I won't dance, don't ask me

The first time I visited the Green Mill a year ago, I wondered if I was missing something. My passion for jazz came from my Granny, who would show me her record collection, telling tales of Glenn Miller, Kay Kyser, Billie Holiday, and Artie Shaw. She told me of the crowded dance floors, the merriment, and the way live music would work it’s way into your chest until you couldn’t help but move. She described moving across the dance floor, changing partners with strangers and friends, connecting with people you’d never see again.

Located just off the Wilson stop of the Red Line, the Green Mill would be easy to miss, if it weren’t for the large neon green sign pointing it out. It’s hard to tell how old the sign itself is, and the club now is only a fraction of the size it once was. Opened in the early 1900’s, the jazz club was originally known as Pop Morse’s Roadhouse, then was purchased and renamed to the Green Mill Gardens.

As I stepped through the heavy wooden door, I was immediately greeted by the bouncer demanding ID and cover charge (cash only!). The place was not as grand as my mind had constructed for me. It’s dark, cramped, and awkwardly organized. After stepping past the bouncer, a long bar condensed the walkway to nearly single-file, wrapping around the front left corner of the lounge and enclosing a piano, which was covered by a sheet. Two bartenders in white button-up shirts and black ties casually strolled behind the bar, taking orders. The stage was on the opposite wall, tucked in the rear left corner, and the awkward entrance to the restrooms sat right next to it, equally elevated. Stepping into them feels like you’re stepping onto the stage itself.

The Green Mill Gardens was named after its immense sunken gardens, perfect for galas and live music. The club was two floors and was a hotspot of Chicago nightlife. When the United States outlawed alcohol and the prohibition began, the Green Mill Gardens stayed relevant, and attracted even more attention. Rumor has it the place was partially owned by notorious gangster Al Capone’s associate Jack McGurn, and it became a personal favorite spot for Capone himself.

Today, the Green Mill has embraced this past, despite the club being just a mere fraction of the size it used to be. Rumor has it that Al Capone had a favorite booth, one with a vision of all exits to the lounge. The booth also was positioned right next to the bar, which contained a trap door in it’s bounds. Behind this door are secret tunnels that the gangsters would use to smuggle alcohol in and out of the club during the prohibition, as well as escape during any bouts of violence. The tunnels still exist today, although they are not available to the public. The club makes sure you know about this by including it on their frequently asked questions online, on signs on the tables, and by the judgemental glances of the bartenders when you do ask.

I almost turned around and left that first night, seeing the state of the club. However, the more I walked into it, the more I was drawn in. It was cramped, sure, but each inch of space was used to full efficiency. The wooden stage was absolutely crammed with seats and music stands for the twelve man orchestra that was to play that night. Dimly lit landscape paintings dotted the walls, a jukebox sat in the corner, and the noise of the orchestra’s sound check bounced off the walls. Even just checking their sound, the heavy brass and strings were melodic.

The Green Mill Gardens is not without its fair share of history. The club itself has starred in movies, hosted famous performers like Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong, and of course, was a hot spot for mafia activity, considering Al Capone’s fondness for the place. Notably, in 1929, singer Joe Lewis refused to perform at the Green Mill, and was found with his throat cut a few hours later. The incident even spawned a film, The Joker is Wild, featuring Frank Sinatra in the lead role.

After prohibition, the club reached a gradual decline, falling from a night time hub to a center of day drinking. It continued to shrink in size as it changed owners through the years and the surrounding property was bought and changed. Still, the club persevered, and turned a new leaf in 1986, when local Dave Jemilo purchased it.

Thirty-six years later, I sit down at a curved section of the bar and order a glass of pinot noir, paying in cash. The Green Mill still refuses to use credit cards, although there is now an ATM in the far corner, near the entrance. As the bartender pours, I take the opportunity to scan the place and notice a jovial, white-bearded man talking with the clarinet of the band. By the manner of his dress and the way he carries himself, I decide to ask the bartender.

“That’s Dave. You come back here, you’ll see him again. You the type to tip at the end of the night?”

The bartenders at Green Mill are not what you expect. They don’t strike up conversations, they don’t recommend drinks for you, and they sure as hell make sure they get their tip. I assure him there will be tip money coming after the second glass, to which he nods and walks away. I don’t know his name, though I’ve seen him dozens of times since this first visit. If he recognizes me or not, I’ll never know.

I take a good look at who I now know is owner Dave Jemilo, who is still locked in conversation with the clarinet. For a man that’s been running a club for over thirty years, he looks great. It dawns on me that I don’t even know how old the man is, but by his demeanor, it doesn’t look like he plans to step down anytime soon.

When Jemilo bought Green Mill, it was a worn-down, dilapidated room in Uptown Chicago. The stage that I watch the orchestra set up on now did not exist. After all, the room that stands today was merely the original entrance lounge for the club in its glory days. It’s the only thing remaining now. The first few performances under Jemilo’s ownership were at the piano behind the bar, but the unceremonious stage didn’t prevent big names from performing. He personally invited big names of local musicians, including Art Hodes, who now rests in the Big Band Hall of Fame. With headliners like that, Jemilo was instilling that the Green Mill was back.

I watch Dave step away rom the clarinet and over to two women on the opposite end of the bar. They are both dressed as traditional flappers, feathered headbands and white pearls around their neck. Staring at the three of them across the bar, it’s like a snapshot back in time. They stand just next to a jukebox, the sounds of the band warming up providing background for their vignette. I take my eyes off of the group before I’m caught staring. The stage I divert my attention to now was built shortly after Jemilo’s purchase of the club. It isn’t anything super remarkable, just a raised wooden platform towards the rear wall of the club, but it serves its purpose. With how little space is actually available, it’s impressive a twelve-man orchestra can fit on it, and still have room for a dance floor in front.

