"Well You Needn’t"

Unwarranted Attention

The most romantic season of the year. As I stroll to work I pass shops selling roses and heart-shaped chocolates. I wonder how Valentines Day will look at the hotel. Who will have company? Who will continue to sit alone, acknowledging nothing? It would be a strange evening for me, accompanying romantic dinners here and solitary binges there. But most of all, some distinctly uncomfortable encounters with older women would make my face turn as red as the roses I had seen in shop windows en route to the hotel.

Sitting at the piano, I play a few romantic songs to serenade the many couples out for dinner, exchanging gifts and staring into each other’s eyes. Timeless songs like The Way You Look Tonight and My Funny Valentine go down well, prompting knowing smiles. However, I avoid the temptation to play Let’s Get It On, which is perhaps a little too far. At moments like this, I feel immensely powerful, knowing that the atmosphere in the room is completely at my mercy; the human jukebox can spoil the atmosphere at any moment, launching into anything that might spoil the mood. Hit The Road Jack by Ray Charles? I Hate Everything About You by Three Days Grace? Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit…? I resist the overwhelming temptation with all of these (in all honesty, I can only actually play one of them) and continue to play appropriate music; after all, I am being paid to do this.

Looking around the room, I see a middle-aged woman, sitting on the sofa by the piano, gently conducting with her glass of wine. She is a regular guest, always alone and always in seemingly deep thought; one of the many lonely people whose background I can only make guesses at. She smiles up at the piano as I play. ‘Can you do something old?’ she asks, in a delicate English accent. After some clarification we establish that she means George Gershwin, so I break into ‘They Can’t Take That Away From Me’. Suddenly animated, she leaps up and leans on the piano in a seductive manner which alarms me a little.

‘Will they mind if I stand here?’ She asks. ‘I’ve been kicked out of so many bars, you see!’

I wonder why, and my face evidently betrays a growing anxiety about what may be in store, as she goes on to defend herself.

‘What? If somebody’s talking shit, why can't I pour wine over their head?’

Suddenly, I’m concentrating very hard on my piano solo – a trusty technique at awkward moments such as this. Before she has a chance to say anything else, I cut her off and begin singing another verse. I can feel her eyes on me, but refuse to meet them, continuing to smile out at others in the room. Among them are the giggling bar staff who refuse to come to my aid.

As I finish playing, I catch her eye. She is still staring, chin propped up on her fist as she leans over the piano keys. As the last chord rings out, she utters a word I hoped never to hear from somebody my mother’s age:

‘Yummy…’

My heart skips a few beats and I feel the blood rush to my reddening face. I quickly excuse myself and take an early break. Defeated, she returns to the sofa, stumbling as she does so. Her Valentine’s Day continues alone.

Returning to the piano after an interlude slumped at the bar chatting to the staff, I see that a new group of people has arrived, now sitting at the table a few meters from the piano. The party is formed of two blondes, probably in their early forties, and two dark-haired men in suits. The women are loud, excitable and evidently a source of embarrassment to their partners, who sit quietly; it appears they do not to get on particularly well, but are obliged to spend time together as they accompany the “girls’ night out” that I find myself providing the music for.

Champagne is opened and the women scream with delight, eliciting raised eyebrows from the men. Glasses clink and the alcohol is swallowed with a speed that concerns me; this is the first step towards an overconfident attitude which will inevitably turn attention on the resident pianist later in the night.

Sure enough, by the time I am ready to slip off for my next break, the stalkers have found their prey. They approach the piano and, slurring their speech, pay me some flattering compliments. I smile and thank them before looking back down at the keys to remind myself of where I am in the song. Glancing back up, I see that the more confident one is stumbling around the table and into the narrow space behind the piano. She barges me gently with her bum and before I know it we are sharing the piano stool. The bar staff look concerned, their faces filled with panic – this is not the image the hotel wants – but their expressions soon turn to amusement as they realise the level of embarrassment I am feeling. Heads have been turned and we are the centre of half the bar’s attention.

