Come Fly With Me

From the Marble Arch to the Gateway of India

Awaking with blurry eyes it took me a few minutes to recall where I was. The bus journey had lasted for 16 hours and the cramp had turned to numbness, allowing me to drift off as we drove through Gujarat into the state of Maharashtra. After the relative peacefulness of the nocturnal motorway, the heaving mass of bodies that surrounded our bus signalled our arrival in Mumbai, home to over 20 million people. My travel partner Jamie looked just as unprepared as I did, and with our big backpacks and stunned expressions we were left at the mercy of the taxi drivers who shamelessly bumped the price of our onward journey.

Relentless activity and unfamiliar routine unfolded everywhere we looked; the multistorey shacks that lined the roadside were swept by women in saris, professional beggars performed their well-rehearsed sympathy routines for tourists, coconut vendors steered their overflowing carts to dodge the traffic, and children in school uniforms bumped shoulders with trendy teenagers in jeans and branded T shirts. We were here, in the most fascinating city I had ever seen: diverse yet distinct, hostile yet alluring.

Driving through the wide streets, we passed towering and majestic colonial buildings, huge Bollywood posters, and bustling markets where Pashmina shawls and incense were sold alongside sugarcane juice and chapatti. Entering Colaba, the tourist beat, we saw for the first time the Gateway of India monument and Taj Palace hotel, looking out onto the Arabian Sea.

After hundreds of hours playing the piano in Marble Arch, entertaining rich businessmen from all over the world - many of whom were Indian - I was now halfway across the world, standing by an equally regal arch and an even wealthier hotel. It would have taken me three weeks to earn enough to spend one night in this legendary building - made notorious by the terrorist attacks in 2008 - so we settled for a grotty hostel with unfriendly staff who huffed and puffed at even the smallest requests. Other guests, squeezing past us in the corridor, looked at us as if to say "I know..."

Still, we were determined to glimpse the Taj, and to bask in its air-conditioned interior for the length of at least one drink. Leaving our cramped room with its dilapidating walls and floor space that only catered for one at a time, we strolled along the waterfront to the sound of  waves lapping against the moored boats, while Hindi love songs blared out of radios.

Passing through the tight security, we left the compelling reality of Mumbai behind and entered into another world, where immaculately dressed staff addressed us as "sir" despite our disheveled hair and flip-flops. Passing a grand staircase where a statue of the hotel's founder surveyed his kingdom, we entered the foyer. It was here that the circle completed itself: sitting in the corner was an elderly Indian man in a suit, running his fingers up and down the keys of a dark wooden grand piano with a mixture of professionally hidden boredom and quiet enjoyment that I knew only too well. Now that I was here, in the city that used to be called Bombay, my memory was cast back to the first song I performed as a hotel pianist. The lyrics were fitting to the point of cliche:


Come fly with me, let's fly let's fly away
If you could use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come fly with me, let's fly let's fly away



Ed Lea - Come Fly With Me


Whether or not the Kingfisher lagers we had ordered could be described as exotic, it was a strange and wonderful thing to be here, watching somebody do exactly what I had done to raise money for this trip. The atmosphere was slightly stiff, and put Jamie into a state of awkwardness I had never witnessed first hand. Nonetheless, I approached the pianist - intrigued to meet him, but also well aware that ignoring him after months of blogging about being on the receiving end of this indifference would be make me something of a hypocrite.

When I introduced myself and told him about our professional connections he smiled warmly, and we compared music tastes, attitudes to the job and treatment by clientele. At his insistence that I request a song, I told him of my love for the Beatles, leading him to launch into Norwegian Wood. Deliberate or not, this choice was poetic, being the first of the Beatles' songs that made use of the sitar - an innovation that led to more and more Indian influence. Knowing that he had an attentive listener, more and more feeling was put into the playing as he entered a trance-like state, gliding up and down the keys with the expertise of a professional. Growing more excited, he showed me some of his compositions - spiritual, jazzy music which showed the influence of his days as a church pianist in Mumbai. Despite our age gap of about 40 years, betrayed by his wispy white hair, I saw that we had a lot in common as we flicked through his endless sheets of music; I played many of those songs regularly.

As I got up to leave, I shook his hand warmly and offered him a few rupees as a tip, which resulted in a small arm wrestle as he refused with all his might.

"You need it for your holiday!" he cried.

