Okay, so—before I begin—I need you to know that when I say “jazz band,” I do not mean like, oh, I picked up a saxophone and suddenly I’m Miles Davis or something. No. This was not planned, it wasn’t pretty (at first), and yes, I was wearing heels. But by the end of the night, I had an espresso martini in one hand and a tambourine in the other, and people cheered. Like, they actually clapped. On purpose.
Welcome to one of the most unexpected nights I’ve had in the West Village (or anywhere, if we’re being honest).
How It All Started (a.k.a. Blame Monica)
So Thursday night, Monica texts me:
“Jazz bar. 8pm. Dress cute. No leather pants, it’s humid.”
First of all—rude, leather is a classic. But second of all? Jazz bar?? I was expecting more of a wine-and-flirting evening than a musical journey, but whatever, I was in a vintage Halston mini and I looked amazing.
We ended up at this little tucked-away place on Barrow Street. You know the kind—dim lights, one chandelier that probably came with its own ghost, and a piano that looks like it's seen things. The band was already playing: upright bass, trumpet, this vibey girl on keys with neon-pink braids. It was giving… speakeasy-cool with a splash of “you might meet your next mistake here.”
And then things escalated.
The Moments Leading Up to My Jazz Debut (Unplanned AND Cute)
One minute I was sipping on what I now know was a dangerously strong Negroni, and the next the pianist says, “We’ve got a special guest in the house tonight.”
I clapped politely, obviously, because I was assuming it’d be someone who actually, oh I don’t know, plays instruments or owns more than one record.
But then?
The pianist points to me. ME.
She says: “C’mon up, tambourine queen.”
To this day I still don’t know how she knew I played the tambourine in sixth grade for a very dramatic rendition of "Don't Stop Believin'," but that is not the point. The point is—my so-called friends WHISTLED. Loudly.
And somehow—I walked up.
What Playing in a Jazz Band Actually Feels Like (When You're Not in a Jazz Band)
Imagine this:
- You are on a tiny stage.
- The audience is half-sipping, half-judging.
- A sexy trumpet player gives you a wink.
- You are holding a tambourine like it is the Birkin you never got.
I shook that thing with the energy of someone who is both terrified and slightly tipsy. And guess what? I was GOOD.
I kept to the beat. I did some shoulder action. I even—at one possibly delusional moment—turned in a little circle. The people? Ate. It. Up.
Quote of the night:
“You’re like if Stevie Nicks came to brunch in SoHo.” – random girl in the audience, probably my soulmate.
Post-Performance Thoughts (And My Smoothie the Next Morning)
When I got off stage, some guy offered to buy me a drink and asked if I was “touring.” I told him yes, mostly through the Village and into the bodega for a very necessary bagel.
But you guys? I felt electric. There’s something about doing something spontaneous—even silly—that reminds you that New York is always surprising you. Always.
One second you’re trying to get your bangs to lay flat, the next you're tambourining your way into local jazz lore.
What I Learned
This is the part where I pretend I’m Carrie Bradshaw (but like, cuter shoes and less existential dread):
- Wear heels. Even to jazz bars. Especially to jazz bars.
- Say yes. It’s more fun than no (and no never gets free cosmos).
- The tambourine is a wildly underrated instrument.
- You don’t need to be a professional to slay. Honestly, confidence is half the battle—and sequins never hurt.
So no, I’m not quitting my day job to tour with a jazz ensemble, but if you hear someone aggressively tambourining down Bleecker at 11pm this Thursday… maybe just smile and toss a martini in my direction.
xx
Rachel 💋
NYC, where Jazz Hands are still very much a thing
