You guys. I don’t even play an instrument.
Okay, back up. Let's set the scene.
It was one of those rare New York evenings where the humidity dropped below “frizzpocalypse,” so I decided to actually walk home from SoHo instead of battling the 6 Train like a gladiator. I was wearing a floaty linen skirt, sipping an overpriced lavender matcha latte (my new obsession), and fully channelling my inner French girl. You know, très chic Rachel.
So naturally, I ended up in the Village.
A Piano, A Martini, And A Guy Named “Stu”
I was drawn in by this cozy little jazz bar tucked between a psychic and a—and I'm not kidding—a West Village store that exclusively sells vintage typewriters. I walk in, and it’s like stepping into 1962. Dim lights. Velvet chairs. The faint whiff of gin and regret.
A very vibey trio was playing—upright bass, piano, and saxophone. And me being me? I sit right up front. I mean, who else is going to appreciate improvised music in a nude kitten heel?
Somewhere between the second martini and what may or may not have been an impromptu tap routine in my seat (don’t judge), the pianist, Stu, leans over and says:
“You sing, right?”
And because apparently two martinis equals Throat Goat Energy™, I go:
“I mean… I’ve done karaoke once or twice. In, like, Tokyo.”
(That was a whole other situation with a Chanel associate and a bachelorette party from Essex, but we’ll get there another time.)
Stu nods, like that alone qualifies me for vocal greatness, and next thing I know—they’re playing “At Last,” and like some alternate-universe Norah Jones, I’m standing over the piano… singing.
Actually? Not terrible.
When Jazz Happens to You
I don’t even know how to explain what happened. I think the crowd honestly thought it was just part of the act because they clapped. Loudly. And a woman with silver hair and a cane told me I had “presence.” (I cried. Perfume mixed with jazz and flattery is a heady combo.)
Long story short—Stu asked if I could come back. “We do this every Friday. Just two or three songs. Real standards. Bring your vibe.”
Bring my what now?! I literally googled “What to wear when accidentally joining a jazz band” the second I got home.
So this is your official invitation:
Friday night. 9 p.m. Nathan’s on W. 4th. It’s not even on Google Maps. Just look for the neon cat sign. I’ll be the one probably forgetting the words to “Misty” in a vintage Halston jumpsuit.
What I Learned: NYC Is Just… That Girl
Living in New York means waking up with brunch plans and somehow ending your night as a jazz chanteuse in a bar where no one’s heard of TikTok. This city is wild, chaotic, frequently smells like questionable hot dogs, and yet… it gives you these moments.
So, no—I didn’t plan on joining a jazz band.
But do I have a mini fan now gifted to me by an elderly saxophonist with a British accent? Yes.
And do I suddenly own sheet music? Also yes.
Things I Googled After This Experience (So You Don’t Have To)
- Is vibrato something you can fake?
- Can you scat even if you don’t know how to read music?
- Difference between Ella Fitzgerald and Etta James (I KNOW, I KNOW.)
- What wine pairs with being terrified and fabulous at the same time?
City life, my friends. She throws you curveballs. But sometimes they come with a tambourine.
See you Friday. Come find your jazz side—I found mine somewhere between a lipstick-smudged martini glass and a dream.
xoxo,
Rachel
✨💄🎷
