This is a repost from my short-lived MySpace blog. Remember MySpace?
So here it is...the first entry in a blog that most likely will never be read. I guess every now and then I get into some crazy situation that I feel needs to be documented in one way or another and this seems to be the most effortless way. This particular entry is in regards to the events of last Saturday night. Here goes:The night then continued upstairs at the nearby Sheraton and in the Village...
Working over in Rockland County (aka Rocknam) over winter break was OK for the first couple of weeks: hanging out with old friends, hitting up new bars, winning lots of money at Texas Hold 'Em, etc. Life was sweet. But after everyone went back to school, the boredom came crashing down on me like a hurricane on heathens. Apologies to Pat Robertson. So I was thrilled to be headed back to the boros, albeit for only a couple of days. Friday night was spent mostly on public transportation with no music or literature. By the time I finally arrived back in Cop Killa Queens, I was in no shape for any entertainment other than the good ol' couch and TV. I am the Sofa King. And the Knicks won.
After about 12 hours of sleep and an early afternoon of hardcore cleaning, I was ready to experience everything the City That Never Sleeps had to offer. But so much time and so little to do. Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. Apologies to Gene Wilder.
There was a bunch of open bars. There was some great live music. There was Andy at the International Association for Jazz Education (IAJE) conference or whatever at the Hilton. Reliably unreliable Manzor was coming out to NYC. The lovely Allie from NYE would be out and about at MSG. The night was young and the potential was great (perjoratively, of course).
So what was to be?
At approximately 6pm, I left my humble abode and began the arduous trek into Money Makin' Manhattatan, Captain Morgan and a liter of cola in hand. The destination: the glamorous Hilton Hotel, packed to the gills with jazz cats and assorted worldly wise foreigners.
The Bridge Bar was the site of a tight jam session featuring veterans and rookies of the jazz scene. Suffice it to say they ripped that bar up. Best part was the renegade cocktails I made. I told the bartender I needed two glasses of ice for the sax player to suck on: "Y'know. To sustain the long notes." Silly bartender! Glasses of ice are for rum and cokes. They got the job done.
Next up was the main event of the IAJE, namely Chick Corea and his ridiculously talented trio. But this was no impromptu hotel bar throwdown. This was the main event of a $100 per day conference. So some plotting and scheming was in order. "I left my pass up in my room. I know I was supposed to have it all week; it's been a long week. Ok. Thanks." So simple.
Needless to say, Chick Corea's trio killed it jazzwise. Equally impressive was the youth percussion ensemble that preceded the headliner. You have not lived until you have witnessed the George of the Jungle theme pounded out by tens of elementary schoolers on about a hundred vibraphones and other assorted percussive instruments. I, my friends, have lived.