Talk of the Town

For the past three weeks, I’ve been living in downtown Los Angeles with its palm trees, and sweaty heat, and artificiality. I need to get out. I drive down to Palm Springs, a retirement community in the desert where the rich and beautiful fade away. Hidden in plain sight off the main drag is a small jazz club called the Purple Room. I am ushered out of the dry heat and stark sunlight inside, where the air is cool and lush. Wine glasses twinkle over the bar like Christmas lights and dark chandeliers illuminate stenciled quotes on the wall. 

“Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.” - Frank Sinatra

“I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.” - Dean Martin

I am three hours early and have the chicken roulade and a fruity mocktail with berries while I wait. There is an empty chair across from me. It won’t always be empty. One day, she will come.

The other guests arrive along with a steady stream of chatter. I nurse an elegant glass of Baileys coffee and eavesdrop intently to the conversations around me. At first, I am disappointed. There is the dull, self-absorbed dialogue between an older couple next to me, a dialogue that has been repeated hundreds of times before. At a nearby table with one blonde and three guys, the blonde does the talking and one guy does the laughing. 

But it’s true what they say in Harvey; you can’t bring anything small into a bar. The atmosphere is too expansive. As the evening wears on, the mendacity drains from the room. An old man across from me in a linen jacket is an old-school mobster returning to haunt the club. Old friends reunite and toast bygone years. The best waiters in the world work the room like con men, experts in human nature and cocktails.

The bartender is telling a story of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra who one night, after the usual amount of alcohol, discover the piano is out of tune and push it into the pool. Those were the days. This is an intimate venue, holding no more than a dozen tables, but the Rat Pack played here because they knew this place was special and it mattered. It is an oasis, secluded from the vulgar, commonplace world outside. Years later, the Purple Room honors them with house cocktails bearing their names.

The on-stage talent has fallen off since those glory days, as have most things out here in the desert. But not tonight. Because tonight, a boozy little redhead is singing her heart out, and it is pure jazz. She is backed by a trio on piano, drums, and bass, and when the microphone goes out, she sings without it, her voice filling the club.

All of us here are a part of something. We are witnesses. In this historic place, served by old-world waiters and drinking the best coffee in the world, we witness the music that has moved generations, soul music, beauty born out of pain. Renee Olstead is swept up by it, just as much as the rest of us, singing with all the tenderness and sensuality she can muster. And she can muster quite a lot. 

It is over too soon; she comes out and talks to her guests. We linger, trying to hold onto the magic before it slips away into the summer night. We give her flowers with notes that try to articulate what it means to us. But nothing can do this justice. She is the queen of Palm Springs, the heir of Billie Holiday. She is jazz and she is magic. And we few, we happy few, were here and we were a part of it.

I get in my car and drive back to Los Angeles.

J.

Sept. 29, 2018