My friends could confirm this. I love gypsy jazz.

I love watching Alfonso Ponticelli’s fingers fly over his guitar strings, invoking the spirit of Django Reinhardt. I love the vibration of the violin singing through my body as I watch the violinist’s shadow on the wall, dipping and heaving, surrendered to the passion of the music like a willow tree moving in the wind.

I shared my enthusiasm for this genre of music to friend of a friend over a slice of pizza couple weeks ago.   She told me about Bowmanville, a local band, consisting of a classically trained violinist, a guitarist, and a seasoned singer who also blows the harmonica.

I looked them up online and found out they that were going to play a show this past Friday at The Drifter.

I checked out their version of Saint James Infirmary on their website.  I texted my intentions to catch this show to a few friends and found one who agreed to meet me there.

The Drifter, per their website, is an authentic 1920s speakeasy.  It’s in the basement of The Green Door, a tavern and sports bar just north of the Chicago River, not far (in minutes or miles) from downtown businesses and high-end shopping.

After parking, I looked around the building for an entrance.  Nada.

I slipped through the main door and looked for signs directing me to the subterranean lounge which was where the music was supposed to be. I saw TVs scattered throughout, behind the bar and above plastic coated checkered tablecloths.  They were turned on to the White Sox game.

I was stumped.  I ended up asking the waitress.

Where’s The Drifter? 

She pointed to a staircase to the basement and told me where I’d find the door.  The door looked like a primitive bookshelf built into a wall.

So, that was the deal.  You had to know the place was there, and ask for directions, before you could enter.  I guess that was part of the speakeasy experience.

I followed a waiter through the door. He was bringing something from the kitchen to a patron.  It was like stepping back in time.

The Drifter was a long narrow alley of a bar with artifacts, like rusted over-sized roadside Coco-Cola signs, on the walls.  A small stage opposite the door was home to a whitish upright piano. Old movies of scantily clad dancers, flickering like a Keystone Cops reel, was projected on a scrim behind the stage.

My eyes had to get used to the dark.  I looked around for my friend who had already found a table.

The drink specials were printed on uniquely designed tarot cards.   I decided on something with raspberry liqueur, vodka, and ginger beer. The menu of snacks was out of the ordinary too.  Deviled eggs and cheese curds.  It was not a wings and potato skins kind of place.

As advertised, Bowmanville took the stage at 7:00.  They looked right at home in the time machine that was the venue.  They played for 15 minutes and explained to the crowd that they’d be back at 9:00.

What?  Their website announced the show ran 7:00-9:30.  I came out specifically to hear two sets of gypsy jazz.  I didn’t realize their appearance was part of a burlesque show.  At 8:00, in between more old-time, slightly blue movies, we were entertained by a belly dancer.

I could have been mad, or resentful.  After all, I came out with something specific in mind. But I chose not to be upset.

I didn’t get to hear two sets of music I adore. No swing violinist version of Besame Mucho or Honey Suckle Rose.

But I did get to order a cocktail I would never think of asking for anywhere else (don’t think I could name all the ingredients, anyway). I did get to see a fine belly dancer.  I felt like a real insider for finding this under the radar drinking emporium.  And, between the flickering black and white images, and 20s and 30s décor, I got to step back in time.

Being able to accept changes in plans and find enjoyment in what’s in front of you is no small thing.