To be a solo
pianist
A seated duck would be perhaps
And that includes the
barman
It
helps to be
a Schmuck,
A better turn of phrase,
And the
waiters, who agree,
For no
sagacious fellow wants For
someone in the spotlight Your hours are far too short (they think
To be a sitting
duck.
Under everybody’s gaze.
You’re paid some splendid fee).
Tonight the gig’s in Kensington,
You stroke the
keys: two notes are dead But now
it’s time to set about
The piano’s painted white;
And
both the pedals squeak,
That
keyboard’s broken grin,
You know that’s camouflage – It means
The
treble is way out of tune,
Which
compliments your phoney smile,
The damned thing’s got the blight.
The action’s up
the creek.
Already wearing
thin.
You sit – and
from this moment on You kick off
with some ballads, bossas,
You’re
everybody’s butt;
Evergreens and
blues;
The
bores, the drunks, the know-alls, Forget your
soul – you’re only here
And of course, the local nut!
To help them
sell the booze.
You
amble through some standards:
You roll the blues, play Lover Man You’ve memorised a thousand songs?
Soon,
and Have You Met Miss Jones?
And Here’s That Rainy Day;
Ye gods –
that’s not enough!
A
punter lurches up and
asks
‘The Beatles’ someone
bellows – You don’t know Kylie’s
latest hit?
For
‘Something by the Stones’.
So you trot out Yesterday.
You must be pretty
duff!
Requests come
up for Small Hotel
You’re bugged by boogie woogie buffs
For Stardust
and Blue Moon,
And singers who can’t sing,
But when you
improvise, they say:
And ragtime freaks who somehow always
‘He
doesn’t know the tune!’
Ask you for The
Sting.
(But really all you need to know
Some nights
the punters love you On other
nights
you’d swear you’ve got
Are Misty and Take Five,
And your playing seems inspired; Two fingers and
eight thumbs;
As Time Goes By and Summertime
They hang on to your every
note –
It’s
times like this you’ll wish you had
In order
to survive.)
It’s nice to be
admired
Support from
bass and drums
A fan comes up
and bends your ear
‘Is jazz
a craft or art?’ he asks,
H e’s i n t o ‘S e l f- E x p r e s s i o n'; ‘A thing
of Brain or Heart?’
You sigh, and mumble platitudes
He means well
– tell him jazz is craft,
With well-rehearsed discretion.
But getting
work’s an art!
Last night you were in Newcastle,
Next week you’re off to
Rome.
So why not quit, and take a job
While
bills and small buff envelopes From nine to five instead?
Accumulate at home.
- Or does that sound a bit too much
Like working for your bread?
------------------------------------------------
Paul Francis Willmott
from Southampton, sent me this and wrote... "It would be nice to have my name on your
site,
but please don't suggest that I actually wrote the poem; I was
handed it by a drummer I know, and neither of us
have any idea who it was written
by...
(Such modest people I know...!)