An Ode to the Blue Note

It should not have been an adventure to get from my apartment in Brooklyn to The Blue Note, one of the most famous jazz venues in New York City—it’s a thirty-minute subway trip with only one transfer, and a decade-plus of subway experience should have made me more than prepared for the journey. Jazz music, however, should be experienced under the influence: first, because it’s only just that we enhance uniquely intoxicating experiences to honor their importance, and second, because it’s a tribute to the genre’s history, where practitioners and listeners alike have used various elixirs to amplify the rich notes of jazz’s improvised perfection. Unfortunately, paying homage to the great artists who pioneered this majestic genre and paved the way for the show I would soon witness led to me getting off at an unfamiliar subway stop in the Village. No, I couldn’t just pull up my Maps app to re-navigate. . . well, I could have if I weren’t on my way to see Robert Glasper and Little Brother. Still, because I was, the only logistical maneuvering within my capacity was hailing a cab and excitedly slurring my embarrassingly close destination to the driver. 

I’ve been to several shows at The Blue Note, most of which have involved Robert Glasper, because he’s always exceedingly memorable. Robert Glasper exemplifies the best aspects of the union between hip-hop and jazz with his silky piano and keyboard riffs—never the same twice, but riveting every time. I started attending his shows a few years ago with my friend, James, with whom I first bonded in high school English over our shared love for music, especially hip-hop. I hadn’t seen James in a while, but I looked forward to hearing his contagious laugh—the kind that splits the sides of anyone within earshot. I was saddened when he greeted me and the rest of our group. He seemed uncharacteristically subdued, especially before one of our favorite live acts. I knew he had been going through a tough time recently, but it had been a while since we discussed it in detail. Waiting in a line wrapped all the way around the block while passing a joint amongst our group didn’t seem like the ideal moment to check in about his well-being, but I silently hoped that the show would bring him the same joy it had in years past. Time would tell, but I was optimistic. Despite his demeanor, we chatted with the comfortable familiarity of people who’ve been friends since the awkward years of adolescence. I tabled my concerns momentarily as we waited in the mammoth line that the sidewalk could scarcely contain. 

When we finally stumbled into the club, it was akin to Alice stepping through the looking glass: the lights were dim, the walls covered with black-and-white photographs of performances I wished I’d been alive for, the space both cramped and expansive with people filing into whatever available nooks and crannies they were directed to by the overworked waitresses. Strangers, packed-in elbow-to-elbow, hectically ordered food and drinks while we waited together with eager anticipation. Everyone bonded with people they’d just met over their shared love for the act, the venue, and the music we so revered. 

At The Blue Note, the lights are a hazy (you guessed it) blue, and the tables are crammed so closely together that if you lean back, there’s a good chance you’ll be leaning against someone else. This gives the venue the distinctively pleasant vibe of a group of friends relaxing in a basement, waiting for their other friends to put on a show. The artists casually stroll up to the stage and through the audience without security, further cementing this feeling of a familial gathering. They’re there for us, and we’re there for them; it’s a mutual commitment, an unspoken bond. When the musicians began to play, the audience hushed and moved with the artists’ improvisations—following their beat like devoted parishioners, everyone equally entranced. 

Watching Glasper and Little Brother command the room, I was reminded of something we often forget: concerts aren’t just performances. They’re exchanges—an emotional dialogue, expressed through music, between the artist and the audience. In its role, the audience connects to the emotions the musicians convey and, by extension, to the artists themselves. To demonstrate this connection, they move their bodies to the moods the musicians craft, sway their heads, and stomp their feet, all with the greatest admiration for the rhythm. This engrossing new rhythm, which allows them both an escape from their troubles and validation of them, proves irresistible to the human psyche. In this way, the musicians and their audience are inseparably linked through a shared reality: they have a reciprocal emotional connection conveyed through a medium and interaction that allows for an experience otherwise inaccessible in our individualistic and isolationist society. It manifests an environment where both parties feel understood and comforted in a way they crave and, moreover, in a way that fulfills a primal need otherwise stifled under modern conditions.

I used to think it was just the music. But there’s more to it: something physical, almost chemical. Interestingly, a wealth of scientific evidence bolsters my instinctual theory about music: studies of drum circles show that participants experienced increased endorphins, white blood cell production, and synchronized brain activity. This synchronized brain activity, known as entrainment, enhances feelings of togetherness and shared purpose. Humans have utilized music to achieve this goal across cultures for millennia, and now we have the science to reinforce the (previously dismissed as mystical) claims about the power of music. However, for this connection to form, people need to be present, and contemporary trends have severely limited both the willingness to be present and the spaces where it’s possible. For example, “third places” where people can congregate as communities are increasingly scarce, and as a result, people are forced to spend more of their time hungering for connection in digital spaces; we’re increasingly alienated from one another and beholden to our screens. Many prominent artists have taken note of this phenomenon, and some have gone so far as to ban cell phones at their shows. That’s one thing that makes Blue Note performances unique: the artists request limited phone use, and the audience obliges, which allows the audience to feel the true profundity of the experience strike their shared soul. 

The Blue Note feels like traveling to shows from a bygone era, when this communal relationship between performer and audience still existed at its most organic—where strangers could merge together for a moment of kinship. I knew I wasn’t alone in what I felt: as Glasper and Little Brother joked with the crowd, I heard the familiar eruption of James’s wonderful laugh. I knew how everyone around me—elbow-to-elbow and back-to-back—felt after that concert, too: they felt one of our most ancient and sacred forms of human connection fulfilled, and they didn’t even realize how badly they needed it. I needed it myself. 

The artists left the stage after one of the best encores I’ve ever seen—with flawless vocals from a joyously drunk Phonte and Big Pooh, whose delivery never faltered over Glasper’s enchanting keys. Yet, instead of rushing out, the audience stayed seated, letting the musicians pass while they remained awestruck by what had just transpired. The artists could have exited the club but chose to linger by the bar, interacting with any passing audience member who wished to express their gratitude for the show. At The Blue Note, the line between artist and spectator is blurred, with music performed in its most unadulterated form and entrainment accessible to all in attendance. The musicians are just as thankful to the audience for allowing this transference to occur as the audience is to the musicians, and their elated mannerisms after the show reveal that we feed them as much as they feed us. It’s one of the most beautiful and powerful exchanges of humanity that we can still witness in a world where people feel increasingly detached from one another. 

We finally emerged from the club and back into the harsh reality of West Third Street, but experiences like that have a way of lingering. When I turned to James and saw the massive, genuine grin I had missed seeing on his face just a few hours prior, he said, “That was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen,” confirming my beliefs. I realized my facial expression mirrored James’ glee, and my spirit felt noticeably lighter. I was glad my friend and I had both managed to find comfort. This rare, wonderful, and desperately needed connection we were fortunate enough to collectively experience was cathartic in a way everyone deserves to feel: our souls were touched. We must foster more spaces where this phenomenon can develop, but for now, we’ll always have The Blue Note.