Improvisations and Inconspicuous Nooks

While last Saturday was largely controlled by the wind—as in, we just went wherever it took us—we did purchase tickets to Second City that morning. We had vacillated a bit between the Green Mill and Second City. Since Second City was something totally different from the kinds of things Wendy and I usually do together (jazz and cocktails being an old pastime of ours), and because it’s such an authentically Chicago experience (not that the Green Mill isn’t), we opted for improv.

Neither of us had been before (yes, it, too, was on the laundry list of things to do), and we didn’t quite know what to expect, since we were going to one of the amateur shows. We actually enjoyed ourselves very much. We walked several blocks to Old Town, then after riding a couple sets of escalators and walking up a few stairs, we were at Donny’s Skybox.

As you wait for the show to start, they play this funky mix of music, where you think one of your favorite songs is going to play, but they tease you with only a few measures before fading into another favorite song that you think they’re going to play in its entirety, but they just keep mixing on you. It was actually kind of annoying. Anyway, as soon as the actors arrived on stage they asked a few people in the audience what their names were, where they were from and what they did for a living, and then worked it into the performance in various ways. Except they didn’t use mine. I suppose I’m too boring for them. They couldn’t even think of anything funny to say about what I do for a living. I should have told them I’m a biographer (someday, someday…). That would have been far more interesting than what I actually told them. But I’d rather be ignored than ripped to shreds, so at least there was no risk of the latter.

While some of the “skits” fell flat, taking weird twists that just weren’t that funny, most of it was really quite amusing. The only truly disappointing part of Second City was that it lasted under an hour. It was over before ten o’clock, and then Wendy and I weren’t sure quite what to do with ourselves (it was too early to go out). We strolled through Old Town, and were contemplating Cold Stone, when we stumbled upon the Fudge Pot just before it closed. Haha, I don’t know whether this was a lucky or unlucky find—the chocolate is delicious! Plus, the guy behind the counter told me that I have the name of a movie star when he took my credit card, so that didn’t hurt. I laughed at him, and shared some of the rude nicknames my last name has inspired throughout the years. Soon, we headed back to my place to look up a good cocktail lounge on Yelp, determined not to wind up on Division Street.

Well, after a little research, we changed into our heels and were soon at an inconspicuous nook close to home—the Zebra Lounge. It has a great atmosphere, with dark lighting accented with strings of pink lights adorning the walls, and excellent Lemon Drop martinis. It’s a small place that most people don’t know about, so you don’t have to worry about the craziness of the bars on Division. Unfortunately, the piano bars around my neighborhood seem to be lacking an essential element—the piano. Both the Zebra Lounge and at Jilly’s (I don’t recommend the latter to anyone under 40) claim to be piano bars, but they only have electric keyboards. While the singer at Jilly’s is actually quite good, I was completely nonplussed by the one at Zebra Lounge. He had a range of about three notes, and he, like the music at Second City, couldn’t seem to complete on song before fading into another. He marred some favorites like “Benny and the Jets,” and “Smile,” but it was quite loud for such a small place, so his singing became somewhat lost in the conversations. It was a nice place to sip cocktails for an hour, but it emptied out before midnight, and I was a little aghast at the bill. But I would definitely go back for a martini with friends.

Jazz and Cocktails

This is old, but I didn't post it. Wrote it on 1/17/09:

Jazz has been an important part of my leisure time since my undergraduate days when I first fell in love with it (thank you, Kim). I’ve been to jazz clubs all over the Midwest, including my favorite Murphy’s Place in Toledo, the Jazz Kitchen in Indy, the Blue Wisp in Cincy, and various places in Cleveland, Muncie and Michigan. I’ve scoped out jazz in places where it’s hard to find (like Knoxville) and I’ve sacrificed my lungs to thick cigarette smoke (Rusty’s!) to immerse myself in those sweet chords. If there’s jazz, I will find it. Therefore, it’s rather astounding that I’d lived in Chicago for over four months before I finally made it to the Green Mill. Friday night, I went.

After unsuccessfully attempting to recruit a number of my Chicago friends to accompany my friend Vinny and me to the cocktail lounge, it wound up being just the two of us. I arrived first, severely overestimating the time it would take me to get from home to the Green Mill. Upon walking in I was greeted by a large, bald-headed, biker-looking guy who was really nice to me, but looked like he could pick me up with one finger and toss me out if he didn’t like the looks of me. He recited the rules of the club and then suggested I grab a drink to warm up. So, I took a seat at the bar and treated myself to an $8 white Russian (my favorite, but usually reserved for special occasions). I had plenty of time to look around and take in my surroundings. As I looked at the wood carvings hanging around the room, and watched the musicians prepare their set, I wondered if the interior looks much different now than it did in the mobster days. It’s been entirely remodeled since then, but I wonder how close they stayed to the original… My thoughts were interrupted by the bouncer, who took pity on my lack of company and tried to engage me in conversation about a dream he’d had the night before. He proceeded with all the details, ending with un-profound comments on Freud. I chose not to add my own two cents on Freud.

Anyway, I digress… So, when Vinny arrived, he was a welcome sight, rescuing me from an awkward solitude occasionally interrupted by the tales of the bald-headed bouncer. As we scouted out a good seat, one of the employees showed us to a cramped little table right up front. The lack of space wasn’t an issue—it was a perfect view! As we settled in, I looked at the people sharing our space—all elderly friends and family of the equally elderly musicians. They were clearly enjoying themselves immensely. Ha. I was enjoying myself immensely. And as I looked around at the wide range of ages filling the club, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.

It may have taken me awhile to get to the Green Mill, but that Friday I was definitely destined to go because they played my song. I’ve only heard it once before. On a Carnival cruise ship, I was one of very few cruisers who spent my evenings in the jazz lounge, bobbing my head to the music. The drummer took a shine to me and asked me if I had a request. I suggested a few that they couldn’t play, so he finally told me they’d play something special for me next time I stopped by. The last night of the cruise I went down to the lounge to bask in the final night of vacation and, sure enough, they played my song. Emily. It’s such a lovely piece. When they announced it at the Green Mill, I was on cloud nine.

Needless to say, I shall be back. The Green Mill was cozy and casual, with the kind of energetic jazz pros I come to expect when I head out for an evening of jazz. Frank DeRone (the guest vocalist) name dropped all night. This guy’s sang with the greats. Like Tony Bennett. While his voice is weakened a bit by age, his heart was in it, and the Green Mill musicians carried the evening. My only complaint was that there weren’t enough bass solos. There are never enough bass solos… I’ll let is slide, though. After all, they did play my song.