My Jazz Fix

Many days, when I’m sitting there in my office chair, the sweet strains of Ella or Peyroux or Miles funneled into my ears through my ear buds, I start pining for the Green Mill. Live jazz is like my secret elixir. If I’m stressed, I literally crave it the way some people crave a drink or a cigarette (not that jazz, of course, is ever far from either of those things).

This week, it finally became such a necessity for me to de-stress that I made a plea for anyone who wanted to please join me for an evening at the Green Mill. I was completely prepared to go alone if I found no takers. Of course, it was no surprise that my jazz buddy, Vinny, was the first to respond, so we headed up there last evening. I hadn’t even bothered checked the calendar before we arrived, feeling pretty sure that with my Green Mill drought it would have to be some serious jazz organ to disappoint me (no offense, jazz organists, but I just don’t like it—organs are not jazzy). So, we were both pleasantly surprised to find a sixteen-piece ensemble setting up their big band stage. Indeed, Thursdays at the Green Mill are always big band evenings, featuring the Alan Gresik Swing Shift Orchestra. It was going to be a lively evening.

I decided I wanted to treat myself, so I made it a White Russian night. Sipping on sweet cream is a most heavenly accompaniment to jazz, be it bebop or big band. Vinny and I felt transported back in time as the emcee read off the show sponsors and advertisements, as though he were emceeing a radio show in the 1940s. (After checking out the orchestra’s website, I discovered that they do, in fact, broadcast their Green Mill performances on Avenue950.) While some of his jokes weren’t particularly funny, I could feel my laughter growing more enthusiastic as the alcohol and the music settled into my veins.

Once the music was in full swing, Vinny and I realized that we had stumbled upon a huge group of swing dancers. A huge group of twenty-somethings had taken over the dance floor (interspersed with some elderly gentlemen and a few older couples), and they were busting out some impressive swing moves. They all seemed to know one another, despite the fact that the couples were constantly changing partners. Vinny and I hypothesized that it was a group from a swing dance class coming out to practice their moves, but after I tapped on a few shoulders and asked a couple of questions, I learned that they’re just a bunch of swing dance enthusiasts who go out dancing together. Apparently, there’s a pretty sizable swing dance group in Chicago (not that I’m surprised by this—there’s a group for everything here!). As we watched them, I couldn’t help but feel that old pang to learn swing dance resurface (it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but have never had a partner for). It may be time to finally take some classes.

My delight in the entire experience—the setting, the music, the atmosphere—exploded through my smile all night long. It had only taken me mere minutes to feel as though I were in a different world. I suddenly wasn’t in Chicago, not Uptown, not anywhere discernable on a map. With the music of the 30s and 40s swirling around me, soaking into my hair, and drifting into the spaces between my fingers, I was transported to a place that usually only exists for me in books, old movies, and my dreams.