Saturday Nights at the Westgate

I could go into the convoluted circumstances that led to me spending many Saturday nights at the Plaza Bar in San Diego’s Westgate Hotel, but I don’t want that story to be the focus of this essay, at least for now.  But as I try to deconstruct the role that these Saturday nights--of which there were many over the course of four years--played in my inevitable destruction, I may just have to address how I, a then twentysomething college student from Rockford, Illinois, found himself sipping top-shelf Scotch while listening to live jazz at what was sometime, somewhere called San Diego’s best piano bar. For now, the music.

Quite simply, it was magical. Lame, I know, but in the years since my last visit to the Plaza Bar, I’ve tried to find another way to articulate the effect that these performances had on me then and now, and I haven’t really been able to come up with anything that can better capture the essence of what Gregory Page did with his music during his residency at the Plaza Bar.  

The idea that a tiny little hotel bar could lure Gregory into a weekly residency would only later become baffling, but my initial reaction to his music was that he was the perfect fit for the hotel. I actually remember thinking that he was lucky to have this weekly gig, and maybe on some level, he was. But when I eventually spent enough time in various parts of San Diego, I found that there was no other homegrown musical talent that could come close to Gregory.  Everything about his music was just so effortless and natural, as if he was placed on this Earth for the sole purpose of performing each song.  The way he thumbed chords through the neck pickup of his beloved 1957 Gibson, or the way that his voice would break at just the right moment; it was all so unaffected, despite how the very nature of his act was this fetishized 1920’s jazz. 

Maybe that’s what was so memorable about Gregory.  He somehow made art directly inspired by others seem so authentically his. That is no small feat. Artists paying tribute to a certain time or place have always existed, from the lute strumming renaissance fair minstrels, to the dads donning black shirts with embroidered flames who shred the solo to Livin’ on a Prayer at your local bar.  Nostalgia is powerful, but usually only inspires kitsch. Gregory’s music felt so immediate and fresh that it made everything else seem out of place.  

 When I first heard of Gregory I was talking to my then-girlfriend on the phone.  She had just moved out to San Diego and landed a job as the bartender at The Plaza Bar.  She’d initially been intimidated by the Versailles-inspired decor of a hotel seemingly not threatened by the increasing popularity of the sleek, modern boutique hotels luring tourists that descended upon downtown San Diego.  It was not meant for people like her, like us.  It was a sanctuary for old money. But after a few short weeks behind the bar, my ex, Lizzie, seemed to forget she didn’t belong.  “You gotta hear this guy,” she told me that night, “he’s like this depression-era singer or something.”  She followed with this soft, fluttering oooohhh, meant to imitate him, then she laughed.  It reminded me of this bit from an old episode of Conan, where the ghost of an old jazz singer comes into the studio to sing these sweet sounding, but highly offensive verses. I was intrigued, and Lizzie was fascinated, which I can admit worried me. 

My concerns would gradually intensify as the weeks passed.  Lizzie became much more comfortable with Gregory, Josh, and Sky, the latter two being his drummer and pianist, respectively. There was nothing in our nightly conversations to suggest that there was any real cause for concern, but I knew how men act around a young woman behind a bar, and Lizzie had been known to attract her fair share of unwanted attention.  Of course, when you’re in a long-distance relationship, you learn to suppress such fears, no matter how justified they may be.

By the time I finished my fall semester and had a chance to visit Lizzie, she had been at the Plaza Bar for about three months, long enough for her to feel a firm sense of belonging and ownership, which is why she had no problem suggesting I come to the bar for her Saturday shift, so that I could finally hear Gregory perform while she served me free drinks. Having an embarrassingly childlike respect for authority and rules, I initially objected.  She pushed, so we made a compromise.  I would spend the early evening watching some games at a nearby sports bar before coming in for her last couple of hours, when most of the management team would be gone.  

Downtown San Diego, or more specifically, the Gaslamp District, is a lively, welcoming place.  Because the temperature is always somewhere in the 60’s or 70’s, most of the bars and restaurants leave their windows and doors open, allowing unfamiliar tourists (who seem to be the majority of those wandering the streets in the Gaslamp) the opportunity to get a full sense of a bar’s atmosphere before choosing to enter. This is invaluable to somebody with limited funds and zero knowledge of a city.  But after surveying my options for a couple of blocks, it became clear that I might not find the perfect spot to kill a couple of hours. Most bars were too crowded, and I feared I would not be able to find a seat.  Others had a bit more breathing room, but were full of booming dance music.  The Gaslamp is simply not a place people go to be alone.  I settled on a sports bar where I spotted an empty stool.

