Village blog.

Last Tuesday at about 9:30 p.m., I found myself in Greenwich Village. Normally at about this time on a weeknight, I would be decompressing for the day, but with only a few hours in New York that weren’t related to my job, I wasn’t going to let go of the day quite so easily. Besides, some time earlier I’d gotten it into my head that I wanted to visit the storied Village Vanguard.

The Village, which is a briar patch of pre-grid streets, has long been a favorite place of mine for walking, since it’s dense with non-chain retailers, and animated at all times of day or night with all manner of passersby. On an similarly abbreviated business trip in late 2000, I was able to spend a while there — much of it in a great used book store — but mainly I remember the Village from August 1983, when I was apartment-sitting for two weeks for a woman I’d met in Germany.

Her apartment was in a building at Sheridan Square, and I passed right through there this time. But I couldn’t remember exactly which building I’d spent two weeks of my life.

I don’t get out for live music much any more, and the last time I did with any regularly was in Nashville in the ’80s (a good place and time for it, I might add). The Village Vanguard is on Seventh Ave. behind a door and down a narrow staircase. The cover probably wasn’t high by Manhattan standards, or by 2000s standards. It was just at the beginning of the first set, and in paying I figured I was not only getting to hear first-rate jazz, and I was also supporting a basement hole-in-the-ground establishment of some historic importance.

Just as I couldn’t be a food writer, I certainly couldn’t be a music critic. What kind of jazz I heard I can’t say. It wasn’t New Orleans style, or swing, or be-bop. It wasn’t fusion either, though I can’t say I really understand that term. Never mind. It was excellent, straight-ahead jazz. Ted Nash, the saxophonist and band leader, was flying; Marcus Printup, the trumpeter and other frontman, roller-coaster’d all over the scale; Ben Allison pulled some fine notes out of his bass; the pianist, Frank Kimbrough, emerged for some remarkable runs; and the drummer, Matt Wilson, did some amazing tips and taps and bings and ba-dangs when he emerged from the rhythmic backdrop.

The crowd wasn’t large, but it grew as the set went on, and was appreciative. To fulfill my drink quota, I ordered a Brooklyn Lager, to continue the New York motif, and nursed it through the set. (Turns out it was brewed upstate somewhere.) I wasn’t fool enough to stay for the second set — I would have nodded off — so left at the end of the first. Half of my waitress’ $2 tip was an Eisenhower dollar I’d picked up (one of five) at the bank a few weeks ago. As I was leaving, I saw her marveling at it.

There was one more thing to do in the Village: find Ray’s Pizza, and relive a small slice of my youth, by eating a slice of pizza. I ate there enough times in the summer of ’83 that I can’t remember how many times, and had fond memories of it. Luckily, I was also a bit peckish coming out of the Village Vanguard. I found Ray’s and I’m glad to report that it’s thin-crust pizza is every bit as good as I remember.

I also confirmed what I’d heard long ago: a cheese slice at Ray’s costs the same as single fare on the New York subways — which, incidentally, had just gone up to $2 (which does not bode well for fares in Chicago). Sure enough, Ray’s was charging $2 for a slice of cheese.