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The Seated Duck |
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To be a solo
pianist
It
helps to be
a Schmuck,
For no
sagacious fellow wants
To be a sitting
duck
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A seated duck would be perhaps
A better turn of phrase,
For
someone in the spotlight
Under everybody’s gaze
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And that includes the
barman
And the
waiters, who agree,
Your hours are far too short (they think
You’re paid some splendid fee)
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Tonight the gig’s in Kensington,
The piano’s painted white;
You know that’s camouflage – It means
The damned thing’s got the blight
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You stroke the
keys: two notes are dead
And
both the pedals squeak,
The
treble is way out of tune,
The action’s up
the creek
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But now
it’s time to set about
That
keyboard’s broken grin,
Which
compliments your phoney smile,
Already wearing
thin
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You sit – and
from this moment on
You’re
everybody’s butt;
The
bores, the drunks, the know-alls,
And of course, the local nut!
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You kick off
with some ballads, bossas,
Evergreens and
blues;
Forget your
soul – you’re only here
To help them
sell the booze
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You
amble through some standards:
Soon,
and Have You Met Miss Jones?
A
punter lurches up and
asks
For
‘Something by the Stones’
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You roll the blues, play Lover Man
And Here’s That Rainy Day;
‘The Beatles’ someone
bellows –
So you trot out Yesterday
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You’ve memorised a thousand songs?
Ye gods –
that’s not enough!
You don’t know Kylie’s
latest hit?
You must be pretty
duff! |
Requests come
up for 'Small Hotel'
For 'Stardust'
and 'Blue Moon',
But when you
improvise, they say:
‘He
doesn’t know the tune!’ |
You’re bugged by boogie woogie buffs
And singers who can’t sing,
And ragtime freaks who somehow always
Ask you for 'The
Sting' |
(But really all you need to know
Are 'Misty' and 'Take Five',
'As Time Goes By' and 'Summertime'
In order
to survive) |
Some nights
the punters love you
And your playing seems inspired;
They hang on to your every
note –
It’s nice to be
admired |
On other
nights
you’d swear you’ve got
Two fingers and
eight thumbs;
It’s
times like this you'll wish you had
Support from
bass and drums |
A fan comes up
and bends your ear
H e’s i n t o ‘S e l f- E x p r e s s i o n';
You sigh, and mumble platitudes
With well-rehearsed discretion |
‘Is jazz
a craft or art?’ he asks,
‘A thing
of Brain or Heart?’
He means well
– tell him 'jazz is craft,
But getting
work’s an art!' |