Having lost the battle, I made my way through the grand foyer, flip-flops echoing as I walked. Turning back, I saw that a slightly bonkers-looking Indian man with a huge belly and flamboyant Hawaiian shirt had approached the piano and begun to sing I've Got You Under My Skin at an uncomfortably loud volume. He was accompanied by his wife, who paraded a matching shirt, colourful glasses and an equally simple smile as she bobbed her head.

The pianist caught my eye and we shared a knowing smile; the scene was all too familiar. While the city that lay beyond the hotel walls greeted me with something new at every turn, it was strangely comforting to see that half way across the world - in here at least  - things weren't so different to home.

"Smoke Gets In Your Eyes"

...when the flame dies

A hot day; cycling through London the parks are heaving with sunbathers and the pub gardens are packed. The ever-more confusing streets with new dead ends here and Olympic lanes there send me on a number of detours as I make my way to work, and I arrive at the hotel with minutes to spare. The bar staff stand open-mouthed as I sneak past them in T-shirt and shorts, with helmet-dishevelled hair and a red face. Minutes later, at 7pm on the dot, I emerge from the bathroom in a suit, sit at the piano and play  something slow while I recover from the journey.

Glancing up I see the grumpiest of the managers, who is doing a throat-slitting action and shaking his head. He approaches me and chastises me for the creases in my shirt sleeve, apparently oblivious to the fact that he is putting me off and making me stop singing mid-verse - surely more of a hindrance to my overall presentation? Gesturing over to the far corner he tells me that the management for the global hotel chain are in, and that my presentation is not up to scratch. I apologise, and try to pick up from where I was rudely interrupted. I heard it through what now? Oh yes, the grapevine. 

As I begin to build up a habitual resentment of the 'system', my phone rings. It is my agent, who never calls. Something must be up. On my break I see a message on my phone:

Dear all, we are sorry to say that the hotel bar is closing for refurb, and will re-open without a piano. Sad news after 20 years. We will try and find you work in other venues but for now all shifts after this week are cancelled. Apologies for the short notice.

This news makes tonight my last shift. Suddenly, the resentment that has become almost default disappears, and a feeling of nostalgia builds. I go over to the bar staff, who have recently been informed themselves. We all realise at that moment that a miniature era has come to an end. Amid the quiet resentment of the clientele, I had made good friends the other side of the bar. The smiling Canadian girl, who managed to keep me motivated by mouthing the words to songs and giving a subtle but appreciated thumbs up after my efforts went unnoticed by the clientele; the Australian barman who greeted me on my arrival, a year ago, and told me tales of his adventures around the world whenever he managed to get enough holiday... This is our last shift together, and the feeling of finality dawns fast.


Suddenly, I feel an urge to make the most of playing here. Rather than counting down the hours and resenting the daily grind, I begin to appreciate what I'm doing at that moment - I think the technical world is "mindfulness". My playing carries far more meaning than usual, and provides what is, to me, a quietly emotive soundtrack to the sight of bar staff at work - new friends who I will scarcely see once the piano disappears. As I start to live through nostalgia, I realise how much I have grown accustomed to the people, the place and my role here. 

Lost in my playing as I reflect on all this, I am brought back to reality by a man standing by the piano, who asks me if I know Piano Man by Billy Joel. I haven't played this one for many months, but as I glance over the lyrics sheet to jog my memory, I realise how apt the words are for my situation. I sing it with feeling, smiling at the bar staff as I sing the words that could have been written about our situation:


Now John at the bar is a friend of mine 
He gets me my drinks for free 
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke 
But there's someplace that he'd rather be 
He says Bill, I believe this is killing me 
As the smile ran away from his face 
Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star 
If I could get out of this place 


The waitress is practicing politics 
As the businessmen slowly get stoned 

Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness 

But it's better than drinking alone.

Sing us a song you're the piano man,
Sing us a song tonight
We're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feeling alright.

At midnight, my shift ends, and my time at the hotel comes to a close. But there is a good crowd in tonight and as people continue to ask for their favourite songs, I feel no desire to pack up and leave.
I keep taking requests until 1am, and finish with the Jerome Kern song which sums up nostalgia in a metaphor that hasn't been topped in the 80 years since it was written:


When a lovely flame dies
Smoke gets in your eyes


And with those words, I pack up and leave the bar for the last time.

