I Was In Fact Myself

She was great.  Commanding, majestic, with a deeper voice than I remembered, Dee Dee Bridgewater came out and owned the stage last night at the Beijing Blue Note.  I may have been projecting but there was a warm maternal feeling it seemed between herself and the younger accomplished quintet that backed her.  I was reminded of the tales of Betty Carter University in her band and all the great bands were younger musicians came up, were tutored and given a chance to shine.  

First though, I had to get in.  After piling down the stairs to the high-end subterranean juke joint they’d put up there in ChienMen 23, I nervously noticed the presence of other people.  Lots of them.  We didn’t have a reservation.  We were told on the phone that it wouldn’t be necessary.  I stood in line behind a couple that turned into a foursome and served eventually I learned that there was table available, there in the front.  Perfect.  It was pricy, but let's have at it.  And . . . my card was rejected.  

In China, the first thought is that your U.S. bank has once again detected “suspicious activity” and shut your card down.  What?  My profile doesn’t include Tuesday night visits to Jazz clubs in Beijing?  This is always straightforward to fix once you reach someone, but, it requires a phone call, waiting in a queue, confirming identity and ultimately thanking someone in Texas or Maryland for allowing you to prove you were you and for having flipped a switch so you could use your card again Fortunately the folks at the Blue Note Beijing were civil and let us in while I sorted this out.  I called, got connected, was transferred, hung up on, called again, dropped, called again and went through a call with a perfectly nice young lady who confirmed, that I was in fact myself and that there was nothing that was holding the card.  Ahh. I should have figured.  It’s the card swiping machines at the club that weren’t able to manage an international card.  

But with show time and dinner time all imminent, I returned semi-triumphantly to the table to enjoy the pre-show vibe with the family.  Looking over my shoulder I considered the crowd.  This may seem odd to note as important but just about everyone in there was Chinese.  Chinese people who can afford $100.00 tickets are no longer in short supply.  Chinese people who dig jazz and have good taste, and significantly, who are willing to head out on a Tuesday night are also to be found in abundance.  Another one of countless mile-markers to notch the evolution of this city.  Next milestone will be when the audience feels relaxed enough to actually sway with the music.  The house was attentive, if notably stiff. 

And our ambassador of the high American art form did not disappoint. I had built her up to my young ladies and as I tried to enjoy things without looking like too much of a bobbing paternal dork, I glanced back at them and noticed they were watching.  They weren’t burrowed into their iPhones.  They were also captivated.  Tight blue dress, hugging a remarkable figure, porkpie hat atop her bald dome, shapely arm muscles, legs stretched in heels, I was marveling at this woman who was Hillary’s age, working her way across the stage of this, her first of two evening sets.  Somehow she has kept the demons of age at bay while waxing majestic and mature. We’ve now a home full of Dee Dee Bridgewater fans. 

But after the show, I needed to visit the ATM, across the street.