After a few drinks and some dinner, I made my way to the Westgate Hotel for the first time.  Though the hotel’s exterior was dated, its meticulously maintained exterior assured me that it was not so much an obsolete relic of the 1970’s, but instead deliberate throwback to vintage elegance, a la Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.  I entered the lobby, trying to look like I belonged without knowing what that even looked like, so I just pretended to be on my phone, which itself betrayed a lack of disposable income. As I carried on with my imaginary conversation, I admired the ornate molding, the gold paint on the walls, the massive Steinway just begging for one of my specialties, perhaps Van Halen’s “Right Now” or Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” None of the guests or staff in the lobby appeared to have a sense of humor, so I didn’t touch the piano. 

A curiously small sign directed me to the Plaza Bar, which was mercifully far from the front desk and any sign of management. I’d planned to enter inconspicuously, perhaps never revealing my connection to Lizzie for the night. Lizzie blew my cover immediately.  She ran over to give me a hug and directed me to one of the four stools at the bar, none of which being occupied. In fact, only two of the dozen tables in the bar had guests, and none seemed to notice or care that the bartender invited her boyfriend.

A drink slid my way, accompanied by a wink.  A drink and a half later, the band entered the small room.  Gregory wasn’t quite what I had expected, which had been some combination of Clark Gable and a handful of other stars I could not name from the golden age of Hollywood.  He wasn’t a bad looking man, but was more Robert Crumb than Humphrey Bogart.  He wore a black suit with a matching black homburg and the other two bandmates were similarly dressed.  Gregory looked to be slightly older than them, judging by the subtle wrinkles that emerged when he smiled, which could have been his resting face.

Lizzie introduced me and I expected the usual judging assessment that came when Lizzie introduced me to another guy, as if this coworker or casual acquaintance had some sort of influence over whom she should date.  Gregory may have been the first man from Lizzie’s life (she had no father or brother) without me who seemed pleased to meet me.  Ok, maybe not pleased, but he shook my hand and smiled a genuine smile, which was far better than most of these introductions, which often included the old look down, look up, which I always found to be ironically homosexual for the alphas secretly wanting to show my girlfriend what a real man is. 

I didn’t get any of that with Gregory. He didn’t seem to want to take anything away from me or anybody.  He only asked for his complimentary Stella Artois while Josh set up his drums.  Within minutes, they began their first of three sets, which I would later learn was the same set they used to open every one of their weekly Saturday night performances at the Plaza bar.

I won’t try to force the immediacy of the alchemy that bonded me to Gregory’s music, because it didn’t happen that way. In fact, I don’t really remember that first night one way or another, aside from having general admiration for Gregory’s talent. I think I was more enamored with Sky’s piano playing. More than anything else, I was nervous that Lizzie’s heavy handed pour of the 18 year MacCallan might alert somebody to the fact that I was not paying for my drinks.  But just like my suspicions of Gregory’s interest in Lizzie, these fears were unfounded.

It wasn’t until the second Saturday until I really had a visceral response to Gregory’s music. This would be my last Saturday before I returned to Illinois for my spring semester, which was just enough to tip the emotional scale.  I knew I wouldn’t see her again for a couple months, which at that time was an impossibly long period of time to go without seeing your girlfriend.  I had also developed an unexpected bond with San Diego. After years of considering myself somebody who could someday become the intellectual, brooding New York type, the kind of guy that listens to a cooler, lesser known version of Interpol at his dinner parties, I’d found myself falling in love with the beaches, the palm trees, the Sublime cover bands, all that obnoxiously relaxed and always uninteresting southern California shit.  I mean, I was wearing fucking shorts.  I never wear shorts. However vapid it would all become, I’d fallen in love with Southern California, and now I would have to say goodbye to the City and all that came with it, like Lizzie.

It took a couple neat Scotches to realize that I’d also have to say goodbye to Gregory and the Westgate. It had been so unexpectedly enchanting and the realization that I’d have to leave this magical world was equally jarring.  As much as I’ve retroactively attributed emotions to songs, I can really only name about 5 moments where music has brought me to the cusp of tears.  And while I would come to realize this was one of those moments, I didn’t realize it at the time.  I’d simply attributed my emotional response to the thought of having to leave my girlfriend. In the months that followed, my feelings of longing weren’t accompanied by tender moments with Lizzie; rather, I longed for the entire experience: the music, the artificial feeling of affluence, the beauty of everything in those moments.  I used to throw Lizzie in that mix, but how can I really say I longed for her when my lasting memories of her involved her hustling from table to table, unable to spend time with me other than to pour me another drink? But like I said, I wouldn’t realize this until too late.  And like Charles Bukowski once wrote, “There’s nothing worse than too late.”