"I Get A Kick Out Of You"

The men in the mirror

Back at the hotel after a deprived night's sleep and a long day working at the office, my eyes are drooping. The first hour behind the piano is a little disastrous - I feel as though my hands are being weighed down, and I can hardly hit the notes I'm trying to sing. Glancing at the mirror behind the piano I see my eyes are sinking. Taking an early break I sneak behind the bar and make myself a latte, going slightly overboard with the amount of coffee - it's free and I need an energy boost.

Taking it back over to the piano and sipping it between songs, I can feel myself waking up. This seems to be reflected in my playing, as many heads have turned and the attention seems to be on me. People clap and smile at each other before turning back to me. Nods of approval bring my morale back. Making the most of an enthusiastic audience, I play a song I have always loved playing. 

Ed Lea - Man in the Mirror

As I approach the end of a tricky solo a cheer erupts and people clap and smile at each other. I'm flattered, and count my lucky stars to have such an appreciative crowd in tonight.

The group nearest me sound Italian, and this is confirmed by an ecstatic cry of "Molto bono!" and hand gestures to match. 

As I get up from the piano stool to take my next break, I realise why so many people were facing in my direction, and why my solo had warranted such applause: the mirror behind the piano has doubled up as a TV showing Euro 2012, and the man in the "mirror" was Balotelli securing Italy's lead against Ireland.

I smile to myself, mildly embarrassed to have been spurred on by applause that was directed over my head. 

"One For My Baby"

Dancing infants and dribbling babies

Today I have been relocated, moving beyond the walls of the hotel. Walls which have, over the months, been by turn cosy and claustrophobic. Now I find myself walking along the sunlit banks of the River Thames during one of London's rare bursts of true summer. Emerging from the cobbled paths behind Tower Bridge, I take in the scent of the river and the sound of water gently splashing around the moored boats. The sun reflects off the water, and all along the embankment people sit out, sipping drinks and smiling. There isn't an escort in sight, and almost everyone sits in willing, unpaid company.

I make my way into the restaurant, flattered but also slightly amused by the grand sign which reads "LIVE PIANIST: 2pm - 5pm". I move amongst the tables sprawled out over the terrace and approach the grand piano which lies by the door. It's keys are moving on their own accord, as if being played by a ghost: a classic trick, which always wows people more than the sight of somebody actually playing it. I almost feel guilty turning off the secret CD button and beginning to play the piano myself, in such a conventional way.

I begin with some upbeat and mood-appropriate numbers like Here Comes The Sun and Feelin' Alright. But after a while, I give my fingers a rest and play an old "saloon song" made famous by Frank Sinatra. The song is called "One For My Baby (And One More For The Road)" and in it a man sings about the end of his love affair to a barman, long after the place has emptied out:

We're drinking my friend, to the end

Of a brief episode

So make it one for my baby

And one more for the road

Unlike the hotel, which closes its doors in the face of young children - God forbid them enter the world of whiskey and escorts - this restaurant is bustling with people who are still learning to walk. As I sing "make it one for my baby", the words take on a whole new meaning as I find myself swarmed with parents desperate to try anything which might entertain - and, more importantly, distract - their restless babies.

I change the song to make it a little more appropriate... flicking through the imaginary songbook in my head until I find Louis Prima's great Jungle Book numbers. The woman currently leaning on the piano dangles her baby boy over the side of the piano to stare at the strings, hammers rushing up and down as I try to put on a show for this curious young mind. The mother seems to enjoy it, but her son looks at me with a tired and slobbery expression only a baby can pull off, and dribbles slightly as his mother encourages more of a reaction. Trying not to take offence at this reaction, I smile back and bring the song to a close, moving on to the theme fromAristocrats, hoping that this will bring about a better rerponse.

But the dribbling baby has moved aside, sparing my piano keys of his slobber, and a child of about 5 shyly approaches, hand in hand with her slightly menacing and fierce-looking mother.

Look, Sarah. Isn't that good. See?? You need to practice hard.

She goes on to ask me all about my musical background and how often I practice. She seems slightly disappointed at my brief story of having given up the piano aged 12 due to dull, formulaic lessons and exams, only returning to the instrument at a later stage when it appealed to me. No doubt she wanted me to set a more conventional example to her daughter, who is apparently made to practice 2 hours each day.

