Oh. My. God.
So you know how in New York, you can literally just walk down the street and end up at a drag brunch, a farmer’s market, or, apparently, inside a full-blown jazz performance? Yeah. That happened.
It’s Rachel here — yes, still in the West Village, still pretending not to be overwhelmed by the fact that every beautiful brownstone looks like it came straight out of a Nancy Meyers film. This weekend, something happened. Something jazzy. Something a little weird. Something slightly embarrassing but also… kind of life-changing?
Let me backtrack.
It All Started with a Croissant
After literally the longest week ever (don’t ask — it involved a lost dry-cleaning ticket, two pairs of shoes I swore I didn’t buy, and a meeting where no one told me I had lipstick on my teeth for 30 minutes), I decided to treat myself to a quiet little pastry at my favorite French cafe on Bedford.
I’m sitting there thinking I’m having my “main character moment” — oat milk latte in hand, messy bun, trench coat (obviously), maybe even some vague, tortured thoughts about autumn and the fleeting nature of beauty or whatever — when I hear it.
Music.
Not just any music. Soulful, sexy, sort-of-heartbreaking-like-that-one-ex-you-still-stalk music. Jazz. Real jazz.
I follow it around the block until I find this tiny speakeasy-style bar tucked away down some stairs. It's dimly lit, full of over-waxed mustaches and women in bold lipstick who probably write poems on typewriters. And there, by the makeshift stage, was a man with a clarinet and a fedora named, I swear, Angelo.
Naturally, I stayed.
How I Ended Up With a Tambourine in My Hand
Do I play an instrument? No. Unless you count playing Ross for five years.
Do I sing? Sure. In the shower, to Celine, and frankly, I kill it.
Was I maybe one-and-a-half Negronis in when they said, “Anyone wanna come up?” Yes. Yes, I was.
So there I am, tambourine in hand (because let’s be honest, I wasn’t ready for a mic), standing next to this very cool, very smoky-eyed woman named Liza who told me I had “excellent stage presence.” (Note: I think she might've meant I was just really good at twirling around dramatically between verses.)
Anyway, for the next 45 minutes, I was part of a jazz band. Kind of like Beyoncé, if Beyoncé had no talent but a lot of enthusiasm.
Things I Learned From My Accidental Jazz Debut
- No one actually knows what jazz is supposed to sound like. You just feel it.
- It’s 100% okay to clap off-beat if you do it with enough confidence.
- Tiny bars in the West Village contain entire universes of strange, beautiful people who will make you feel things at 2 PM on a Sunday.
- The real secret ingredient in jazz? Chaos. Controlled, fashionable chaos. Which explains why I weirdly fit in.
So… Am I in the Band Now?
So here’s the wild part: they asked me to come back next Sunday. Apparently, my “freeform tambourine vibes” were giving something they needed. I told them I’d think about it — because I need to find a tambourine that matches my new snakeskin ankle boots, obviously.
But honestly? I might stay.
I walked home through the Village humming Nina Simone and feeling like something had cracked open. Not in a “I’m gonna quit my job and become a beat poet” kind of way (although, lol, imagine), but in the way where you realize the city still has secrets.
And sometimes, one of them is a smoky basement bar where you, a girl in Stuart Weitzmans, accidentally become a jazz goddess with a tambourine and a dream.
—
“You don’t find New York. New York finds you.” — someone very wise (probably Liza)
Stay spontaneous. Stay sparkly.
— Rach 💋
P.S. Let me know if anyone has good jazz outfit inspo. I’m thinking beret? Velvet? Too much?