“Can you do a song for me, darling?” She whispers gently, lips pressed against my earlobe.

“Erm… yeah… if I know it, that is…”

“Ah you gotta do it… You know that song… ‘Happy Birthday To Me’ by Hank Locklin?”

She looks at me with puppy eyes and waits to hear my response. It pains me to tell her that I don’t know it… partly because it is always disappointing not to fulfill a request, but also because I sense that she will persist nonetheless.

“No, no you have to sing it.”

“…but I don’t know it…”

“Look, you see my friend over there – it’s her dad’s birthday today. And he’s dead. You need to sing this song, it was his favourite.”

Before I can recover from my initial alarm at this emotional blackmail, she starts singing the song in my ear, in a full chest voice, complete with a wobbly vibrato. Her singing line clashes painfully with the song I’m playing, which is in another key entirely. Heads turn from every direction, and I ask her politely to stop. Most of the customers can see my facial expressions, and look on with sympathy and amusement.

“Can I have the microphone then? I’ll sing it, you play.”

I met the pianist at the Savoy Hotel once, and he told me about a time when a young woman, staying at the hotel, asked to perform some songs with him. Despite the fact this dazzling performer went by the name of Amy Winehouse and had recently released the phenomenal album Back to Black, the bar staff had shooed her off, telling her that no matter who she was, this was not a karaoke bar. Given this, I say, it is unlikely the bar staff here will bend the rules now. Eventually, she is asked to sit down, and cheers erupt as I pick up where I left off and continue singing without distractions. I soon take a break, and go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face.

The rest of the evening passes with few events. The group next to me continue to open bottle after bottle of champagne, the men showing no signs of excitement while the women increasingly run the danger of being thrown out. Meanwhile, others come and go; old couples who sit in silence, new couples entwined and deeply in love, and the usual escorts, providing company for the loneliest of people on this romantic day.

Following the final song and some scattered applause, I pack up my things and make my way towards the door to catch the last tube. As I leave, I catch sight of the middle-aged woman, still on the sofa with a new bottle of wine freshly opened.  As I leave, she follows me out with her eyes.

I really need to catch that tube, as quickly as possible.

"All Or Nothing At All"

Who's listening?


As night falls, I walk into the cosy hotel bar with its dark mahogany walls and tiny, sophisticated glass tables. A businessman stares into space, his iPad on the table along with various account papers and a glass of whiskey. Next to him is an elegant middle-aged woman, presumably once a stunning young heartbreaker. I wonder what her story is, why she is here alone so often. They both sit in silence, ordering drink after drink, rarely gesturing with more than a subtle wave.

In the far corner, a plump and balding man sits next to a gorgeous blonde at least a foot taller than him. Her cleavage bulges, perfectly in line with the eyes of her nervous looking date. As with so many people in here, few words are said. And like many of the ‘couples’ here, money has evidently exchanged hands. Despite his awkwardness, he seems proud to be in the company of the escort, who smiles and strokes his arm with impeccable professionalism.

Walking through the room I approach the bar, greeted warmly by the army of bar staff in their matching white blazers, who let down their stiff outward appearance for a moment; I am an employee too, in no need of the royal treatment that guests receive. We smile and joke quietly, but their rigid efficiency is never far from the surface.

As I sit at the grand piano in the corner of the room, I hear furious whispers from the adjacent table; an elderly couple are having a quiet but bubbling argument. He’s done something wrong, and she won’t let it go. He strokes her arm and tries to look into her eyes but she shrugs him off and turns to face me: it appears the pianist has provided a convenient distraction which she fixates on stubbornly by way of ignoring his pleas. As I prepare to play my first song I am faced with the unique lounge pianist dilemma – do I change my repertoire so it fits the surroundings better? Is my initial song choice too inappropriate? My job is essentially to provide a soundtrack to people’s evenings; sometimes they are sickeningly appropriate, accompanying lovers staring at one another with ‘The Way You Look Tonight’, and sometimes they are less so. This is one such occasion.