It is a strange thing, to be a reluctant role model in this environment. Middle-class parents are inspired by the sight of a young man earning his living by playing the piano, and use it as an incentive to push their children to practice more and more. However, I feel a responsibility to counteract this, believing that the important thing is to learn to enjoy music, not simply to learn your scales while a cane-wielding old woman with glasses on her nose breathes down your neck. The thought of my piano teacher, urging me to balance an imaginary coin on my hand for half an hour while we ploughed through simplified versions of classical music, still makes me shudder.

Three more children approach the piano, taking my rendition of You Got A Friend In Me as a cue to dance like nobody is watching. I grin at them and up the tempo to encourage some more eccentric moves. The song itself is loaded with memories from my own childhood, as is the case with anybody my age who saw Toy Story. One of the girls comes up to me and stretches her hand up to the piano keys, looking up at me with an expression which begs me to let her join in. Not one to crush the dreams of a young girl to whom this gig appears much more glamorous than it really is, I shuffle aside and invite her to share the stool, showing her the simple bass notes of the song and asking her to "help me out". She does a pretty good job, but looking over I see that the dancing has stopped, and a short queue has formed...

And so I spend the next half hour inviting people to help out with the songs. Through the open door people look in and go "awh", and some even join the queue. Helping each child up onto the piano stool, I feel a world away from the hotel, where no oil tycoon, politician or chief exec has ever grabbed my hand, jumped up onto the stool and asked me with longing eyes if they can join in.

"Diamonds On The Soles Of Their Shoes"

Wealth and networks


The busy high streets of London heave with commuters making their way home at the end of the working day. Amid them, I move against the current, approaching the hotel for the beginning of my evening's shift. The rush of people reminds me of Ray Davies' description of London in Waterloo Sunset:


Millions of people, swarming like flies round
Waterloo underground
People so busy, make me feel dizzy
Taxi lights shine so bright


As I turn off onto the road where the hotel's haven of luxury lies, a woman appears from the masses, arms outstretched. She holds out her hands in a plea for one of the faces in the merciless crowd to stop and help her. One of a number of beggars along this road, her clothes are ragged and she clearly hasn't eaten for days. This symbol of the abandoned and helpless undercurrent of London life contrasts to the hotel where I am to spend the rest of the evening in a way that is almost unbearable. With the beggar's tormented eyes fresh in my mind, the indulgent and high-flying lifestyle of the hotel would ring truer than ever this evening.

Greeted by flash Bentleys parked outside the hotel entrance, manned by old-fashioned looking men in top hats and tails, I walk through the swivel doors into the spacious lobby. Night after night, I become more and more used to the environment, but it always feels alien to me. I enter the dark bar where the piano awaits and as I pass through the room I hear snippets of conversation which never cease to amaze me. One of our regulars - a formidable businessman with enough money to put him up here almost every night, complete with never-ending whiskey orders and a daily escort - is sitting at the bar. As I walk past, another man walks up and introduces himself to the tycoon:

'It's an honour to meet you sir. I've heard of you for some time!'


The tycoon hardly responds. 'Uh-huh. With all due respect I've never heard of you.'


'No. Quite. *ahem* Quite...'


It seems that the conversation has ended there. Social hierarchies are in place, and everybody knows where they stand. Embarrassed, the apparently less well-known man slumps away. Both of them are in the company of an escort, and the sorry truth of the matter is that the women are ranked as ruthlessly as the men parading them; the more successful man puts his arm around the more attractive girl, every penny he has spent shown for in her figure, her outfit, and the professional smoothness with which she upholds the conversation. Before I took up this job, I would hardly have believed a world like this existed, where money buys you everything, and everything is ranked.

However, just as I have in the past (accidentally) assured the escorts that money 'can't buy me love', anybody can see that money does not buy hapiness. Once a wealthy man's collegues, friends or escorts have left the building, leaving him alone, he continue to order drinks until long after my shift has ended. Having sneaked a peak at the drinks prices, I can vouch that the most expensive shot of Cognac is approaching four figures.

This world is so removed from my own that it doesn't seem real. But when four people about my age appear in the doorway, ordering drinks to prepare them for a night out, it all feels quite familiar. Yet the behaviour, the money spent and the appearence crosses a line that I hope will always be a long way off for me.

The two boys have shiny, gelled back hair, carefully groomed so as to curve round in a semi-curtain. Going for the Leo De Caprio-as-Romeo look, but failing as much as the girls they are with fail to live up to Claire Danes's Juliet. Wearing nothing but what seem like glorified bras, the girls sit with their bare and slightly bulging backs to the piano, cackling at the apparently hysterical one-liners pulled out by their boys. One of them turns to me:

Hey mate, I'm a great singer!! Do Wonderwall or something I'll sing along.