Alan Gresik’s Swing Orchestra has become a mainstay of Green Mill in the past year. The band’s been playing every Thursday night since 1998, and has yet to miss an evening (outside of Covid interference). Part of their set up is a set of microphones in front of each performer, as the entire performance is broadcast live to radio, complete with introductions, advertisements, and even brief radio plays. The band is committed to making it feel like you’re watching a 1930’s swing band, and the atmosphere of the Green Mill could not be more perfect for nurturing that.

I hadn’t even noticed how much the place had filled up since I sat down. The bar is completely full, every booth filled, to the point that parties are being seated with strangers at other booths. It is loud and boisterous, but that all stops nearly instantly as Alan Gresik himself, founder of the band, steps up to the main microphone. After a short greeting, he takes care of some introductory housekeeping before they go live. “Tonight’s performance will be broadcast over radio, and as such, we need real, authentic audience sounds. When I give this signal,” - he raises both hands in the air - “we need applause. As much of it as you can give. Otherwise, we request that you stay quiet while we play. Thank you all for coming, and enjoy the show.”

Just before he steps away from the microphone and back to his piano, Alan suddenly whips back around and raises both arms. The signal for applause. The entire club instantly erupts into claps, and stops as soon as he lowered them. With that, Gresik sits back down at the piano, dramatically cracks his knuckles, and counts out to the band.

While my Granny originally showed me Big Band Swing, I dove deeper into jazz. To say I was obsessed with it would be an understatement. I spent hours and hours searching the internet for new songs, recordings I hadn’t heard before, songs that had faded to obscurity. I expanded to swing and blues, acquiring a taste for pretty much all improvisational music. Hearing the intro overture, I’m reminded of those times, though my thoughts are interrupted quickly.

As the band plays, a proper man stepped up to the microphone. This is the host of the evening. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself. After all, it isn’t his band. He’s just the host. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, we’re coming to you live from the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge, Chicago! The jazz capital of the world!” The host proudly stated into the microphone. “Tonight, enjoy the swinging tunes of the Alan Gresik Orchestra!” He raises his hands, signaling applause. The club erupts into cheers, and the host steps down from the microphone.

If there was one word to describe the host, it would be suave. Everything from the way he carries himself, the way he dresses, and his voice is the definition of suave. His brown hair is combed and gelled down, he wears a well-kept gray suit and tie, and he casually leans against the wall beside the stage, nursing a drink, as he waits for his next cue. His voice is reminiscent of what you might imagine an old-time baseball announcer to sound like. He speaks fast and with excitement, but clearly enough to understand each and every word. After the host steps away from the microphone, I immerse myself in the music.

It’s hard to describe live jazz, especially to someone that hasn’t heard it before. Jazz is an improvisational music. No two performances are ever quite the same. It instantly drew me in. It was nothing like the YouTube videos I had found online of staticy recordings, no crackling voices of a long-dead singer barely comprehensible in the microphone. It hits me that this is real. I even recognize the opening song, a rendition of the standard Puttin’ on the Ritz. I’ve heard the melody hundreds of times, yet it still sounds fresh.

When my Granny died, she left me a large portion of her record collection. I listened to those records for weeks after she died. I associate jazz with her now, even the forms of jazz that she didn’t show me. Every time I hear the haunting voice of singers long past through grainy microphones, I imagine my Granny sitting beside me, reminiscing some memory with the song. She sits next to me now.

As the orchestra wraps their first song, I come back to the present. The host steps back to the microphone and begins an ad read for some coffee company, and I take the break in noise to order another glass of wine. This time I tip the bartender, who smiles and nods, happy that I actually remembered. It would be hard to forget to.

I turn back to the stage just as the host reminds everyone that it is an open dance floor. The band immediately launches into the intro of a swing rendition of the piano standard Deep Purple. An older woman with thin, wiry gray hair drags who appears to be her husband to the dance floor. He looks reluctant, but seems to have no choice but to follow. They hold each other and began to dance, at first stiff and awkward, but slowly more graceful and practiced. They’ve clearly done this hundreds of times, yet they smile like it’s the first.

All at once, the dance floor fills up. Nearly every couple in the club rushes to the floor. They bump into each other, swap partners, and pick up speed as the song reached its full swing. I feel a tap on my shoulder as I observe. “You come on your own?” I turn to my right. Standing next to me is a black-haired woman. Her face shows her age, but her movements show her grace. I can tell she was a charmer when she was my age, and I'm sure I would have been smitten with her.

“Yeah.” I respond.

“Ever danced before?” she asks.

“Not like that.”

“Let’s change that.”

“I’m alright. Never was much of a dancer.” I say. Granny shakes her head next to me.

“Suit yourself.” the woman says. With that, she turns and walks down the bar to the next seemingly single young man, most likely to ask the same question. I watched as she gets a taker, leads him to the floor, and the two dance. Complete strangers, yet they are smiling and laughing and moving like they’ve known each other their entire lives. I watch as at the end of the song, they say farewell, the guy returns to the bar, and she seeks out her next partner.

“Why didn’t you join her?” Granny asks me.

“I don’t like dancing.”

“I never taught you.” It is less of a statement and more of a thought aloud.

“Something like that.”

“You can’t listen to jazz and not dance.”

“I don’t know how to.”

Silence.

I realize what I was missing on my first impression of Green Mill. It was the atmosphere. A dormant, sleeping club is nothing like the living space that exists after the band begins. I let the music move through me, feel it in my chest, yet I still sit still. I let the night pass and silently left as the band wraps, my mind heavy, and Granny still sits at the bar.

Every time I return, I see her. She urges me to let loose, dance, move with the music, and every time, I refuse. I want to change that.

i miss her everyday. i wish i could dance with her.