he was just a dorky scientist. Shame on you.
The End
Bombed out of our mind, we threw the Scottsman in a cab. Luckily, Tom, the other partner of the firm, hopped in and got him home safely. We staggered out into the night. The rain had broken and we hopped on the train. We nodded off as we rode home, missed our stop and had to stagger an extra two blocks to our apartment.
I'm looking for an excuse to go there and drop a fortune on food and drink and dance. Next time, I'd like to wear a tux, slick my hair back and imagine that I'm reenacting a scene from "The Great Gatsby."
No comments:
Post a Comment