I break into my own version of the Oasis classic, but soon regret it. He wails painfully along with the melody, sharply out of tune and louder than is socially acceptable. And within a few moments, the other three have joined in. All heads are turned. A few sympathetic glances are cast in my direction. But the show must go on. I jazz some parts up so as to throw them off course. But they soldier one, kicking mud in the face of Noel Gallagher's songwriting efforts.

Pre-drinking has, in my life, always been about saving money. A few cans at somebody's house to save buying too much at an expensive venue. So these people amazed me, ordering several drinks each before heading out, and paying off a bill which stretched three figures.

As they get up to leave, they don't acknowledge me but walk straight out. This is common, where attention is diverted to me as a way of showing off, but when it comes to the crucial moment where guests decide whether to acknowledge me for being their performing monkey, not a word is said and eye contact is resolutely avoided. One of the boys appears to suffer from small-man syndrome, strutting with an arrogance that does not compensate for the fact he barely reaches the girls' shoulders. As he leaves, he stops in front of the mirror on the wall behind me, looking straight through me as he tries five or six poses which would not look out of place in a Topman advert. I fail to hide a chuckle as I watch him squint his eyes, attempt a smouldering look, and strut out behind the girls.

A welcome relief from the snobbery and indulgence is provided when I get chatting to a friendly and apparently 'normal' couple on my break. As a general rule, people who are at the hotel for a special occasion are spared my usual cynicism and judgement. True to my theory, this couple are celebrating an anniversary and have come to the hotel for a taste of something different; the hotel holds a novelty value for them that has worn off for the regulars. They put in various requests and clap enthusiastically when I perform them, singing along to one another and nodding in appreciation, particularly at the Foo Fighters' Everlong, which he claims to have learnt on the guitar by way of wooing her, a comment that illicits her raised eyebrows and a smile. Joking with this friendly couple reminds me just how removed I am from the absurdly wealthy people I usually perform for.

Among the songs I perform is the Beatles ballad In My Life. Having been told they are getting married soon, and that this will be their first dance, I perform it with more feeling than ever. Receptive listeners can transform my performance beyond recognition, and remind me why I do what I do.

If they are reading this, I wish them the best on their wedding day.

Meanwhile, the regulars spend away in a joyless fashion, dressed in luxurious furs and swanky suits. On the parallell street, the beggars continue to wait on spare change. And in this room there is enough spare change to fill a thousand hats.

"Can't Buy Me Love"

The Booming Escort Business

They say a man's toilet is his throne, and at the hotel this expression holds a special relevance. Arriving in a fluster a few minutes before my shift begins, I take a trip to the bathroom, somewhere I see as an indicator of the hotel's luxuriousness. White cotton towels bearing the hotel's signature, neatly rolled up and stacked in pyramids, sit alongside marble basins, lined with expensive hand lotions and soaps. Grand mahogany mirrors hang on the walls, interspersed with lifeless black and white photographs of waterfalls and brooks, carefully chosen to suit the ambience of this luxurious restroom. (Curiously, a pair of armchairs sit by the hand-dryers, but I am yet to see anybody relocate here for the evening.) I check my tie in the mirror next to a man whose small stature is more than made up for by his excess weight. He has been rearranging his hair since I arrived. Between us lies a small stack of business cards, one of which he has picked up. They belong to the escorts, one whom is about to make another lucrative friend.

The business cards in the bathroom would soon be removed by management, but they had clearly raked in a lot of custom so far; tonight, the escort business was booming, and I could see at a glance that the majority of couples in the room had exchanged a great deal of money. I begin to play, and a few heads turn before returning to their conversations. Some of the escorts, sitting in complete silence with their wealthy partners who use them more as an ego-boosting image than as sociable company, watch for a little longer. After all, they have nothing better to do, as their dates for the evening stare into the space behind them.

After a while, two figures appear at the doorway, shadows lined by the bright light of the corridor. I recognise the shorter figure as the man from the bathroom. Like a perfectly rounded dough ball, he stands there with his arm around the waist of a tall, slender blonde lady, who seems to nearly double his height. As he walks through the room to the far corner of the bar, every head turns to see the woman he is with; her beauty a source of fascination equalled only by the evident wealth of the man paying her. Nothing else warrants such an unlikely couple.  As they walk past the piano and I see her from close up, I too am slightly stunned, and for a moment I forget the words of the song. Fortunately, nobody had been listening, and the little stumble goes unnoticed.

