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 Written loosely in the pulp fiction style of Mickey Spillane, Mitch Phillips creates the character "Woodward Dick" to review the jazz stylings of Grace and The Boys at Dino's in Ferndale.
'Her voice was as smooth and inviting as her silk stockings. Not just any stockings, mind you, but high-quality hose with hand-stitched seams running from the back of her ankles up to secret places that beg for private investigation. . . '
Click "Read More" for the Adventures of Woodward Dick @ Dino's: Full of Grace
The Adventures of "Woodward Dick"IN
Dino's: Full of Grace
by Mitch Phillips
Of all the webpages of all the websites on the world wide web, she had to come surfing onto mine. My name's Woodward Dick and my game's finding quality tunes. She callled herself Grace and told me she sang jazz standards for any joint that would pay her rent. She said I should come see her sometime down on Woodward.
"Which corner?" I quipped.
She slapped the hat off my head and said, 'No, you Dick! At Dino's. Come see me sing at Dino's. I'm there every Saturday night."
I picked up my crumpled Fedora, creased the brim and said, "Sure, Toots, I'll come see ya sometime." She slapped me upside the head again and told me her name wasn't "Toots", it was Grace. I picked up my Fedora and made a beeline for the office. No broad hits me more than twice in one paragraph.
I never went to no jazz joint unless it was to shakedown a snitch, score some junk or use the john. But there was something in that dame's voice that said I wouldn't regret the trip. If nothing else, I could dip the bill in some good hooch and forget about my plight for a while; drinking takes the sting out of being a poor dick with a music habit. I gassed-up the Chrysler and took the dream cruise down Woodward.
At first I couldn't find the joint; I did laps on the avenue and never once eye-balled anyplace called "Dino's". I was beginning to think I'd been swindled, conned by a chippy with a cool tongue and an axe to grind. It was no secret that Grace and I had words in the past; she'd been getting her bread buttered at an invite-only clip-joint while the rest of us were selling apples on the street corner. I wouldn't have said boo if she hadn't been prancing around with a sandwich-board announcing her good fortune. But I let her have the last word anyway; what else could a gentleman do?
But the dame was on the square. The sign was obscured from the road by an old maple tree in full bloom. So I found it like any self-respecting gumshoe would; on foot. It used to be The Rialto CafeŽ, a greasy spoon that served generations of fashionable Ferndaliens. Now it's called Dino's, a classy dinner & drink joint featuring real jazz and a canary named Grace who sings every Saturday night.
Inside, "burbies" dressed in black filled the tables and lined the bar two deep. Dino's was done up right; rich earth tones, real wood and period prints gave the joint a classic thirties feel. Fresh flowers bedecked every table in the joint - nice touch in a world that flaunts faux-finish.
Dino's is the kind of place where a man would feel comfortable smoking a hand-rolled cigar, sipping a snifter of dark-umber brandy, and dropping his loafers beneath the table to let his feet breathe on the cool wooden floor. In my case it would be whiskey and a pack of Lucky Strikes, shoes on. Nobody wants to smell the soured socks of a musical gumshoe.
I gave the barkeep a sawbuck and she poured me two whiskeys. Dino watched from behind the bar. He looked happy. And why shouldn't he be? He used to be a bartender, then he was a mortgage banker, and now his name's on the joint. He's sunk a ships-worth of gold into this joint to get it just right. By the looks of his cheerful weekend crowd, I'd say he nailed it. Jazz never had it so good.
The band took to the stage but Grace stood by while they warmed-up. A Chinaman slapped a doghouse to get things rolling (Takashi Iio on string bass). Then a brother on gobble-pipe leaned in on the riff (Deman Phillips on sax - not pictured) and Slim Mikey "G" joined him on keys for an inspired version of Ned Washington's "On Green Dolphin St." A couple of jazz-crackers propped-up the rhythm; Adam James on skins and pans and Brian Romeo on saxophone. One by one the hired guns took that old standard places it had never been before. Even passers-by on the street peeked in the picture windows to watch 'em wail. Humbled by their impressive solos (especially Takashi Iio's amazing tub-thumping), I remembered that the true soul of music lie in heartfelt interpretation and free-wheeling improvisation, not rote mimicry of some dead composer's score. Jazz is the breathe of music.
Once the make-shift quintet (three outta five were guest musicians) got the heavy riffs out of their system, they kicked it back for Grace who strolled onto the stage like a like a vestige from the golden age. She was all dolled-up in a tight black dress and wearing velvet opera gloves. Auburn hair, creamy white skin , high cheek bones and small, dark eyes set far apart that hinted at native american or Icelandic descent. I wondered if they had jazz joints in Iceland. Her voice was as smooth and inviting as her silky stockings. Not just any stockings, mind you, but high-quality hose with hand-stiched seams running from the back of her ankles up to secret places that beg for private investigation.
When she broke into "Why Don't You Do Right" (a tune popularized by a particularly sexy cartoon, Jessica Rabbit), I began to squirm in my seat and chain-smoke Luckys. When she sang "Making Whoopee" I slunked back into my chair, kicked off my shoes and called for another whiskey. Was it getting hot in here or was it just the broad on stage? It must have been the performance.
Between sets, Grace let me buy her a drink; Hennessey neat (city girl, I should've known). We made chit-chat but all that stuck was two minor details: One, she was nearly born on the Boblo Boat right here in D-Town and Two, the only things to do in Big Rapids is drink and screw. If she offered me any further clues to her life I fear they've been lost in a haze of house-whiskey and selective hearing.
The jazz kept rolling right out of the big-book and the band handled it with such finesse I couldn't help but hang on every note. Not all the tunes were not such obvious lounge hooks as those mentioned above; "jazz standard" is a relative term to your experience and most of us haven't yet had the pleasure of such familiarity. Take my advice, brother, get hip to jazz and leave the squares behind.
Grace and The Boys offer a unique opportunity to get schooled in the standards. If you've been suckling the pop teet all your life and wouldn't know a Goodman from a Hermann or a Monk from a Bird, they'll get you all straightened out by night's end. Go see 'em at Dino's on Saturday and bring a date - she'll be impressed with your style.
When the gig was over and the burbies filed-out onto the sidewalk, Grace counted up the band's loot and passed it out to her gang of musical hit-men. The brothers, the chinaman, the crackers and the canary all got their well-deserved bread. As for me, I had a belly full of hooch and a head full of jazz. What more could a private dick ask for and not get slapped?
-30-
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No Comments Allowed for Anonymous, please register |
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Re: Review: Grace @ Dino's (Score: 1)
by graceiam on Sunday, November 24, 2002 @ 01:39:27 MST
(User Info | Send a Message | Journal) http://grace.i.am | Thank's Toots'...you made me feel like a real swell dish...see ya' 'round the block!
G' |
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Average Score: 4
Votes: 2
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