In only a few hours the magic would happen again. This old building, once a grand house, preserved over decades as budget and cash flow allowed, flanked on one side now by a trailer park, on the other by the black skeleton of the latest arson in the neighborhood.
Anyone driving past – anyone new, that is, and there were few such – would notice the place and maybe even remark Look at that place. What is that? Not just a house, is it. No, look at all that parking. Nice place, or once was. Kind of well-kempt, too. What is it? And by then their car would have passed and the thought quickly forgotten.
But if they would hear the music, well, that would be another story. For one thing, they would not be guessing about what the place was. By nine o’clock, by good dark, this place was quite well defined. It was the music that defined it, of course.
Serious jazz, urban and urbane. This was a club, man. What used to be called a nightclub. And it had all the trimmings. Great coffee and a menu that was all its own and local musicians who came there night after night for years on end to work out and dust off their dreams. You could go there and sit at coffee and nobody would say a thing. White tablecloth, fine china cup and cream in a pitcher.