I take a break, and whisper with the bar staff to learn a little more about this gloriously mismatched couple. The lady is, of course, the top end of the escort price range, and would be costing him a small fortune. But I learn that the man in question is among the most wealthy of the hotel's guests, rumoured to have once tipped a pianist here with a one thousand pound cheque. My ears prick up, and I return to the piano, armed with a new incentive to play my best.

Later that evening I look up to see an attractive girl with olive skin and long dark hair, strutting across the bar towards the piano, holding a glass of white wine in her hand. Reaching my stool she whispers in my ear, telling me that I am 'very good', elongating the latter word in a slight whine - an internation I hear a lot in this environment. But I am flattered - not at her routine compliment but at the seemingly interested attention from a girl close to my own age, an unusual phenomenon in this bar. We talk for a few minutes, giving me a chance to practice the essential art of playing something convincing while holding a conversation; unfortunately, both suffer a significant drop in standards as I try to multitask. Yet it seems that the girl is easily impressed, and asks if I would like a drink. Intrigued, I oblige and tell her I'll join her on my next break.

She lingers, leaning on the piano and sipping her wine as I sing my next song:

L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary,

E is even more that anyone that you adore...

It happened to be the next song on my list, but her smile suggests I have impressed with this 'carefully chosen' song, with its apparently intentional message. She winks and spins on her heel, walking back to the bar, swaying in a self-conciously provocative fashion like Jobim's girl from Ipanema. It all feels a bit unreal, and I wonder what will come of this. My initial suspicion of her, being a customer at this hotel, is supressed for a minute, and I start to daydream, attaching wonderful and imagined attributes to this girl I hardly know. But after a few moments I look back up and see her, standing in the far corner of the bar. Suddenly it dawns on me. I recognise the crowd she is with, and the men who are lingering around her, and I realise I may have just initiated the most expensive date of my life. 

Meanwhile, the fat man and his escort sit side by side on the sofa next to the piano. Over the curve of her tactically and precarious propped up breast, I see him bending over the table, munching on a chicken wing. She sits back and stares straight ahead, expressionless. I can fathom little from the look on her face. It is not boredom, not sadness, but something else, something rehearsed and deliberate that betrays nothing to the man paying her so well.

I continue to work through my Beatles songbook, practicing different ways of playing familiar songs; Hey Jude with a swing, Come Together in a bossa nova, Lady Madonna as an old-fashioned boogie-woogie... Not impartial to the idea of a tip from the legendary wealthy tycoon, I try to give a worthy performance. But after some time, they get up to leave, without saying a word. Of course, I am used to this. But my thirst for even just a fraction of the legendary tip makes me curious, and I begin to question why they have left with such a seemingly intentional lack of acknowledgement.

Then I realise the implications of the song I'm singing:

I don’t care too much for money
Money can’t buy me love...
Can’t buy me love
Everybody tells me so
Can’t buy me love
No, no, no!

I hadn't realised quite how inappropriate the song was. My systematic churning out of Beatles classics had simply led me to this one. But in a room full of couples who cared a great deal for money and were well aware that it would not buy them love, it was an unwise choice.


I notice that the girl I was talking to earlier has also left, the message of the song no doubt hitting her like a bombshell.

We never did have that drink. And, not surprisingly, I didn't get a penny in tips that night.

"Come Dance With Me"

A livelier crowd

Behind the hotel bar lies a grand glass cabinet, full of spirits. It stretches up to the ceiling and beckons to the clientele, who order drink after drink, either to impress friends and clients, or to drown lonely sorrows. For the human jukebox, though, it is out of bounds; my power to alter the mood at the wave of a finger is too great to risk the detrimental effect of narcotics. Indeed, a drunk lounge pianist is not a pretty sight. So I sit at the piano with my usual glass of pineapple juice, lovingly poured over ice in a tall glass. My present situation is a far cry from the cigarette-smoking, whiskey-sipping pianists of the Casa Blanca era. Launching into Cole Porter’s I Get A Kick Out Of You, I feel the opening lyrics hold a special relevance:

I get no kick from champagne
Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all…

Yet as I survey the bar, it seems that these lyrics are at odds with the atmosphere in the room tonight. Over course of the evening, I would find myself accompanying unexpected bursts of alcohol-induced dancing, some charming and intimate, others squalid and embarrassing.

