Streets of Gold (34 page)

“It’s not the kind of song he’d play,” I said.

“You’re tellin’
me
?” the bartender said. “He don’t
know
it, how could he play it? I don’t recognize half the things he plays, anyway. I think he makes ’em up, whattya think of that?”

“He probably does,” I said, and smiled.

“He sings when he plays,” the bartender said. “Not the words, you unnerstan’ me? He goes like uh-uh-uh under his breath. I think he’s got a screw loose, whattya think of that?”

“He’s humming the chord chart,” I said. “He does that on his records, too.”

“He makes records, this bum?”

“He made a lot of them,” I said. “He’s one of the best jazz pianists in the world.”

“Sure, and he don’t know ‘Deep Inna Hearta Texas,’ ” the bartender said.

“There’s got to be four hundred niggers in this place,” Luke said.

“You better lower your voice, pal,” the bartender advised. “Less you want all four hunnerd of ’em cuttin’ off your balls and hangin’ ’em from the chandelier.”

“There ain’t no chandelier,” Luke said.

“Be a wise guy,” the bartender said. “I tole the boss why did he hire a dinge to come play here? He said it was good for business. Sure. So next week
this
bum goes back to Harlem and
we’re
stuck with a nigger trade. And he can’t even play ‘Deep Inna Hearta Texas.’ Can
you
play ‘Deep Inna Hearta Texas’?” he asked me.

“I’ve never tried it.”

The bartender sang a little of the song, and then said, “
That
one. You know it?”

“I’ve heard the song, but I’ve never played it.”

“You must be as great a piano player as him,” the bartender said.

“How about another double?” Luke asked.

“Fuckin’ piano players today don’t know how to play
nothin’
,” the bartender said, and walked off to pour my uncle’s drink.

“
I
know ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas,’ ” Luke said.

“Whyn’t you go play it for him?” I said.

“Nah,” Luke said.

“Go on, he’d get a kick out of it.”

“Nah, nah, c’mon,” Luke said. “Anyway, here he comes.”

“Who?”

“The guy you came to hear. I
guess
it’s him. He’s sittin’ down at the piano.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s as black as the ace of spades,” Luke whispered.

“Is he fat or skinny or what?”

“Kind of heavy.”

“How old is he?”

“Who can tell with a nigger? Forty? Fifty? He’s got fat fingers, Igg. You sure he’s a good piano player?”

“One of the best, Uncle Luke.”

“Here’s your gin,” the bartender said. “You want to pay me now, or you gonna be drinkin’?”

“I’ll be drinking,” Luke said.

From the moment Biff began playing, his heritage was completely evident. Johnson had taught Waller, and Biff had learned by imitating both, and when Tatum took Waller a giant step further, Biff again revised his style. He played a five-tune set consisting of “Don’t Blame Me,” “Body and Soul,” “Birth of the Blues,” “Sweet Lorraine,” and “Star Eyes.” This last was a hit recorded by Jimmy Dorsey, with Kitty Kallen doing the vocal. It was, and
is
, a perfect illustration of a great tune for a jazz improvisation. The melody is totally dumb, but the chord chart is unpredictable and exciting, with no less than nine key changes in a thirty-two-bar chorus. I still use it as a check-out tune. Whenever I want to know how well someone plays, I’ll say, “Okay, ‘Star Eyes.’ ” If he comes up with some fumbling excuse like “Oh, man, I don’t like that tune so much,” or “Yeah, yeah, like I haven’t played that one in a long time,” I’ve got him pegged immediately. It’s a supreme test tune for a jazz musician, and Biff played it beautifully that night.

He played it beautifully because he played it
exactly
like Tatum. A tribute, a copy, call it what you will, but there it was, those sonorous tenths, those pentatonic runs, the whole harmonic edifice played without Tatum’s speed or dexterity, of course, but letter perfect stylistically. I was sitting not fifty feet from a man who could play piano like Tatum, and I had been breaking my balls
and
my chops for the past seven months trying to learn Tatum by listening to his records.

“Let me have another one of these, huh?” Luke said.

“Hey, Uncle Luke,” I said. “Go easy, huh?”

“Huh? Go easy?”

“On the gin.”

“Oh. Sure, Iggie, don’t worry.”

