Okay, so… you know that moment when you say “yes” to something totally out of your comfort zone because it feels very Eat Pray Love, but with more heels and humidity? Yeah. That happened. Only my version ended up involving a saxophonist named “Tony with a Y,” a vintage microphone, and me scatting in front of twenty strangers in a candlelit club in the West Village.
Let me explain.
How I Got Here (Hint: It All Started with a Dress)
Last Saturday, I was having one of those “I have nothing to wear” meltdowns—yes, even fashion goddesses like me have them—and I remembered this little black Betsey Johnson number I bought years ago, thinking, “One day, this will be perfect.”
Apparently, “one day” was a night I wandered into a tiny jazz club on Christopher Street thinking it was a cocktail bar.
The martinis were ten dollars and served with an olive on a toothpick, so I stayed.
The Accidental Audition
I’m seated at a cozy table, solo, just vibing with my drink and texting Monica about how I’d just seen three rats in a trench coat pretending to be a man (welcome to New York). Suddenly, the bandleader gets on stage and says:
“Anyone feeling bold tonight? We’ve got an open mic. Come on, let the jazz move you.”
And somehow—and I genuinely still don’t understand how—my hand went up.
Maybe it was the gin (divine), maybe it was the vintage velvet ambiance whispering “Rachel, you are the main character tonight,” or maybe it was just that I’d been watching too many Audrey Hepburn movies that week.
What Happened on That Stage
Here’s the thing: I cannot sing.
Okay, I can try to sing. I have what I like to call “enthusiastic enthusiasm,” which is almost, kind of, a talent?
I walked up, smiled at Tony with a Y (saxophone, untucked shirt, major “jazz is a feeling” energy), grabbed the mic, and said, “Hi, I’m Rachel. I don’t actually sing jazz but I’ve had a really good martini.”
People chuckled. I scatted!
Like, full-on “Skee-dee-bop-bah-doo-wop!” style. I’m honestly not even sure the sounds I made were legal.
And guys… the room cheered.
What I’ve Learned
In true Rachel Green fashion, I didn’t plan this. I wasn’t looking to become the girl who starts hanging around jazz clubs and seriously lingers over phrases like “blue note” and “tempo.”
But now, I’m texting Tony (who totally saved my improvisation meltdown with a dreamy sax solo). I went back to the club last night—just to “support the arts,” obviously—and someone handed me a fake flower and said, “You’re the girl who danced in her heels and made us feel something.” I cried! (Subtly, and with waterproof liner.)
I might not be the next Billie Holiday. But I’m in.
Favorite Things About My West Village Jazz Nights (So Far)
- The velvet booth in the corner with exactly two wobbly candles = my spiritual home now.
- Everyone claps even if you mess up. New Yorkers pretend to be tough but we’re secretly the most supportive hot messes alive.
- I finally found a use for my feathered shrug. You’re welcome.
- There’s always a guy named “Leon” who brings his own percussion egg.
- The drinks are strong, the lights are low, and for three minutes, no one cares if you're not perfect.
Final Word From a Former Coffee Girl Turned Accidental Jazz Muse
New York will always be the city where you trip into something magical while trying to find a bathroom. One moment you’re just looking for artisanal olives, and the next—you’re performing experimental jazz.
So, if I can pull off a mini cabaret moment with no training (and four hours of sleep), trust me: you can do literally anything in this city.
Just wear good shoes. It helps on and off stage.
xo,
Rachel 💋
“Fashion is my religion, but jazz might be my weekend hobby now. Is this growth?”