As I reach a quiet passage in the song, a loud shriek rings out from the far corner of the bar. A smartly dressed, successful looking woman, probably in her late thirties, has cracked open a bottle of champagne. I am told she is the boss of a major company, who are having some sort of celebration here tonight. Despite being the corporate queen in the room, she is clearly intent on asserting herself as a free-spirited party girl. While most of the room quietly judges, her male employees drool over her as she shouts ‘DRINKS! DRINKS!’ and beckons the bar staff impatiently. Suddenly, I feel like a painfully sober jukebox performing for a very drunk crowd.

“Can you play a little louder and drown out the sound of that awful woman?”

I look over to the table on my left, where the voice has come from. An old man and his wife look at me with pleading eyes. Happily, I begin playing a little louder, and they thank me before continuing to quietly sip their drinks.

Within a few moments, the consequences of their request become evident, as the company boss moves into the open space by the piano and breaks into an unflattering dance. She is followed by one of her male employees, whose attempts at seductive dance moves would no doubt be a source of painful embarrassment the following morning in the office. As she dances with her arms in the air and her hips wiggling, perfectly out of time to the music, he mirrors her moves and smiles with lecherous approval and a look of desperate encouragement. This is hardly matched by the others in the room, who raise their eyes and shake their heads. By the time I have finished playing the song, she has fallen flat on her face no less than three times. For health and safety reasons, I follow this song with something a little slower. And for my own amusement, I make that song Fools Rush In. Not discouraged, they continue to dance in the same way they had been earlier, equally out of time and a cause for increasing concern among the bar staff who eventually ask them to sit down. She protests and continues to trip over at regular intervals as her admirer escorts her back to the rest of the party. 


But before she gets to her seat she lets go of his arm and spins round to face me. Having not been acknowledged up to this point, I wonder what this belated attention will bring. Yet nothing could prepare me for what happens next. The woman runs back onto her makeshift dance floor, lifts up her smartly buttoned white shirt and flashes her bra at me, before spinning round and running back to her employees. As the Elvis song I am now singing goes, I’m all shook up. However, unlike the King, I am certainly not in love.

Having finished the song, I sit at the bar and read the paper, ignoring the continuing shrieks from the celebratory corner. The barman returns from the other side of the room, looking worried and a little angry. I ask what has happened.

‘That man. Over there. Horrible racist, complaining about immigration.’

‘That’s awkward, does he know you’re Australian?’

‘No, I just overheard him and his wife mouthing off so I’m putting on an English accent. Don't want any trouble.’

To my frustration, he walks over to the couple, greeting them in a convincing and well-rehearsed Queen’s English. They order their drinks, and I return to the piano. As I do the couple in question get to their feet and begin dancing. Having not warmed to them, I decide to play the part of the reluctant and difficult jukebox this time. As they attempt to dance to the gentle swing rhythms I have begun playing, I jolt them out of their routine by launching into a driving bossa nova. They look disappointed, and stand idly for a moment before trying to alter their routine to suit the new rhythm. Once they manage this, I morph into yet another rhythm, like a malicious driver slamming on the breaks and leaving his passengers flying out of their seats. To my pleasure, they admit defeat and sit down again. Looking over at the bar staff, I see them smile and wink back at me, with a masterful subtlety that is developed over years of working in a place such as this.

For some time, my playing retreats into the background again, and the evening’s designated dance floor remains empty. But before I reach the end of the set, the old couple sitting by the piano ask if I can play the old 1920s classic, My Blue Heaven. It is their favourite song, they say, and the one that accompanied their first dance, decades ago. Now, on their wedding anniversary, they would like to dance to it again. As I begin playing, they get up and sway gently to the music, looking calm and contented. Meanwhile I keep a steady rhythm to accompany their 2-step. I have felt my fair share of cynicism this evening, quietly judging and jolting vulgar dances out of time, but I would not want to bring this dance to a premature end.

Their movements are full of memories, and the timeless song continues as they lilt from side to side, its words perfectly suiting the intimacy of their dance:

You see a smiling face, a fireplace, a cosy room
A little nest that nestles where the roses bloom…
Just Molly and me
And a baby makes three
We’re happy in our blue heaven