1909 — 1956
The legends and the anecdotes

are only half of it;

Charlie Parker early on,
night-club kitchen, washing plates

just to hear the sound

then saying as saxophonist
‘I wish I could play like

Tatum’s right hand’;

the story too when Heifetz brought
Sergei Rachmaninoff to listen,

the pianist and composer saying,

‘My God, it’s hot in here’;
then Heifetz, with a grin:

‘Only for pianists’.

A big man, almost blind,
Art Tatum sat there on a stool,

addressing the piano,

two hands floating on the keys
(‘hardly touching,’ people said)

and not a trace of histrionics,

just the smile, convivial,
as if he were no more involved

than any other listener,

loving just the repertoire,
the Broadway / Tin Pan Alley stalwarts,

lyrics drifting in the air.

Whether or not the audience
had managed five grades with the nuns

or never hit a note,

the man’s arpeggios 
would always leave them gasping —

not just the speed but all that

detail of articulation,
the heady soar of mathematics

threatening abandonment

but not, at last, the tonic.
Each two bar rest became

a sort of short sonata

hinting at a future
he’d finally abjure.

At times, to offer variation,

there’d be some counterpoint,
left hand glancing at the right,

right hand nodding back.

Behind it all was ‘Harlem Stride’,
Fats Waller, James P. Johnson,

the bar room and the barrelhouse

but that was just an inside joke,
a smile from time to time.

Who can say what technique ‘means’,

apart from all those scales + talent?
Of course, it is a miracle

but what is left to say

when all the options are supplied
in one man’s summary of hands?

Sometimes, they’d have him play with rhythm,

a back-up of guitar and drums,
even add a horn or two

but they could never be the point.

The orchestra was there already,
black and white, all eighty-eight.

‘That man plays way too much piano,’

the mother of a friend declared
and briskly left the room.