So, after a delicious, unexpectedly-reasonably-priced meal at the densely patronized Becca, we braved the twenty-five degree increase in heat and hit the pavement. Unfortunately, we had to walk six or seven blocks to get to the Neil Simon theater. There was a breeze and the sidewalks weren’t too crowded, so it wasn’t that bad. That is, until we reached 52nd street, and realized that the humongous line of something like five hundred people were waiting to get in to see Harry Connick Jr in thirty minutes.
But my wife’s fear was ill-founded. (This was one of those rare, rare exceptions where I am the carefree one regarding promptness and timeliness. My wife is kinda the free-spirit in our relationship with that mechanical device called a clock that rules all our lives. I generally obsess over it and panic if it seems I’ll be even a few minutes late for an appointment. But this night, I was that Cream song I Feel Free personified …)
The line was moving. We were efficiently herded by big black men into the three double doorways to the theater and our paper tickets were scanned. Ten minutes later we were at our seats – Row S in the upper mezzanine. Three rows from the wall. We’d have a glorious view of the top of Harry’s head. In actuality, though, Harry and his band were not microscopic. I’ve been to some concerts at Giants Stadium in my heyday where I couldn’t even spot the dudes on stage. If I held out my left hand at arm’s length and stuck up my thumb, that’d be the relative size of Harry.
C decided on a last-minute bathroom run. I feel sorry for chicks in situations like this. There’s always a long and winding line up to the ladies room while us men just saunter in to our facilities, do our business, and saunter back out in two minutes. Plus, the stairs leading down to the exit were at a steep 45-degree angle and the wife … well, she had two glasses of wine in her. Last thing I’d want to see would be her tumbling down to and possibly over the balcony. However, if that did happen, I reasoned, she’d probably get to meet Harry before they drove her off to the emergency room.
But she got back with about 90 seconds to spare. The house lights went out, the curtain rose, the stage lit with fluorescent blue, and the concert began.
I like some jazz. I’m not as expert in the field, nor do I enjoy it as much, as classical music, or classic and grunge rock. But I do like to listen to it somes. John Coltrane in particular. I have a bunch of his CDs, as well as stuff by Bill Evans, Art Tatum, Dave Brubeck, Ron Carter, and Miles Davis, though I’m not that big a fan of his. So you can see, I like the saxophone and the piano in my jazz.
Harry Connick is firmly ensconced in the New Orleans scene, so there’s trumpets and trombones blasting accents a couple times every bar of music. Which is okay, if you like that sort of thing. Me, not so much; much like the reverberating din of tiled restaurants, trumpets and trombones tend to give me headaches. But Harry also had a whole string section, which was good and interesting, and two sax players, also good. Needless to say, his drummer was phenomenal.
So, I was not a big fan of the type of music. It was good, just not my thing. I have to say everyone on the stage was more than competent and was clearly having a great time, and it was infectious to the audience. He did two hour-long sets separated by a fifteen minute intermission. He opened with a long instrumental, then did some Sinatra and some show tunes, then a couple of his originals (so my wife told me). The second set was a little wilder, a lot looser, more jammy and humorous as Harry would goofily interact with his virtuosi. There was a lot of New Orleans sound mixed with South American rhythm-type stuff towards the end.
Harry does a lot of chit-chatting with the audience between songs, often for five or ten minutes a pop. A lot is interesting and hilarious. He brought his two daughters and their friend out on stage, they were funny. Sometimes he goes on a bit too long, but his fans in the audience were eating it up. He’s an entertainer, born and bred, no doubt about that. He knows how to put on a good show and deserves every penny he earns. I guestimated he earned three million pennies for this show alone.
Anyway, the show was over around 10:30. It took a while for the whole crowd to file out onto the street, and, being in Row S, we were pretty much the last ones out the door. That didn’t stop C from angling into the front row at the stage door where Harry came out a half-hour later. She had him sign her Playbill and got three pics of him with her iPhone.
We leisurely walked back to the parking garage, stopping off at a deli to get some water to hydrate our bad selves. However, two burly NYPD cops and a detective wouldn’t let us get there: “The street will be closed off for about ten minutes or so.” Neither one of us could figure out why, and they were mum. So we waited with a small group of people, and, ten minutes later we were paying for our car. Traffic was backed up at the Lincoln, so we drove up to the GWB and were home in thirty minutes.
My personal grade: in hindsight, now in the comfort of my air conditioned living room, I give the concert a solid B. If I was a fan, it’d probably be an A or an A plus. I wouldn’t see him again nor would I listen to any of my wife’s Harry CDs (though I’m forced to every Christmas-time), but I appreciate good musicianship when I see and hear it.
Plus, it was a good excuse to get away with my honey for a night out by ourselves.
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