Yesterday, I was caught in a deluge of water, as sheets came cascading down from the sky and lightning strikes could be seen just above low-rise buildings. After taking cover in a laundromat for 45 minutes, I headed to the Village, hoping to catch the Saturday afternoon jam session at Small’s Jazz Club, located at 183 West 10th Street.

I got lucky. Despite a near capacity crowd, I found a seat in the front row, inches from the piano player. Over the next 20 minutes, I saw two piano players, two drummers, two guitarists, and a bass player bringing the day’s 2.5 hour jam session to a close.

Today, as I headed to the Museum of Modern Art for the Ed Ruscha retrospective, including the Chocolate Room, I once again got caught in a soaking downpour. It took me about an hour to traverse the 10 blocks to MoMA from where I was staying. I dashed from one building under scaffolding to the next one. At one point, I found myself standing under Carnegie Hall’s protective cover.

After fighting the masses for a couple of hours—MoMA wins the prize for the worst museum experience in the world—I returned to Small’s, this time arriving shortly before the Sunday afternoon jam session. As an aside, the Ruscha retrospective was excellent, spanning and summarizing his decades-long career.

Small’s is located in a basement cellar. There are no frills. Put bluntly, it is a dive, albeit a lovable one. The lone bartender doubled as the wait staff, taking orders, mixing drinks behind the bar, and then returning with drinks in hand.

The designated ‘stage’ is surrounded by a black, unfinished brick wall, with plumbing pipes clearly visible. Several photographs of jazz notables hang on the walls, including one of a young Louis Armstrong taken decades before his 1964 hit, Hello Dolly. Given its prominent position behind the musicians, Armstrong might well be the club’s patron saint.

When all is said and done, the Saturday and Sunday afternoon jam sessions are quite the deal: no cover; no minimum. I ordered my usual, a Diet Coke. I also opted for what turned out to be a bountiful bowl of nuts. Without a cover, you might think that this must have been the most expensive Diet Coke I had ever ordered, but you would be wrong. It was either $3 or $4. The nuts came in at $4 or $5. In short, the bar tab can be viewed as a minor nuisance.

I once again claimed a position in the front row, trading yesterday’s red-plastic chair for a nondescript metal one. From the stage, someone asked if there was a bass player in the house. Nobody volunteered, so the pianist and a couple of other musicians began playing, doing without bottom. As more musicians streamed into the club, a bass player eventually materialized, along with five saxophone players, two trumpeters, a couple of drummers, two guitarists, and three singers. When not playing, the musicians occupied beat-up black utilitarian wood benches just to the side of the bandstand. The bullpen.

Who were these anonymous players? Headed to the club, I took a quick pass through Washington Square Park to see whether there were any street musicians playing. None. As I thought about the answer to my question, I realized that many of these players had probably spent time in the park busking. That’s not a put-down. I have seen many fabulous players in Washington Square Park over the years.

Most of the players looked like they had just rolled out of bed around noon: shorts, wrinkled shirts, jeans, sandals, mussed hair, no makeup. Some may have played in a club the night before; others at weddings; and several may have simply spread out on a couch in a cramped apartment watching Breaking Bad or an old film noir.

I eventually asked one of the singers about the musicians. A resident of London, Eleonora Kouneni told me that some were professionals, while others were amateurs or students. I asked whether the same cadre of players shows up every weekend. Because she had only sung at Small’s once before, Kouneni couldn’t provide a definitive answer, but she did observe that none of the musicians present today were present during her prior performance.

I couldn’t figure out the pecking order, or who decided who was up next. Some sort of telepathy was at work. People just leapt in and out, as in Lester Leaps In. Surprisingly, this was not a cutting session, with one saxophonist or drummer trying to outdo another. In fact, at one point, five saxophonists all briefly drifted into the mix, one playing in the dark shadows surrounding the piano, two on the bandstand, and two off to the side. All in quiet unison. Quiet is the operative word: I was sitting about two feet from four of them, so I would have known all too well had the four been blowing hard and loud.

I am not great when it comes to identifying song titles, but I sensed that much of the 2.5 hours was devoted to standards, with plenty of improvisation.

After the set, I headed up to Smoke for an evening performance by George Cables, Gerald Clayton, Donald Harrison, Eddie Henderson, and Lenny White. Clearly those jazz legends are in a league of their own. Their technical proficiency clearly surpasses the proficiency of the musicians I had heard earlier. Moreover, the Smoke sound system and the resulting mix surpassed the system and mix at Small’s. At the end of the day, however, I enjoyed my Small’s experience far more. The musicians were talented, played with heart, and their was a great vibe in the room. The afternoon flew by. But do not get me wrong: the music coming from the bandstand at Smoke was both enjoyable and topnotch. Excluding dinner, my Smoke experience also carried a hefty price tag of well over $100, which did include my companion.

With the foregoing in mind, I can highly recommend a trip to Small’s, or its sister club, Mezzrow, just a block away. Check Small’s website first, but if it is raining or snowing, Saturday and Sunday is a great time to visit. My one objection: I didn’t see a tip jar for the musicians.

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