Last Thursday night began like any other in New York—me, indecisive about what to wear, sipping a rosé in a vintage slip dress I told myself I’d return (but obviously won’t), deciding whether I felt like going out or ordering truffle fries and falling asleep to a British baking show. But fate—well, fate and a saxophone—had other plans.
So, How Does One Accidentally Join a Jazz Band?
It started with a text from Phoebe. Yes, that Phoebe. She said, “Come to this place in the West Village. There’s a guy playing jazz flute and he might be your soulmate.” Naturally, I read that and thought two things:
- I don’t even know what jazz flute is.
- My soulmate, via flute? I’m listening.
I threw on my go-to ankle boots (the ones Joey says scream “I drink oat milk and I vote”) and made my way to this teeny-tiny underground spot called Blue Tulip. No sign outside, just a velvet curtain and the sound of something halfway between Miles Davis and someone emotionally working through a breakup with a trumpet.
Inside: dim lighting, mismatched chairs, candlelight, and a tall guy in a backwards beret playing upright bass like it was a love letter to someone named Simone. I was immediately in love—with the vibe, the music, and okay, maybe Simone too.
The Moment It Happened
At one point, the lead singer—a woman wearing record-sized earrings and satin gloves—announced they needed a “voice for a little Ella Fitzgerald energy.”
They turned to the crowd. “Anyone sing?”
And somehow, before I could stop myself, I said: “I mean, I did musical theater in high school?”
The pianist (who later told me his name was Jasper and that he makes his own oat milk, naturally) just smiled and said, “That’ll do. Come on.”
I don’t even know what happened. One minute I’m sipping something called a Smoky Clementine Sour (10/10 don’t recommend), and the next I’m holding a vintage microphone, desperately trying to remember the lyrics to “Summertime.” I kind of just…vibed it? Threw in a shoulder roll? People clapped! Jasper winked!
Was I great? No. Did I accidentally start scatting like a tipsy housecat? Yes. Was it kind of magic? Also yes.
“Confidence, darling, is 90% pretending you know what you’re doing.” —me, literally just now
What I Loved About It
Besides the momentary rush of half-believing I was Billie Holiday, I left feeling something I hadn’t felt all week: light.
The city can be intense—everyone’s chasing the next big thing, the next bagel with more seed coverage, the next career milestone. But there’s something so unbelievably freeing about stepping into a room full of strangers, trying something totally new, and just…being a little ridiculous.
No pressure. No performance review. No corporate elevator pitch.
Just jazz.
Let’s Talk About the West Village at Night
Can we take a second to appreciate it? Cobblestone streets, fairy lights, brownstones that look like they smell like freshly baked banana bread. There’s this tiny bookstore called Bellwether & Pine that stays open until midnight on Fridays and has a cat named Winston roaming the aisles. I popped in after my big “debut” and read vintage fashion magazines until closing.
I’m telling you: night walks in this city are underrated therapy.
Life Lesson, Courtesy of Jazz
If this week taught me anything—and believe me, it taught me multiple things, including that truffle fries before singing are a bad idea—it’s this:
Sometimes, the universe just wants you to say yes. Even if you’re unprepared. Even if your only jazz experience is binge-watching La La Land in your pajamas.
Because what if saying yes leads to five strange instruments, one rogue tambourine, a whole new friend group, and the best Thursday night you’ve had in months?
The Aftermath
Since then, I’ve:
- Been invited back (they asked me to “jam”; I said I’d bring snacks).
- Bought a beret on Etsy. Don’t ask.
- Started listening to Coltrane on my morning subway rides.
Oh, and I almost joined a jazz improv class—but realized I can barely commit to brunch plans, so maybe not just yet.
But here’s the thing: for one night, I wasn’t just Rachel Green, fashion girl, queen of ordering “just breadsticks” for dinner. I was Rachel Green, jazz vocalist (kind of), open to whatever weird, musical thing New York throws at me next.
And I think I like her.
Until next time,
xoxo Rach 💋
