It can be said that Tuesday night is the one night when there is no real excuse to party. Wednesday is hump day, Thursday is the unofficial beginning of the weekend, Friday through Sunday are obviously prime party days, and Monday is usually so awful (even if merely as a result of Sunday) that one simply must apply the soothing balm of liquor (or some equal medicine) to the wounds of the soul.

Tuesday nights are, however, the home of the greatest party one could possibly imagine: B-3 Organ Night at the Artist’s Quarter, the best jazz club (atmospherically) in the Twin Cities. A measly cover of two dollars gets you in the door for close to four hours of B-3 bliss at the hands of Billy Holloman. There and then, Holloman, the almighty Organmeister himself, presides over a trio which includes himself, saxman-of-all-trades Gary Berg, and the club’s owner and most frequent performer, Kenny Horst, on drums. This trio is often augmented by guest artists of all types from blues/R&B singers to journeyman players who are still learning the ropes (your humble reporter being one of them, briefly) to veteran jazzmen of all ages and persuasions.

The Artist’s Quarter is located in downtown St. Paul on the 7th place mall (towards St. Peter), in the basement of a rather uninspired commercial building. But don’t let its location dissuade you. Once you have descended into the club proper (because to be a real jazz club, aesthetically speaking, it has to be in the basement), you will forget you are in an ugly office building. You will probably even forget that you are in St. Paul.

Surrounded by all-black walls, floor, and ceiling; confronted in all directions with countless pictures and album covers of and by famous and not-so-famous players throughout jazz history; transfixed by the music emanating from the small stage at the far end; you will be in another, better world. If it sounds like I’m in love with the club, it’s because I am.

The music coming from that stage does more than supply atmosphere. Between a beautiful old Hammond organ and its towering Leslie speaker, under the spotlights that reveal luxurious eddies of smoke in the air, Billy Holloman sits at the keyboard, preparing to play. He stabs at a few keys, splashes a few chords, then launches ahead with a fat, infectious groove that soon spreads to the drummer. Gary Berg nods his head in tempo. He knows this one (he knows them all), and he joins Holloman on the melody (“Sister Sadie”).

And then, the solos. All three of these guys are veterans, each adept at crafting perfect solos with formulae tried by time. Gary Berg’s solos are masterpieces of wit and charm, bop-driven and infused with soul (he may not have any teeth, but he does have copious soul): Charlie Parker meets old school rhythm-and-blues meets ‘60’s hard bop.

Billy Holloman, not merely a sartorial master (always styling in iridescent colors or monochromatic outfits topped with baseball caps and a cigar), is a master of the B-3 tradition of Jimmy Smith, Chester Thompson, and Larry Young. His solos are formulaic in the worst and best of ways: both predictable and meta. They are far more then just great solos, they are pictures of how a solo works—of the sublime narrative of individual improvisation. Propelled by bass pedal grooves, the arc of the solos is always the same: something fragmentary (the problem), is expanded, expounded and exploded until tension is released, at the moment when Holloman hits that requisite high note and lets it soar for a chorus or more. He transforms the harmony, revealing the bare and fundamental root of the song.

These solos exhibit the catharsis, the beautiful inevitability (not predictability), of great music—like a Beethoven Symphony as opposed to manufactured top-40 fare. Of course, Holloman is also a master of the old-fashioned “good time,” and his solos, in addition to sparking nearly ridiculous levels of pseudo-philosophy in Jonathan Francis, will never fail to make you laugh, groove harder than hell, and provide listeners the ultimate music high.

If you are fortunate enough, “Big John” Dickerson will be there to sing for you. Another old-timer, he intones all the old, old stories in a throaty bass that seems to know them all too well. “Georgia on My Mind” never sounded so good, especially with the impeccable and subtle backdrop of the organ trio behind it. “Big John” is, like Holloman, all about a good time, and he sings old R&B with humor and fun, dancing Temptations-style dances and smiling (and singing) like a gravely version of Ben E. King or Smoky Robinson.

So if Tuesday night rolls around, and you are realizing that Zizeck just won’t do it for you anymore, grab a buddy with a car or the number 63 bus to downtown St. Paul. From 9 p.m. to 1 a.m., there is no better place to be.