You guys, I don't usually say something was “quintessentially New York,” because—hello, that word has five syllables and I only use that kind of vocab when shopping for shoes that cost more than my rent. But last night… was. just. that.
Let’s back up.
How I Went Out for Dessert and Ended Up On Stage with a Saxophone
So there I was, minding my own well-moisturized business, wandering the West Village after dinner (Thai, obviously) with my friend Kate—you remember her, she’s the one who broke up with that hedge fund guy because he read all his emails out loud.
We were craving something sweet, so we start walking toward this tiny jazz bar that, honestly, I’d only been to once, and I think the first time I thought it was a speakeasy. (It wasn’t. It doesn’t even have food.)
Anyway! The place is called Indigo Ember, which sounds either like a candle fragrance or a boutique that sells exclusively linen pants for women named Claudia. But it turns out, it’s a low-lit, vibey AF venue with real jazz musicians who are all either heartbreakingly cool or probably named Miles.
So Kate and I settle into this corner booth with velvet cushions that clearly haven’t seen a dry cleaner since the Obama administration, and we’re sipping on espresso martinis that taste like sophistication punched you gently in the face.
And then… everything changes.
“Can Anyone in the Audience Sing?”
No one ever asks me that. Usually the questions I get in bars are more like, “What’s your sign?” (Libra) or “Where did you get those boots?” (Vintage. Well… vintage “inspired.”)
But out of nowhere, the guy on stage—his name was Dwayne, and his hat had more personality than some of my exes—asks if anyone wants to join the band for their next number.
Now, I don’t know if it was the espresso martini or the fact that I’d worn red lipstick that night (which always gives me false confidence), but my hand? Went up.
Like, instinctively. Like I was back in college raising my hand to ask where my refund check was.
Up There with the Sax (and Zero Talent)
Spoiler: I cannot sing. I mean, unless you count singing along dramatically to Phoebe Bridgers while doing a sheet mask at 2AM.
But Dwayne sees my hand, grins, and says, “Come on up, Lipstick.” (Yes. He called me Lipstick. Do I hate it? No. Do I want it on a T-shirt? Possibly.)
So somehow, I’m on stage. The band starts playing this slow, bluesy number, and I'm just kind of… vibing? Until the real singer swoops in—her name was Marla, and she had this presence that made me feel like applying for a job just so I could quit it dramatically in front of her.
Marla pulls me in, wraps me in one arm like we’ve known each other for seven tax seasons, and starts harmonizing with herself.
And here’s the thing: I, Rachel Green from Long Island via Bloomingdale's, start to scatt.
I didn’t even know I could do it. I'm up there going, "bap-doo-bee-bap ohhh yeahh y’all” like I came out of a 1940s jukebox.
And the crowd? They clapped. Like… real claps. Not ironic, not sarcastic—not even confused!
Why This Night Felt So, So New York
This wouldn’t happen anywhere else.
Only in New York can a girl leave her apartment in a trench coat looking for mochi and end up pretending to be Etta James with a full brass section behind her.
Only in New York do the people at the next table not blink at the woman in heels doing a little footwork to live jazz in a bar with one functioning toilet and zero cell service.
Only in New York would someone hand me a tambourine and not ask questions.
What I Learned (Besides That I Probably Shouldn’t Quit My Day Job)
- Confidence is like a baguette: best when fresh, slightly risky if stored overnight, and absolutely unstoppable after a martini.
- Always say yes to moments that feel a little scary and a lot random.
- West Village jazz bars are like Narnia—once you enter, time stops, and you’ll leave not quite the same girl who walked in.
“There are two kinds of nights: the ones you forget, and the ones that make you regret your 9-to-5.”
I’m not saying I’m buying a trumpet (yet). But I might go back next week—to listen, not scatt. 😉
Until then, if you see a slightly off-beat blonde bobbing her head to street saxophones on 6th Ave… just know she had a moment.
xo,
Rachel
