Okay, so last night started, as most great New York stories do, with a plan that went totally sideways—in the best possible way. My friend Monica (yes, the Monica, chef, perfectionist, and professional keeper of plans) had this whole night thought out: dinner in the West Village, then a new speakeasy on Cornelia Street that apparently does “bespoke martinis” (whatever that means—I just wanted gin).
But instead? I accidentally joined a jazz band.
Let me explain.
The Night Begins Like a Rom-Com…
We’re walking down Bleecker Street, laughing about something Joey said (I think it was about how he thinks he invented the idea of layering shirts… wow), when we hear this sultry saxophone drifting out of a tiny, candle-lit bar. The sign outside said “Live Jazz + No Cover = Love,” which honestly spoke to me on a spiritual level.
So naturally, we went in.
Inside: velvet chairs, low lighting, exactly the right number of ironic fedoras, and a stage with the most casually brilliant four-piece jazz band I've ever seen. The vibes? Immaculate. The crowd? Chill but full of that mysterious New York energy—like, anything could happen here.
Turns out, they were doing an "open mic jazz jam"… which honestly sounds like something Chandler would try to turn into a punchline.
Then Somehow, This Happened:
One very flirty bourbon cocktail later (called “The Billie Holiday” because, of course), the band leader—this guy named Jules who had a mustache you’d trust with your deepest secrets—asks the crowd, in that low, smoky voice:
“Any singers in the house?”
Now I don’t know if it was the cocktail, the ambiance, or the fact that I recently sang “I Will Survive” at karaoke and crushed it (according to Phoebe, who I’m pretty sure was wildly off-key herself, but still)—but my hand just… lifted.
Like, it betrayed me.
And Jules just beamed at me and said,
"Come on up, dream girl."
I know. I KNOW.
3 Things I Learned Being in a Jazz Band for Ten Minutes:
-
Jazz musicians don’t believe in “plans”—they believe in vibes.
I asked what song we’d sing, and Jules goes, “Let’s just find our moment, baby.” Baby?? -
You can absolutely fake “jazzy confidence” if you channel your inner 1940s movie star.
Picture me up there, holding the mic like I’ve done this a thousand times, thinking, “What would Veronica Lake do?” -
Singing “Fever” with a full band behind you feels oddly like falling in love with a stranger on the F train.
Unexpected, slightly chaotic, and completely magical.
So yeah. One slightly raspy, sultry song later (I didn’t even cringe-scream—Monica said I looked like I belonged there, and she does not give compliments lightly), Jules says:
“We play a set next Friday. Want to sit in on a few songs?”
I laughed, obviously. Until I realized he wasn't joking.
am I… a jazz singer now?
Okay, not exactly. I’m not quitting my day job at Ralph Lauren just yet. (Although can you imagine the merch? Scarves and smoky eyeliner for everyone!) But guess who is maybe showing up next Friday in a vintage dress, pretending she understands what a D-minor 7 chord is?
Me. It’s me.
New York is wild like that. One minute you’re ordering duck confit, the next minute you’re on stage at a jazz club making eye contact with a jazz drummer named Lenny who has deep thoughts about Coltrane.
I don’t know where this goes, but honestly? That’s half the fun. And if I totally crash and burn next week, at least we’ll get another blog post out of it.
Until then, here are a few things I’m officially into now:
- Jazz playlists that make me feel like I’m walking through a Woody Allen movie (minus the problematic stuff).
- Red lipstick again. (Why did I ever stop wearing it??)
- Saying “darling” non-ironically. It's working for me.
Because, as I’ve always said:
When in doubt… just say yes. (Unless he’s in finance wearing Allbirds. Then say maybe.)
xo,
Rachel 🌟
Still figuring it out—but now with a little more swing.
