Okay, so last night started like any other Wednesday evening in the West Village — I was on my way to what I thought was a cute little wine and charcuterie place called Blue Note… turns out Blue Note is not a new wine bar, it’s a legit world-famous jazz club.
Oops?
How Did I End Up Here?
Let me set the scene: I had just gotten my nails done (Essie, color: Ballet Slippers, what else) and I was wearing this perfect vintage denim jumpsuit I found up in Nolita last weekend — effortlessly groovy. I had headphones in, sipping an oat milk cortado, and walking like I was the main character in a French indie film. I was feeling jazzy.
Apparently, the energy I was giving off was a little too convincing.
I walk into Blue Note, expecting a bar menu and perhaps some ambient saxophone, and instead I find myself in a candlelit cavern of berets, brass instruments, and very serious eyebrow expressions. Before I could text Monica to say “help me,” someone tapped me on the shoulder and said:
“You’re late, Rachel.”
Excuse me?
The Audition I Didn't Plan
Cut to: me standing on stage next to a double bass the size of a refrigerator, holding a tambourine I swear someone just handed me.
Apparently, one of the backup singers had bailed last-minute, and someone mistook me for her replacement (her name? Rachel Levine… Okay, universe).
Now, I could’ve corrected them. I could’ve said, “No! You’ve got the wrong girl, I was here for the rosé and vibes.” But then I thought… what would Phoebe do?
So I sang. You guys. I sang “Fever” like I was born in 1942 and dating a lounge pianist. Was I good? Mmm… I was passionate.
Jazz Hands & City Magic
It all just sort of flowed — the lights, the velvet curtains, the clinking of Manhattan glasses. I watched the drummer signal something that I guessed meant “follow me,” so I mirrored him like I was in the chorus line at The Rockettes. I mean, I don’t know how to scat, but I do know how to convincingly pretend to scat.
At the end of our impromptu jam session, the saxophonist (a man named Leon in a turtleneck and a lot of feelings) came up to me and said:
“You’ve got good instincts. You free Friday?”
And because I am a yes girl now — apparently a jazz girl now — I said:
“Tonight, actually. I’m free tonight.”
So yes, I have a gig tonight.
If You're Around Tonight…
Come by Blue Note at 8pm. Or maybe not, I don’t know, is that too much pressure? Whatever, do what you want — but if you hear someone doing a dramatic, unscheduled tambourine solo to “Summertime,” that’s probably me.
What I'm Learning About New York (Besides Jazz)
New York is full of people who will assume you’re supposed to be somewhere, and sometimes… you are. Sometimes you walk into a club thinking one thing and leave with a gig, a turtlenecked contact in your phone, and a slightly bruised ego because apparently you don’t know what a D#7 chord is.
But it’s all part of the story.
So here’s what I’ve learned:
Rachel’s Jazz Discoveries
- Saying yes can lead to sparkly chaos and a standing ovation.
- Always wear layers in case you end up on stage with hot lighting.
- The key to scatting is just doing it loudly and with confidence.
- The city will give you your moment — you just have to walk into the wrong door sometimes.
Alright, I’ve got to go line my lips and channel my inner Norah Jones. If anyone knows where I can find a last-minute vintage microphone for aesthetic reasons only, let me know.
XOXO,
Rachel
P.S. If I absolutely bomb, we’re all just pretending this post was satire, k?
p.p.s. “Jazz Hands” is my band nickname now. Pass it on.