I stick to my initial choice, and after an introductory chord progression I begin singing:

‘When somebody loves you, it’s not good unless they love you…all the way’

Their muttering interjects: ‘Oh shut UP, Jeffery. Shut up!’

Should I move onto something more appropriate like ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’? No, I carry on regardless:

‘Taller than the tallest tree, that’s how it’s got to feel…’

Another interjection: ‘You’re really pissing me off now… don’t TOUCH me!’

She gets up to leave, giving me a forced and exaggerated smile before gesticulating violently at him and storming out. He smiles at me sheepishly, lingers for a moment and then darts out after her, the sharp whispering continuing down the hall. And the song goes on, despite its failure to inspire them with its message.

The life of a lounge pianist is a strange one; our job is to fade into the background, gently creating an atmosphere for (predominantly) wealthy people. The default atmosphere in the hotel is one of solitude. As my fingers run up and down the keys, and I sing songs about love, happiness and relationships, the atmosphere around me is thrown into a stark and revealing light. The loneliness of the ageing business tycoon is more evident than ever. The face of the escort, whose date has excused himself, giving her a moment to relax that well-rehearsed smile, looks defeated and longs for words of ‘Let’s Stay Together’, to suit her situation more. But it’s not just them who feel isolated. A man comes up to me and congratulates me on my playing, before undercutting his compliment with a question I ponder over night after night: ‘Do you mind being ignored?’

Like most hotel pianists, I have a lot of love for what I do. But it can be a lonely job, as we are well-practiced enough to have stopped concentrating on playing some time ago. Rather, we watch the world go by and reflect on what we see. And the overpaid, underloved people who sit in silence for hours on end can leave us feeling uninspired. The refrain of ‘Eleanor Rigby’ is perhaps the most appropriate soundtrack I can provide, as I look out at all the lonely people, and wonder: where do they all come from?
Every now and then, though, I witness an encounter which reassures me that loneliness doesn’t always prevail here, and that my singing is not always ignored. The week before, a man sitting at the bar, sipping a cocktail, had thanked me for the music. A conversation ensued and I learnt that he had travelled from his home in Los Angeles to try to patch things up with his ex-fiancée. He was nervous, and had a lot of emotional energy invested in the prospect of his success. He had asked me if I could learn her favourite song, thinking it might sway his chances. Unfortunately, that song was ‘Crying Game’ by Boy George, which proved to be a test of my endurance as I learned it over the next few days, struggling to maintain enthusiasm despite its awfulness, but buoyed by the sentimental value it clearly held for the estranged couple.

Now seated at the nearby table with the woman he has travelled across the Atlantic to reclaim, he subtly gestures to me to start playing. The conversation seems awkward and tense; her arms are folded and she responds half-heartedly to his staggered emotional outpourings. But as I begin to play the song, its effect is instant and surprises me as much as it pleases him. She covers her face her with hands and begins to sob into her lap, before looking up at me with an astonished expression on her face. He looks relieved, and a huge smile materialises on his face. After she composes herself they sit there holding each other as I continue singing the song, doing everything in my professional power to put some emotion in despite my feelings toward the song.

Soon after, they leave together, and he tosses a generous tip onto the piano, accompanied by a wink. I have expunged the song from my repertoire, but felt pleased to have contributed to what was, for them, a very happy evening. Unlike the angry couple from earlier in the evening, they left holding hands and all smiles.

It is nearly closing time, so I finish with something upbeat to leave the bar staff and me with positive vibes for the road. While the escorts' business had been booming as ever, and the hotel's longstanding residents had continued to stare into space, relationships had both exploded and blossomed before my eyes. One couple had given me all their attention and my music had changed their lives, at least in a small way; another had given me nothing at all, arguing in spite of the romantic atmosphere I tried to create with my song. Such is the life of lounge pianists; we provide an atmosphere in a room where our presence is felt by all, and acknowledged only by a few.