Hilary Gardner The Late Set

Taxicab tires hiss on wet pavement as you descend an unassuming staircase on an unassuming side street in Greenwich Village. Entering the club, you shrug off your coat, damp from the mist that is turning to rainfall outside—no matter. You’ve arrived.

Inside, candlelight and shadows dance on the walls and you find a seat at a corner table. You order a Manhattan on the rocks and survey the room. At eleven o’clock on any given weeknight, your fellow patrons run the gamut: clandestine lovers, surely hiding from the scrutiny of midtown’s glare; young musicians awaiting the after-hours jam session and a chance to blow a few choruses of bebop; older musicians, finished with their gigs and communing among themselves; a melancholy neighborhood drunk or two; and the serious listeners who, day jobs be damned, stayed for the music that only happens at this hour.

And that’s why you’re here: the music. Notes suspended in midair like silvery dewdrops on a spider web in the moonlight. Antique songs, unfurled languidly, taking their time. Sad. Seductive. Funny. Contemplative. Music for night people.

The pianist touches the keys. The singer smiles and takes a breath. Welcome to the late set.

–Hilary Gardner