That summer, I packed the biggest suitcase I had and flew out to San Diego to stay with Lizzie for three months. Since I was trading summer for summer, there wasn’t as stark a contrast this time, so the coast lost a bit of its luster.  And since I’d have to find a job very quickly, it didn’t have the carefree feeling of vacation like my first visit.  In fact, the situation wasn’t ideal.  The only job I could find was at a telemarketing place that nudged unsuspecting people toward an online college education.  It didn’t pay too well, and I felt dirty.  Most of the sixty to eighty people I called each day had no idea how I got their information or why I was calling. Understandably, they’d hang up or curse at me for a few seconds before hanging up.  Worst of all, the operation was run by a few thirty something hustlers who couldn’t go a day without quoting Glengarry, Glen Ross, a practice I’d come to know intimately in my years of sales jobs that would follow.  And even when I did get somebody to agree to submit personal information that I could give to one of the “colleges,” I knew that I was just leading people one step closer to a meaningless degree and a shit ton of debt.  Few of these people had any real understanding of the job market, of higher education.  I was told not to “pre-qualify,” rather, I only needed them to say “yes.” Sometimes I couldn’t help but pre-qualify. When my conscience got the best of me, I’d sometimes ask questions that went against my own best interest, but the person on the other end of the call was so tragically uninformed that they pushed through to their own ruin.  One time, a young man told me he wanted to be a chef.  

“So what career paths are you considering?” I asked, per my script.

“I wanna be a chef,” he replied, without hesitation.

“Ah.  That’s great.  Well, sir you do understand that these schools we work with are all internet colleges, right?” I went off script.

“Yeah. That’s what I want. I don’t have a car.”

“I see, well, I don’t know that our schools have culinary arts programs, but I could direct you to a counselor who could introduce you to a restaurant management program.”

“I said I wanted to be a chef, why the hell would I want a management class? Are you listening to me?”

“Absolutely sir, it’s just that it would be hard to learn to cook through videos. Culinary. programs are generally a hands-on sort of thing.”

“Listen pal, I already told you I don’t got a car. You just lemme talk to someone from the school.”

“Ok sir, you can expect a call in 2-4 days.” I retreated back to the script.

Even when I succeeded, it felt dirty. I hated every minute I was there.  But the job went Monday through Friday, meaning I had a summer full of Saturday nights at the Plaza Bar.

These Saturday nights carried on just like the others, but without the initial anxiety.  I’d ride downtown with Lizzie, wander around for a couple of hours trying not to get too drunk, and then I’d make my way to the Westgate. Some of the hotel staff began to recognize me, and nobody ever seemed to mind that the bartender’s boyfriend showed up every week.  I’d smoke cigarettes with some of the chefs on break, and occasionally share a drink with Sebastian, the food and beverage manager from Germany who would be at the hotel for the remainder of his work visa.  In fact, much of the staff came from Europe, as part of some sort of university program.  And since most of them were only there for a year, nobody was too concerned with my frequent visits and comped drinks.  

I also became friends with the band. Admittedly they would be my only friends in San Diego, although Josh would be the only of the three with whom I’d spend any time outside of the Westgate, usually in the form of a trip to the local casino.  On those Saturdays, I’d help them unload their gear, share dinner and drinks while Lizzie worked, and then I’d watch them perform.  I guess I became a sort of groupie. I’d lead the modest applause when the uninitiated guests needed a nudge. I’d perk up at the first chords of my favorite songs, and I’d put my glass of Scotch in the air when Gregory sang, “and I raise my glass, to your health. Love of my life, you treat me so well.” 

That particular song, “Love Made Me Drunk,” was the song from Gregory’s catalogue that Lizzie decided would be ours.  It was a staple of his Saturday night performances, and before I’d ever even heard Gregory play a note, Lizzie declared it “our song.” When I heard it, I didn’t object.  It was a sweet-sounding, French accordion-driven jazz tune that--along with his call to raise your drink--that evoked a playful, yet significant love.  After all, Gregory does address the “love of his life.” Some Saturdays, I’d feel the beginnings of a tear as I sang that line along with Gregory. Lizzie gave me a knowing smile as she served a round of drinks. I bought all of Gregory’s albums by the end of the summer, and for the entire school year in Dekalb, IL I’d torture myself and my roommate--his a much different torture--with Gregory’s 1920’s inspired songs. 

