Green Dolphin Street

For five years after my divorce, I dated a lady who had been weaned on good jazz. She’d grown up near New York City, and her parents introduced her to Ella, Etta, Billie, Basie, the Duke, and some others I’d never even heard of.

One summer we were the guests of a couple in West Tisbury on the Vineyard. To show my appreciation for their hospitality, I took them out to dinner at Louis’, an Italian place in Tisbury more favored by islanders than tourists. The restaurant had a three-piece jazz combo that night, offering smooth numbers that my lady friend took delight in identifying. Our table was by far the most appreciative of the music--I always applaud, and I always tip, and my friends felt the same.

She identified one of the numbers as “Green Dolphin Street” and sang some of the words softly at the table. I’d never heard it before. As we were having coffee, the musicians said goodnight and filed past our table. I wanted to compliment them, so I blurted out, “I loved the way you did 'Green Dolphin Street'.”

The jazzmen stopped. The bassist gestured expansively around the room and said, “Now how many people here do you think knew that song?” He shook my hand enthusiastically. “A pleasure, Sir,” he said. “You just made my evening.”

Needless to say, my lady friend was less than impressed with my newfound celebrity in the world of jazz.

Ever since that night, I have been shameless. In jazz joints in Boston, in the Berkshires, on the Cape, it’s always the same. Put me in a room with a jazz combo, and I sidle over to the musicians and ask earnestly, “Will you be doing 'Green Dolphin Street' tonight?” Voila...instant aficionado.

If there is a real Green Dolphin Street, I don't know how long a street it is. But I certainly have gotten a lot of mileage out of it.