I Accidentally Joined a Rooftop Jazz Party in SoHo and Honestly, It Changed My Whole Week

Okay, so let me paint you the picture…

It was Thursday. I had just finished a very intense day of "window shopping" (read: trying on three pairs of Manolos and only crying twice when I checked my bank account). I was walking in SoHo, trying to convince myself that green juice was dinner, when I spotted this very chic older woman on Crosby wearing white linen pants and humming Ella Fitzgerald. And before I knew it, I was following the faint sound of saxophone up a narrow iron staircase, into what I thought was a cute boutique rooftop pop-up, but no…

I had walked straight into a rooftop jazz soirée. In SoHo. At golden hour. With strangers who drink Campari and actually know the difference between Miles Davis and John Coltrane.

And honestly? It changed everything.

Wait, How Did I Even Get Up There?

So first of all, don’t judge me. There was a sign. It said “Evening Set: 6PM, All Welcome.” So I figured it was like, a pop-up concert? I felt…drawn. Like, cosmically. Turns out, it was hosted by this art curator-slash-podcast guy named Leo (of course his name is Leo), who curates these semi-secret music nights on rooftops around the city. It was the kind of secret that wants to be found. Like those Loewe heels that went viral on TikTok even though they’re shaped like balloons.

I walk in, dress slightly wrinkled from sitting at Balthazar for too long, and suddenly I’m in the kind of party that makes you believe in New York again.

The Scene

• People were lounging on mismatched vintage chairs and Moroccan floor cushions
• There were lavender spritzes and little ceramic bowls of Castelvetrano olives (which I pretend to like, even though they taste like salty soap)
• The band? Oh, just a five-piece jazz group that looked like they stepped out of a 1963 Esquire cover shoot
• A guy in a mustard turtleneck handed me a glass of orange wine and asked, “So…what’s your take on Mingus?”

Darling, my “take” was mostly that I liked the way the light bounced off the trumpet. But I played along. Because New York makes you improvise. It's jazz, baby.

What I Learned From It

Honestly, I didn’t think I was the kind of girl who just stumbles into a jazz party. I thought that kind of thing only happened in montages. But this is one of the reasons I love this city — it keeps surprising me. Sometimes aggressively (like that pigeon that once fell into my latte), but sometimes magically.

Here's what I took away:

1. Say yes to weird stairs in SoHo

   • Honestly, what’s the worst that happens? You find a fire escape with a good view, or you end up networking with three jazz musicians and a bearded guy named Otis who sells vintage vinyl out of a bakery in Dumbo.

2. You don’t have to know jazz to feel jazz

   • Somewhere between “Autumn in New York” and my second spritz, I stopped trying to get it and just let it happen. Kind of like when Phoebe explains her dreams. Just nod. Feel it.

3. Rooftops are therapy

   • There’s something about being above the honking and the street grime that rearranges your brain a little. Even if only for two songs and a shared biscotti.

4. You don’t need a boyfriend to feel romantic

   • I was alone. But it felt like a date with a cooler version of myself. There were twinkle lights, jazz standards, and I wore my hair loose like I was in a French perfume commercial. That’s practically an affair.

A Few Songs That Stole the Whole Night

Because yes, I made a Spotify playlist on the walk home (while eating a croissant I don't remember buying):

• “Lush Life” – John Coltrane & Johnny Hartman
• “Misty” – Sarah Vaughan
• “Blue in Green” – Miles Davis
• “I’m Beginning to See the Light” – Ella Fitzgerald
  (How meta is that one, right?)

The Girl Who Wandered Into a Jazz Party

I got home that night with sore feet, wind in my hair, and the very strong urge to buy a vinyl player (and maybe a mustard turtleneck). The city gave me something I didn’t realize I needed: a night that felt both spontaneous and centuries old. Like old love letters in a new envelope.

So if you’re in SoHo and you hear saxophone floating down the fire escapes…follow it. Trust me.

“Oh look, Rachel’s getting poetic,” Monica would say. And you know what? Maybe I am. Maybe the jazz got inside me. Maybe I’ve always been this dramatic.

Thanks for reading, darling. Go find your rooftop.

xoxo,
Rachel 💋
Still don’t really know what a Mingus is