Walking through the Tenderloin stretch of real estate that encompasses Eddy Street, it’s easy to dismiss the fact that there is a burgeoning jazz club on the corner of Leavenworth. National headlines in the recent few years have focused on long-standing safety issues, including the fentanyl crisis that persists in cities across the country. But what the doom loopers seem to forget is that a resilient jazz joint by the name of The Blackhawk existed in this very same neighborhood over 50 years ago.
About a block down and a block over at 200 Hyde Street, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Cal Tjader, and Mongo Santamaría recorded career-defining albums at The Blackhawk. That remarkable little dive bar with a great-sounding room was where Billie Holiday and Lester Young played their last West Coast club dates, and the Modern Jazz Quartet played its first.
Culture-defining art has a history in this gritty little neighborhood, and now the Black Cat Jazz Supper Club at 400 Eddy Street is reviving that aesthetic in a recovering Tenderloin district to much success.
In February, as I attended a D’Angelo tribute performance night, featuring budding vocalist Veotis Latchinson, I walked through the front door to a very modern-looking, but not necessarily overdone or swanky, barroom, equipped with nouveau-rustic lighting fixtures, several booths, and a bar setup that looked functional, yet funky enough that you’d want to hang out there for a Sunday afternoon brunch.
While I had no idea beforehand of how things would look in a contemporary rendering of a jazz supper club, I was impressed. But everyone was downstairs for the show; as per usual, I was running late. Keeping your eyes peeled and your shoes clean, making the trek down Eddy can slow your roll.
As I showed my waitperson my digital ticket and ordered an $9 Pilsner beer, the cheapest drink on the menu (there is a two-drink minimum), I took in the downstairs performance space, which felt at about 75 percent capacity, with an underground club feel. With several tabletops dotted the outskirts of the room, a bar in the center and seating around the stage up front—it felt like a somewhat tucked-away, secret spot. It was all welcoming for sure, with very young, pleasant, and extra speedy waitstaff, but still had that “not everybody knows this is a scene happening” type of energy.
And anybody searching for a new spot, venue, bar, restaurant, or whatever have you—that is the exact feeling or emotion you want to experience walking into a venue for the first time.
Oakland vocalist Latchinson paid tribute to the late D’Angelo, the one so many say made waves for the neo-soul movement. (Although the late artist would steadfastly declare, “I make Black music.”) Latchinson kept the main thing, the main thing. He focuses on conjuring up the bones, the spirits, those ninjas of soul music. It’s Prince. Parliament, Sly, and Jimi. Toss in some studio wizardry of the Soulquarians, too.
Latchinson, basically, in a 9:15 downstairs show, conducted a session, m’kay? Donning a wooden bead necklace, having that fully circular afro, and giving that special, special sliver of time that doesn’t age in soul music, the auditory version of “Black don’t crack”—so much of D’Angelo’s music exists within that evergreen vacuum.
We in the audience got a spirited 360-degree on the D’Angelo discography, which included bringing a trombone player from New Orleans on stage to spread some of that Nawlins heat, and Desiree, a vocalist from Oakland too, joining in for a moving rendition of “Nothing Even Matters” from Lauryn Hill, which features D’Angelo in a backing vocalist role that shines a different light on the vast talents he possessed.
It was good to be reminded of that particular gravity. The performance had the feeling of brotherhood and sisterhood uplifting, not a megastar who changed modern music, but a lost friend who, in that room on that night, collectively everyone wanted to see and hear once again, if only for a fleeting moment. Which I’m convinced is a sentiment many of his fans globally shared in one heavy moment at the announcement of his passing. He was our dude. That guy.
So Veotis, with his tight band—Kelyn Crapp on guitar, Kevin Person on piano, Sheldon Alexander on drums, and bass player Noah Mogor, who maintained a permanent grin all night—summoned up those Gods as best as they could through the power of D’Angelo classics: “Jones In My Bones,” “Africa,” “Cruising”—there were a couple of women at the bar, finishing up their dinner; it was a girls’ night between the two, dancing from their chairs with hand claps, finger snaps, and head waves.
During the guitar solo, they responded to the unasked question: “OK,” in unison. This was a celebration, a love affirmation, and a communal sharing of those good feelings D’Angelo bestowed on his public while he was here.
