Tonight we wanted to be “cultured” and “sophisticated.” Tonight we wanted to listen to live jazz and sip fancy cocktails in stiletto heels. Very different from last weekends pow wow of debauchery.
We wanted: underground, hard to find, chic. It is understood that good jazz, real jazz, is only found through hearsay. But our 30-something friends still beat hip-hop out of subwoofers, so we Googled.
The final decision: BlueWhale. It’s on a hidden side street we never knew existed, Astronaut Onizuka, and reviews say it’s “to the moon.” How could we go wrong?
Walking through Little Tokyo, we enter a barren strip mall that is head-to-toe Ramen and Hello Kitty. Muffled elevator music permeating throughout.There, tucked in the corner, on the top floor, we see our landing spot. We begin our ascension up the stairs. One small step for man…
The door guy, the one and only, a big burly man with a beard that should have its own agenda, will let you know before entering that there is no talking when the jazz begins. He means business. The point is to listen, to feel the rhythm and feel the vibe…go on in, it’s BlueWhale time
Walking through Little Tokyo, we enter a barren strip mall that is head-to-toe Ramen and Hello Kitty. Muffled elevator music permeating throughout.There, tucked in the corner, on the top floor, we see our landing spot. We begin our ascension up the stairs. One small step for man…
The door guy, the one and only, a big burly man with a beard that should have its own agenda, will let you know before entering that there is no talking when the jazz begins. He means business. The point is to listen, to feel the rhythm and feel the vibe…go on in, it’s BlueWhale time
It’s dark, sexy, and quiet with a Rumi quote painted on the ceiling. So far, check and check. We dig it.
Our stilettos parked at the bar where the bartender, a kind, hippy fella, asked if he could make us a special cocktail.
J takes a sip and her stilettos beeline to the ladies room. It’s orange flavored, the only thing she can’t stomach. 5 minutes later, after christening the bathroom, she returns and I have already starting talking with the only available man at the bar. The drummer in the band. A New Yorker, edgy, lanky with unkempt curly brown hair. I act interested while he eats sliders and talks about how he travels the world playing jazz. He will do. I’m in the mood. I kind of, sort of really, want one of his burgers. I finish the fake orange concoction and J sticks to her regular vodka/tonic
8:25 pm, 5 minutes before show. As we make our way to the room, the blocks of blue velvet cubicles for seats are scattered like chess pieces throughout the room. The 15, or so, wallflowers line the walls and our Aries souls sit smack in the center.
And a one and a two…piano. Three and a four…drums. Five and a six…bass. Six and a seven…sax.
8:55 pm, only two songs later, with no back to the chair, our posture turns geriatric.
Our eyes watch the drummer’s face. He is so enraptured by his beat that every hit of the drum sends his face into tic convulsions. No wonder he’s available
Our hands hold up our chins and we hunch over listening intently to music that is the mothership of all music. J and I don’t look at each other once
Jazz will do that. It’s very personal.
Let it touch your soul, let it flow through you, let it…
Put you to sleep. Feeling my head falling towards my knees, I catapult myself upright and join in on the faint clapping. I even throw in a little snapping of my fingers to overcompensate. Clearly inappropriate and not a poetry reading
J finally turns to me. We stare at each other like scared birds. Afraid to speak for fear that Wolfman at the front door might pull us out by his teeth
J whispers, “Cool huh?”
“Yeah, cool.” I reply.
“It’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
“The sax player is good.”
“Yeah.”
“You ready to go?”
“Absolutely.”
9 pm…out the door.
In the car, we turn the volume up to NEO and PITBULL singing “Give Me Everything.”
Sophisticated to death. Glad we went, glad we left.
Sophisticated to death. Glad we went, glad we left.
Rating:
BLUEWHALE Live Jazz and Art Space
Little Tokyo
123 Astronaut E S Onizuka Street, Suite 301
Los Angeles, CA 90012
Telephone: 213-620-0908
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