The music had stopped; I could hear laughter and voices from the bandstand.

“What’s he doing up there?” I asked Luke.

“He’s standing near the piano, talking to a girl.”

“Can you take me up there?”

“Sure, Iggie. What’re you gonna do? Play a little?”

“I just want to meet him. Hurry up.
Please
. Before he leaves.”

“He’s lookin’ down her dress, he ain’t about to leave,” Luke said, and he offered me his elbow, and I took it and got off the bar stool, and followed him across the room, moving through a rolling crest of conversation and then onto a slippery, smooth surface I assumed was the dance floor, and heard just beyond earshot a deep Negro voice muttering something unintelligible, and then caught the tail end of a sentence, “. . . around two in the mornin’, you care to hang aroun’ that long,” and the voice stopped as we approached, and my Uncle Luke said, “Mr. Anderson?”

“Yeah?” Biff said.

“This is my nephew,” Luke said. “He plays piano.”

“Cool,” Biff said.

“He wanted to meet you.”

“How you doin’, man?” Biff said, and he must have extended his hand in greeting because there was a brief expectant silence, and then Luke quickly said, “Shake the man’s hand, Iggie.”

I extended my hand. Biff’s hand was thick and fleshy and sweating. On my right, there was the overpowering, almost nauseating smell of something that was definitely not
Je Reviens
.

“You play piano, huh?” Biff said.

“Yes.”

“How long you been playin’?”

“Twelve years.”

“Yeah? Cool. Hey, Poots, where you
goin’
?” he said, his voice turning away from me. There was no answer. I heard the click of high-heeled shoes in rapid tattoo on the hardwood floor, disappearing into the larger sound of voices and laughter. Somewhere behind me, the jukebox went on again — David Rose’s “Holiday for Strings.”

“Dumb
cunt
,” Biff said, and turned back to me again. “So you been playin’ twelve years,” he said without interest.

“I’ve been trying to learn jazz,” I said.

“Mmm,” he said, his voice turning away. I heard the sound of ice against the sides of a glass. He had picked up a drink from the piano top.

“He’s real good,” Luke said. “He studied classical a long time.”

“Yeah, mmm,” Biff said, and drank and put down the glass again with a small final click.

“Whyn’t you play something for him, Iggie?”

“That’s okay, I’ll take your word for it,” Biff said. “Nice meetin’ you both, enjoy yourselves, huh?”

“Hey,
wait
a minute!” Luke said.

“There’s somethin’ I got to see about,” Biff said. “You’ll excuse me, huh?”

“The kid came all the way here to listen to you,” Luke said, his voice rising. “I went all the way uptown to get him, and then we had to come all the way down here again.”

“So what?” Biff said.

“
That’s
what!” Luke said. His voice was louder now. He’s been talkin’ about nothin’ but you ever since he found out you were gonna be playing in this dump.”

“Yeah?” Biff said. “That right?”

“Yeah!”
Luke said, his voice strident and belligerent now. It was the gin talking, I realized. I had never heard my uncle raise his voice except while playing poker, and nobody was playing poker right that minute. Or maybe they were. “So let him play piano for you,” Luke said. “It won’t kill you.”

“You think I got nothin’ better to do than...?

“What the hell
else
you got to do?” Luke asked.

“That’s okay, Uncle Luke,” I said.

“No, it
ain’t
okay. Why the hell can’t he listen to you?”

“I just wanted to meet him, that’s all,” I said. “Come on.”

“Just a minute, you,” Biff said,

“Me?”

“You’re the piano player, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s who. What can you play?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“Tatum’s ‘Moonglow’ and ‘St. Louis Blues,’ and...”

“That’s plenty. Just them two, okay? If you’re lousy, you get one chorus and out. Now if your uncle here don’t mind, I’m goin’ to the
pissoir
over there while you start playin’, because I got to take a leak, if that’s all right with your uncle here. I can listen fine from in there, and soon’s I’m finished I’ll come right back. If that’s all right with your uncle here.”

“That’s fine,” Luke said.

“Show him the piano,” Biff said. “I’ll cut off the juke on my way.” He climbed down from the bandstand and walked ponderously past me toward the men’s room.

“Black bastard,” Luke muttered under his breath, and then said, “Give me your hand, Iggie,” and led me up the steps and to the piano.

