Okay, so… this one starts with me just trying to get a decaf latte and ends with me on a stage, in sequins, doing jazz hands. I swear I couldn’t make this up if I tried. Welcome to life in New York — sometimes it’s brunch, sometimes it’s bebop.
It All Started With a Coffee (Obviously)
So, Saturday morning. I was feeling very responsible and adult-y because I woke up at 9 a.m. (okay, 9:37), threw on my favorite vintage Levi’s, a navy trench, and that silk scarf I bought thinking I’d be the kind of woman who “throws on a scarf.” Spoiler: I am that woman now. Growth. Character development. Monica would be proud.
Anyway, I was heading to this cute little café in the West Village — Café Miro. It's got mosaic tile floors, pastries that make you feel like you’ve been teleported to Paris (like not even the tourist part), and baristas who look like they’ve all modeled for a Kinfolk magazine spread. The dream.
As I'm standing in line, humming along to this jazz trio setting up in the corner (I mean… live jazz in a coffee shop? So New York it hurts), their singer walks up to the barista and says she’s lost her voice. Like completely. Gone. Nada.
What Happens When You Hum Too Loudly
And because the universe is hilarious, at that exact moment I’m humming along to their rendition of “Lullaby of Birdland” — and not quietly. The upright bass player turns, looks at me like I’ve just solved jazz music or something, and says, “Do you sing?”
Pause. Am I a singer? No. Am I someone who thinks she can sing because she watched every season of American Idol and cried during Fantasia’s finale? Absolutely yes.
“Um… a little?”
(For context, I did sing “Copacabana” at a karaoke bar once and got a standing ovation. Chandler said it was because I paid for everyone’s tequila shots. But still.)
So what do they do? They hand me a microphone and say, “Just help us out for a few numbers.”
Suddenly, I’m in a Jazz Band
So I get up there. Me. Rachel Karen Green. Former waitress (but, like, in way cuter shoes). Now standing in a West Village café, literally fronting a jazz band at 11:14 a.m. on a Saturday.
And you know what? I didn’t suck.
Okay, maybe I was flat on one note but honestly that’s jazz, right? It’s all a little off but in an “I smoke clove cigarettes and write poetry at night” way. I sang Fever (no one warned me how saucy that song is), followed by Moondance, and at one point someone in the audience actually said, “She’s got something.”
Reader, I’ve never glowed harder in my life.
After the Impromptu Concert
Post-performance, they asked me to come to their next gig on Thursday. Like — actually invited me to sing again. Okay sure, it's at a hotel lounge in Chelsea that smells vaguely of eau de martini and capitalism, but still. Rachel Green, jazz chanteuse? Tell that to the girl who once thought “bebop” was a sandwich.
Obviously, I treated myself to a croissant and called Monica immediately. She screamed. Phoebe said she always knew I was a “vibe.” Joey said “Cool, now you’re, like, a backup singer for Chet Hanks?” (Don’t ask.)
Why I Love This City — A Short Poem
If I were more like Phoebe, I’d end this post with a song, but I don’t have my guitar and honestly we all know it wouldn’t be tuned. So here’s a quick little Rachel-style haiku:
Café morning jazz
Somehow became Beyoncé
Only in New York.
Repeat after me: say yes to things. The universe might just hand you the mic. 🎤
Until my debut album drops (or Thursday, whichever comes first),
xoxo,
Rachel 💋
“If you’re not being swept into unexpected jazz performances by noon, are you even living in Manhattan?”
Let me know in the comments if you’ve ever accidentally joined a band, kissed a barista, or ended up on a stage you didn’t plan for. Or just tell me your coffee order. I’m nosy like that. ☕✨
