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May 06, 2005The Green MillWhen you first step into the Green Mill, you see the bouncer perched on a bar stool, with a wad of bills in his hand and a no-nonsense attitude. It kind of feels as though you're stepping into some college bar as opposed Chicago's greatest speakeasy-turned-jazz-club. But as soon as you ante up the cover and slide past the bouncer, you're in. Immediately, your eyes and ears are drawn past the bar, past the martinis, past the velvet booths, past the swing dancers, right to the live brass section. Three trumpets blaring, their bright tone cutting through the cigar smoke and the martini haze. You can see sweat bead up on the musicians' temples. They're not playing for the crowd, they're playing with the crowd. And oh my, I thought scat was a lost artform. Not at the Green Mill. The six-foot tall crooner was gifted. Each nonsense syllable was so distinct and melodic that I wondered if he had somehow gotten lost in time. Taken the wrong turn somewhere and ended up in today's tech age as opposed to jazz's golden era. Man, I can't wait to go back. Posted by carolyn at May 6, 2005 08:17 AM CommentsPost a comment |
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