The worst seat in the house inside “Bill’s Place,” a former Prohibition era speakeasy in Harlem that once again features live jazz, would be better than the best seat in most any other venue.
My son and I, you see, sat in the back row – which was also the front row. As mentioned here last week, the off-the-beaten-path step-down brownstone apartment-turned-revived-nightclub is so shotgun-narrow that a single row of 11 mismatched wooden chairs and stools are backed up against the wall opposite the three-inch-high stage. So close are the seats that when I straightened my legs my feet literally rested onstage.
Standing room allowed another dozen patrons to enjoy the intimate performance by Bill Saxton & The Harlem All-Stars. Saxton is fittingly named for he plays the sax. Moreover, he has done so over the past five decades with the likes of such luminaries as The Duke Ellington Orchestra and The Count Basie Orchestra.
“Welcome to Bill’s Place,” said Saxton, the venue’s owner and namesake, and then our memorable evening was underway. Between songs, he regaled the assemblage with tales of nights long foregone, including about legendary songstress Billie Holiday who was discovered right here at age 17 in 1933.
Not even halfway into the 90-minute set, my cane chair had become tortuously uncomfortable, but that and 20 dollars – cash only; no secret password was required, however – was the price of admission. Both costs were bargains for the jam session was so steamy it threatened to peel off the wallpaper.
The intimacy of the room surely made the music sound better, but an equal pleasure was to watch the musicians at such rare proximity and behold Saxton, beads of sweat visible on his forehead just below the brim of his porkpie hat, rhythmically tapping his left foot as he played, his fingers masterfully commanding the keys and pearl buttons of his saxophone, a ring on his right pinkie twinkling like starlight.
To audit even closer and see his fingers flex and release, quick, slow, liquidly; see his cheeks change shapes and color; see his eyes not just close at times, but squeeze tightly shut, lost in the music, was spellbinding.
Similarly, thanks to the upright piano being pressed up against the wall, stage left, the pianist played with his back to the audience thus affording listeners the opportunity to watch his fingers deftly dance and slide and tickle the ivories. Meanwhile, far right on the stage, the blurred, rhythmic hands of the drummer were equally arresting to focus in on.
But most mesmerizing of all, to my eyes, was watching the upright bass player’s fingers strum and pluck the strings; strings that from merely five feet away seemed as thick as bungee cords – or chords, should I say?
What strength in those fingers! What grace, too, as they nimbly moved up and down the neck massaging the fingerboard. His hands, the knuckles enlarged from a billion lifetime notes, are surely as strong as a bricklayer’s yet his calloused fingertips somehow maintain the sensitive touch of a master safecracker’s.
“Easy reading is (darn) hard writing,” Nathaniel Hawthorne said, and music is no different. Hunched over his instrument, the (darn) hard effort of the bassist’s work showed in growing perspiration stains, but the result was easy listening.
“Find a hidden doorway and go inside,” a wise friend often reminds me before I travel. “That’s where you’ll find the truly magical experiences.” He was right once again, for to borrow from a Billie Holiday song, finding the out-of-the-way doorway of Bill’s Place was like finding “Pennies From Heaven.”
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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn
Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.
