Okay so I know what you’re thinking. Rachel… jazz band? Really? Like—do you even own a saxophone (do they call it owning…?) or know what bebop is? (Is that the baby one? Still unclear.) But trust me, this one was even a surprise to me.
So here’s the whole smooth, accidental, trumpet-heavy story.
It Started With a Martini. Of Course It Did.
Saturday night. West Village. You know the kind of night—the air’s soft like velvet, it smells faintly of Chanel No. 5 and sidewalk pizza, and everyone on the street looks like either an indie musician or a French film student. I was out with Monica (she met a nutritionist who only drinks raw celery juice and she wanted to "soak up a burger" before going home with him—don't ask). We stopped at this cozy little underground bar called Blue Note Basement. Literally, four tables, a crooked piano, and phones are strictly banned. So obviously, my place.
I ordered a lavender martini (very Sex and the City but in a cool, “I live near Bleecker” way) and settled in…
And then I heard it.
The music.
You know how you sometimes hear live jazz and it’s, like, a bunch of guys trying to out-solo each other while you pretend to be cool eating your tiny olives? This was not that. This was crackling, warm, honey-smooth music that wrapped around the room like a really good cashmere sweater.
And Then I Clapped Too Loud
There’s this guy on stage—Jasper—button-down shirt, horn-rimmed glasses, and the kind of voice that makes you think… maybe you could fall in love with someone who uses the word “improvisational” in complete seriousness.
Anyway, he played this gorgeous Thelonious Monk piece and I guess I was, um, enthusiastic? Because I clapped harder than anyone else in the bar. Like, too hard. Maybe even standing ovation alone in a basement hard.
And that’s when he looked at me, right in the eyes, and said:
“You clearly get it. Wanna sit in on Saturday?”
Naturally, I laughed. Out loud. What does that even mean? Was I wearing a weird hat that said “Alto Sax Enthusiast”? But then he said:
“We’ll give you an egg shaker. Just vibe.”
And obviously, I said yes.
I Googled: “What Is an Egg Shaker?”
Turns out it is literally an egg. That you shake. Fancy percussive maraca egg. Apparently, it’s a thing. And apparently, I now play one.
Since then, this is what has happened:
- I have texted the group chat: “I’m in a jazz band now 💁🏼♀️”
- Phoebe said “Finally.”
- Monica offered to buy me an outfit that “doesn’t make you look like you’re cosplaying 1960s Yoko Ono.”
- I’ve been listening to Miles Davis on the subway and thinking about things.
- Ross said “but do you even understand modal scales?” which, fun fact, is the exact moment I decided to just nod and keep sipping my iced matcha.
Rehearsal Was… Peppy
We met in someone’s brownstone. Their living room had a vibraphone, a cat named Meter, and a faint scent of orange peels and vinyl sleeves. I wore vintage Levi’s and a vague sense of confusion.
The thing is: you don’t have to know how to play anything. You just have to listen, nod on the off beat, occasionally look inspired, and yes, okay, shake your egg.
By the end of the night, Jasper said: “You’ve got rhythm, Rachel.”
I almost cried. Because no one has ever said that to me before. Not even at SoulCycle.
The Gig Is Real
Saturday night, 9pm, West Village, back at Blue Note Basement. Jasper says I’ll get a solo moment (read: 8 full seconds of egg shaking). Joey wants to come and shout “freebird!” and I’ve somehow convinced Gunther to show up in a beret.
If you’re in the neighborhood, come. Sip a martini. Snap your fingers. Be cool.
Because, as of this week—
I am a girl in New York City. And I just accidentally joined a jazz band.
And honestly? I think I do get it.
