People Who Are Addicted To Music
Nights just seem to go like this for Meghan Stabile. It was a Thursday in mid-May, at the nightclub Drom in the East Village — just a small gig by a young jazz pianist trying to build an audience for a very esoteric series of concerts that he called Music and Architecture. Ms. Stabile, 30, had been hired to promote the show through e-mail and social media. She scanned the sparse crowd for familiar faces, exchanging hugs, CDs, promises to work together soon.
And then after a few songs, Ms. Stabile announced that she had to leave. She’d just gotten a text that one of her best friends was performing in another club. So it was out on the street and into a cab for Arlene’s Grocery — more hugs and greetings, more promises of future synergies — until she mentioned that she was invited to Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola at Lincoln Center, where she had been trying to book another of the jazz acts she works with.
Out on the street again, into another cab, underdressed for Lincoln Center, tattoos showing, more hugs and greetings — until she looked up from her smartphone and said: “I just got a text from Miles Davis’s nephew, asking me what’s going on. I told him to come to Dizzy’s.”
Onstage, the band played on.
Ms. Stabile, who stands five feet tall, with a sweep of straightened brown hair pinned and tucked behind one ear, is a woman on a curious mission: to make jazz matter to the hip-hop generation, and to do so as a young woman in a jazz world dominated by older men, at a time when both jazz itself and the recording industry feel decreasingly relevant. In the last year and a half, she has emerged as a presence around the city — booking, promoting, cajoling, advising and herding young musicians, many of whom are still finding their way.