Tucked into a quiet corner of Upper Manhattan is one of Harlem’s last informal jazz parlors. It’s a setting you might not expect: a small living room decked with family photographs, magazine clippings of the parlor’s performers, and 30 folding chairs facing a row of musicians. This is the living room of Marjorie Eliot, who has been hosting live jazz for audiences as large as 50 people every Sunday for the past 30 years. At 87, Eliot is slight, her frame often obscured beneath the loose, vibrant maxi dresses she wears. Her hands, though, are lean and nimble, and still appear strong from decades spent at the piano.

Setting: Bushwick’s Sultan Room—a small, low-lit venue. The air in the room trembles and the hum of a heavy bassline crackles with static, evoking some sort of sci-fi landing. The crowd, which had just been milling in restlessness nearing the end of a three-hour show, goes quiet and still. All eyes are on the woman kneeling on stage. Her dark hair is down, streaking her face. Her outfit is all black: a corset, tattered tights, fake blood smeared on her face and chest. A voice like a distorted angel choir shatters through the bass, and a tingly sensation crawls up my spine. A smile cracks my face.

Over the course of this academic year, Columbia has experienced many changes in the face of uncertainty, from the overruling of race-based affirmative action to student protests over the ongoing war in Gaza. As The Eye steps away from themed issues, we hope to expand our scope and cover more of the issues impacting Columbia and the surrounding community.

It’s a late-night snack run in the throes of midterm season. Your eyes are bleary as you shuffle down the street, hunching your back against the cold while your stomach begs for the attention you’ve devoted to your brain all night. The sweet aroma of chana masala meanders its way to your nose and, as if by fate, you stumble into Roti Roll—a local takeout staple. As you stand waiting for your bundle of chicken malai, you notice music coming through a little cut-out window into the business next door. Is that … Beyoncé? “You put my love on top! Top, top, top …” You poke your head in through the shared doorway—rainbow flags drape the stage where a drag queen is serenading a diverse crowd with the chorus of Beyoncé’s classic hit.