I played. I wish I could report that all conversation stopped dead the moment I began, that Biff came running out of the men’s room hastily buttoning his fly and peeing all over himself in excitement, that a scout for a record company rushed over and slapped a contract on the piano top. No such thing. I played the two Tatum solos exactly as I’d lifted them from his record, and then I stopped, and conversation was still going on, laughter still shrilled into the smoky room, the bartender’s voice said, “Scotch and soda, comin’ up,” and I put my hands back in my lap.

“Yeah, okay,” Biff said. I had not realized he was standing beside the piano, and I did not know how long he’d been there. I waited for him to say more. The silence lengthened.

“Some of the runs were off, I know,” I said.

“Yeah, those runs are killers,” Biff said.

“They’re hard to pick up off the records,” I said.

“That where you got this stuff? From Art’s records?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not a bad way. What else do you know?”

“A lot of Wilson, and some Waller and Hines...”

“Waller, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Takin’ it off note by note from the records, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm,” Biff said. “Well, that’s okay. What’ve you got down of Fats?”

“ ‘Thief in the Night’ and ‘If This Isn’t Love’ and...”

“Oh, yeah, the sides he cut with Honey Bear and Autrey, ain’t they?”

“I don’t know who’s on them.”

“That’s all shit, anyway,” Biff said. “That stuff he done with ‘Fats Waller and his Rhythm.’ ‘Cept for maybe ‘Dinah’ and ‘Blue Because of You.’ ”

“I can play those, too.”

“Can you do any of his early stuff?”

“Like what?”

“Like the stuff he cut in the twenties. ‘Sweet Savannah Sue’ and... I don’t know, man... ‘Love Me or Leave Me.’ That stuff.”

“No, I don’t know those.”

“Yeah, well,” Biff said. “Well, that wasn’t half bad, what you played. You dig Tatum, huh?”

“Yes. That’s how I want to play.”

“Like Tatum, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you doin’ fine,” Biff said. “Jus’ keep on goin’ the way you are. Fine,” he said. “Fine.”

“I need help,” I said.

“Yeah, man, don’t we all?” Biff said, and chuckled.

“A lot of Tatum’s chords are hard to take off the records.”

“Jus’ break ’em up, that’s all. Play ’em note by note. That’s what I used to do when I was comin’ along.”

“I’ve tried that. I still can’t get them all.”

“Well, kid, what can I tell you? You wanna play Tatum piano, then you gotta listen to him and do what he does, that’s all. Why’n’t you run on down to the Street; I think he’s play in’ in one of the clubs down there right now. With Slam, I think.”

“What street?” I said.

“
What
street?
The
Street.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, kid, what can I tell you?” Biff said, and sighed. “While you’re down there, you might listen to what Diz is doin’. Dizzy Gillespie. Him an’ Bird are shakin’ things up, man, you might want to change your mind. Hey, now, looka here,” he said.

“Hello, mothah-fugger,” someone said cheerfully.

“Get up there an’ start blowin’,” someone else said. “We heah to help you.”

“Don’t need no help, man,” Biff said, and chuckled.

“Whutchoo doin’ in this toilet, anyhow?” the first man said. “
Dis
graceful!”

Biff chuckled again, and then said, “Kid, these’re two of the worl’s
worse
jazz musicians...”

“
Sheeee
-it,” one of them said, and laughed.

“Been thrown off ever’ band in the country ’cause they shoot dope an’ fuck chickens.”

All three of them laughed. One of them said, “We brung Dickie with us, he gettin’ his drums from the car.”

“The shades is he’s blind,” Biff said, and I realized one of the other men must have been staring at me. “Plays piano.”

“Hope he’s better’n you,” one of them said, and all of them laughed again.

“What’s your name, man?” Biff said. “I forget.”

“Iggie.”

“This’s Sam an’ Jerry. You sit in with ’em, Iggie, while I go dazzle that chick. I’m afraid she goan git away.”

“Hey, come down, man,” one of them said. “We here in this shithole to blow with
you
, not some fuckin’ F-sharp piano player.”

“I’m not an F-sharp piano player,” I said.

“Hey, man, gimme a hand with this,” somebody said. I figured that was Dickie, who’d been getting his drums from the car. “Come on, Jerr, move yo’ black ass.”