When I listened to Gregory at the bar, I never really focused too much on the lyrics, instead picking out a few lines that sounded nice. It wasn’t until I took the music home to Illinois that the words made themselves known. I don’t recall the exact moment that the true meaning of “Love Made Me Drunk” revealed itself, but at some point, I couldn’t escape that this song, our song, was anything but an ode to true love. In reality, the words painted a scene of the dying breaths of a relationship where only one person is invested. I’d perceived the song’s title to be the classic metaphor, where the power of love leaves one in a daze, but it became clear that Gregory meant the line in a literal sense. His was a song about a woman he loved, a woman who treated him badly. She would stay out all hours while he waited for her, with nothing to do but drink and how for her to walk through the door. And when he sings the line, “I raise my glass, to your health, love of my life, you treat me so well,” he’s disguising painfully sad irony through the sweetest of melodies. 

Like I said earlier, I have no interest in making this about Lizzie; I’ve written about what that relationship became, and while theatrical in its eventual demise, putting all of it into words is a boring and tiresome endeavor. But it must be noted that this song was something of a self-fulfilling prophecy; the last several months of that relationship became everything that Gregory sang. 

In the years since my nights at the Westgate, since that relationship, I continue to listen to Gregory, and I still feel the same whimsical feelings of love when I hear him effortlessly deliver the lyrics, though this time, I think of my wife. I’ve emotionally scrubbed Lizzie’s memory from most these songs, which is not something that simply happened. I love Gregory’s music, and I didn’t want to let Lizzie take that from me, so in the ugly aftermath of that relationship’s horrific end, I continued to listen to his music. I wanted to associate it with anything but my nights with her. This proved to be a difficult task because I could not separate the music from the many nights where I listened to the songs being performed live. And while eventually, Lizzie has all but disappeared from these songs, I still cannot remove the sometimes visceral memories of the Scotch snifters I held while I listened to “Three Words I say.” The peaty smell of expensive whiskey still tingles in my nose when I listen to “Shine, Shine, Shine.” I sometimes recall conversations with wealthy travelers and their patronizing--though still flattering--expressions of admiration over my desire to be a teacher when listening to “Bon Voyage mon Cheri.” It’s all there, the elegant, dimly lit lamps, and the soft glow they cast upon the cream paneled walls with gold trim. I remember the limited beer choices (Stone IPA, Budweiser, Bud Light, and Stella Artois), and how I’d eventually built up the courage to drink Bud from the bottle regardless of the proletariat label I would place on myself. I remember sampling the Nicoise salad and mushroom risotto before settling on the sea bass tacos as my meal of choice. They were nights of make believe, nights where I got a taste of a life that would never become a reality; I would never again enjoy the food and drink that I consumed weekly or converse with wealthy strangers from across the globe, and I would never know real love with Lizzie.

I would never see Josh, Sky, or Gregory ever again. While they’ve found unlikely success in Europe (in 2012, they charted in Amsterdam’s top-20, right behind Lil Wayne), they remain tragically unknown in America, and rarely venture outside of Southern California. I don’t talk to them either, mostly out of fear of the possibility that Lizzie might be in contact with them, and that she might be spreading the same lies about why I left as she spread to her family. Instead, the Band, and the Plaza Bar will live in my heart as a transformative part of my life with which I will never reunite.

And while I still have their music, and have done my best to cleanse traces of Lizzie from it, I cannot help but think of her when I listen to “Love Made Me Drunk.” I don’t feel traces of the love I once felt, nor do I relive any of the pain she left. The song does, however, leave me with feelings that I cannot reconcile. I sometimes wonder, embarrassed, whether Gregory noticed how we reacted to his song of misery, unwittingly claiming it as the soundtrack to our story, at once misunderstanding it’s meaning while it so aptly described our future. I wonder if he could see that it was our own destiny, if it was that obvious. In retrospect, the red flags could not have been more obvious. I’ve punished myself over the years for ignoring them, perplexed at how I could have been so stupid, and I can’t help but think that Gregory, the Plaza Bar, San Diego… I can’t help but think that they all prevented me from seeing it, that their romance, their powers of seduction put me in a state where I so wanted love that I’d pursue from her. 

I have a beautiful, nurturing wife. She’s my best friend, truly. Before her, I always thought you had to sacrifice some of what you would hope for in a partner and accept the good. I could go on forever about how she’s all I’ve ever wanted or needed, and how I never thought that I would find somebody like her. We have two beautiful children, angels. I love my job, I’m surrounded by family and friends. In every measurable way, my life is fulfilling and happy. I don’t ever longingly wonder what my life would have been with Lizzie, or in San Diego, but no matter how idyllic my life has become, how strongly I have rebuked the notion of ever again visiting Southern California, I can’t deny how badly I sometimes long for one night at the Westgate listening to the band, sipping on Scotch.