How Alexa Got Her Schmooze Back, Part One

This past weekend was very impressive, for me. Friday night I hit three clubs in San Francisco and Saturday I both performed with my Cuban rueda (circular salsa dance) class and went out to Roccapulco in the Mission. Sunday I hit the kid soccer circuit and networked with all the hippest 3- to 8-year-olds in the pool.

It all started at a joint in the Financial District, Cafe Claude, that has been hiring jazz trios and quartets for over a decade. In fact, Marcus Shelby, the debonair bassist who was playing there that night, told me he's played there 14 years -- back in the days when he still drank and smoked and partied. I sat at the bar and listened to Marcus and a guitarist whose name escapes me as they played in the corner. The food was delicious -- well, all I had was chocolate mousse, but it was great.

An English chap sat next to me at the bar, reading a book in Italian. After a while I started talking to him. Apparently he was into early music -- from before the Renaissance, folks like Josquin. He said something I made immediate mental note of, which was that some music is wonderful to hear, and some is more wonderful to perform than to hear. I think that sums up my relationship to classical music and more esoteric jazz. The challenge of learning and performing difficult music makes it enjoyable, but if you were to ask me to sit and listen to Baroque music I quickly lose interest if I'm not participating. Eventually I talked him into buying my CD. Thanks Dave!

On the break I schmoozed a bit with Marcus and the guitarist. I did a terrible job of it. My attempts at self-deprecation merely sounded lame, like I was possibly the most unsuccessful singer in the Bay Area. My jokes were stupid: As the wait staff began to break down the sound equipment, I acted surprised, and then said to the guitarist, "Wow, they break down your equipment for you? At my gigs they usually just... uh, they just, uh, hit me with it. Heh heh." The reaction of barely camouflaged pity? Priceless.

We were all polite to each other, but I also felt uncomfortable, like I was obviously trying to poach a gig from them. I often feel guilty when schmoozing or selling, even though there is no reason to -- they weren't even the bookers, for crying out loud. In any case, they were nice fellas and Marcus said he'd put in a good word for me.

I left Cafe Claude and realized if I could brave another club alone I could drive over to Biscuits and Blues, in the theater district. One nice thing about the bad economy is that street parking is easier to come by; I quickly found some. Across the street, Ruby Skye had a big line. Not sure what kind of scene that is but I'd guess DJ'd dance/house/meat market-type music. I walked into Biscuits and Blues. The man behind the ticket counter told me the show was almost over, so they'd let me in free. My kind of show! I began to walk downstairs to the venue, then turned back. "Excuse me, do you know who books this club? Can I leave a package for them here?" "Sure, got a press kit? What kind of music do you do?" "World and latin jazz and salsa," I said. He nodded approvingly and said another artist I know worked there frequently. They do book non-blues acts, despite the name.

I pulled out my second press kit of the night and spruced it up, then handed it to him. "Hey, could you do me a favor and tell the booker that when I gave you the press kit, I was incredibly charismatic? Like you were just blown away and wouldn't even have to listen to know I was great? Can you do that for me?" He laughed and said sure. "Well, that just makes my night," I said. "Lately my schmooze has totally sucked!"

I descended the stairs and it was as if I was back at Eli's Mile High Club in Oakland, watching the old-timers. I loved the dazed expression on the face of the drummer, as if he were an astronaut on a space-walk who just happened to be striking these drums in perfect funkyness. The horn section -- sax, trumpet and trombone -- was tight, and I recognized Mike Rinta on trombone, as he has played a few of the salsa gigs I've been on. I always like horn sections. They seem to work every type of gig there is. Rinta played a burning solo at one point and had great blues feel. The other horn solos were a bit jazzier, to my ear.

But the star of the show, Johnny Lee Walker Jr., had us in the palm of his hand. Most of the old standards (Stormy Monday) were trotted out, but there was no waiting between songs, and he kept them short which made them not seem so tired. There were some funkier originals, too. His voice and presence and wit were all the real deal. A seasoned showman, he made sure we were all standing and dancing before he was through with us. As I watched I found myself wanting to do more blues in my own show. It's pretty hard not to feel the blues if you're an American, I think.

When the show was over I felt horribly guilty for not buying his CD, but I was $20 ahead what with my own CD sale earlier that evening, so I forced myself not to. I always tip street musicians and I often buy CDs. Anyway, I slunk out past the bluesman and his stack of CDs, walked to my car, and realized that yet another venue was across from me. It was a restaurant that I'd looked into earlier for performing. The venue paid a pittance, however, not enough to cover a band, so I'd written it off. I went in and climbed the stairs. A tiny piano bar on a balcony sat over a hotel lobby. A woman was singing R&B standards with a gray-haired pianist and a drum machine to two English tourists. "Sing 'I Found My Thrill On Blueberry Hill,'" they requested. I stood there politely, giving the singer a positive vibe even though internally I was thinking, wow, this is a pretty bad gig.

Just then in the lobby below a storm of swear words burst out, as if from a Tourette's sufferer. We all looked over the ledge to see a balding white business man in a suit. He collided against the double glass doors, seemingly trying to break them down. "How the hell do I get out of this place?" he bellowed. "Get in the elevator and push R," the weary female bartender called down. He disappeared. A minute later, he was on the street, colliding with the same double doors, trying to get in now. "I'll go help him," she said. I wondered why she would want to do that. Then I wondered how I was going to get out of this postage stamp without encountering him. Stay or go, I debated... Go, I decided, and as I stepped down the stairs he barrelled up them past me, yelling with choice epithets about bleached blond bimbos who had done him wrong. Thus my Friday night clubbing ended, and I drove home...