Parlor Jazz

Yesterday Allison and I ventured to uptown Manhattan, the furthest north we've gone in the city. We ended up somewhere between the border of Harlem and Washington Heights, in a neighborhood that skims along the Hudson River and has a view of both Yankee Stadiums. Our friend Tegan had invited us to send January out with an afternoon of Parlor Jazz. Tegan lives seven blocks from an old, gilded building that bears touches of art nouveau architecture and has one of the most inricate lobby ceilings I have ever seen. It's a historical landmark where Dizzy Gillespie and Duke Ellington used to live during the heyday of the New York Jazz scene. In a small but brightly painted apartment on the second floor lives Marjorie Eliot. She must be in her mid-seventies and she's sinewy thin with a slight hunch in her posture, but she plays riffs and scales on her upright piano as if she didn't have a touch of arthritis. Every Sunday for the past 15 years, she has opened up her home to anyone who wants to stop by for double sets of jazz. When we saw her play, she had a young saxophone and trumpet player accompanying her and they performed for an audience of just over 30 people sitting on a mismatched assortment of chairs staggered throughout her parlor, kitchenette, and hallway. Tegan has gone to watch Marjorie's sets a couple of times now and said what inspires her about this woman is how she's doing something so simple and yet so meaningful for her community.