I am working closely for and with a club owner producer. We have a great friendly relationship beyond his high-powered business dealings. He considers me a valuable right-hand to his business. I am privy to all, but my initial and intended services are a small part of a larger show business venture. Very Glenn Schwartz (though I have never met him IRL)
The club he uses as home base is in a cluster of similar venues in a North Beach-feel part of downtown (Banana Republic corner of Union Square) It is all but invisible during the day until the nightlife springs full-bloom at dusk. Access from the street is down a flight of stairs to a dark, brick-walled, painted black showroom. The nook/office we sit in to to conduct business is near the entrance door. The club spreads out and there seems to be 2 stages. The main stage is glowing, well-lit and blindingly hazy even during the day, while the other on the opposite wall doubles and converts as easily to theatre seating. The wooden structure raised platform creaks like bleachers as you walk up to your seats. Access is a collapsing spiral stairway that fans out to create steps down to the floor. I traverse this more than once and am always intrigued by its construction and the height of this stage cum ad hoc table-less seating.
We are dealing with day details when a call to inform him comes in, as his venue is to host a secret show for a high-level visiting performer. There is such secrecy, the name is dream forgotten or consensually known as a BFD. Think Eddie Murphy or Robin Williams. Understandably, there is much excitement and the handful of people privy to this knowledge know to keep it under wraps. We flip into high gear to prepare for the one-time event. There is much scurrying around, alerting interested and deserving parties and ramping up in general. I am allowed to invite my close associates and racking my brain to alert one particular dream forgotten industry person to this special event. but am having trouble remembering and dialing a specific number on a brick of an antiquated smart phone I have borrowed from Mike Lynch. The numbers keep eluding me, even as they are repeated patiently by Mike. They are an amber, early calculator display font. I go upstairs and outside to clear the place before the arrival, get a breath of fresh air, and meet some invitees into the stealth entrance.
Outdoors, street life parades by and as we collect around the corner, away from the front door to await for the club to be readied for our entry time and the star's big show. A young bespectacled girl approaches with sheet music in hand and a question as to where to audition as a jazz singer. We point out some nearby clubs and we ask her to entertain us until they open for business. She is anxious to show off her chops. There is an upright piano on the street and she does a sufficient job to qualify for more recommendations. She is invited to join us as we enter the club back around the corner as showtime nears. The invitees are sparse, not cause for alarm, but I fret and continue to call friends so they won't miss out on the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity this will surely be.
