KEITH JARRETT - THE KÖLN JAZZ CONCERT
Posted: September 14th, 2010, 7:47 pm
White and black keys glow faintly
in the glare of the spotlights;
the triangular lid lifts into the air like a giant kite
poised to break free, soar, borne on the winds of sound
that will pour from the tight-stretched grille of golden strings.
He approaches the piano bench, a slim, relaxed figure
dressed casually in jeans and a dark turtleneck.
Seating himself, he brushes his fingertips lightly along the keys,
beginning the exquisite courtship
between musician and instrument.
There is a soft, indrawn sigh from the audience.
Frowning in concentration, he strokes the keyboard
into sophisticated riffs of melody and rhythm —
teasing, coaxing.
Under his sure touch the pulse of the bass strengthens
as the notes slide caressingly around the auditorium.
The piano expands passionately beneath his confident hands,
responding like a woman in love,
yielding herself to his touch.
He rises from the bench, pushes it back out of his way,
inclines himself toward the great instrument,
head back, eyes closed.
There are just the two of them now, Man and Piano,
lovers surrendering to each other in sensuous ecstasy.
Sweat rolls from his forehead,
splashing onto the ivory rectangles;
he balances, never releasing the rhythm,
and reaches into his back pocket for a handkerchief,
holding the piano to him now with only one hand,
never missing a beat,
he wipes the perspiration from his face.
For two hours the audience stirs, shifts in its seats,
murmurs with the music,
echoing the pianist’s own soft groans of pleasure,
exploding into shouts, whistles,
round after round of applause,
as the musician-composer finally stands without moving,
head bowed, exhausted,
yielding to his own and his listeners’ exhilaration
in this wondrous sharing
of spontaneous creation.
in the glare of the spotlights;
the triangular lid lifts into the air like a giant kite
poised to break free, soar, borne on the winds of sound
that will pour from the tight-stretched grille of golden strings.
He approaches the piano bench, a slim, relaxed figure
dressed casually in jeans and a dark turtleneck.
Seating himself, he brushes his fingertips lightly along the keys,
beginning the exquisite courtship
between musician and instrument.
There is a soft, indrawn sigh from the audience.
Frowning in concentration, he strokes the keyboard
into sophisticated riffs of melody and rhythm —
teasing, coaxing.
Under his sure touch the pulse of the bass strengthens
as the notes slide caressingly around the auditorium.
The piano expands passionately beneath his confident hands,
responding like a woman in love,
yielding herself to his touch.
He rises from the bench, pushes it back out of his way,
inclines himself toward the great instrument,
head back, eyes closed.
There are just the two of them now, Man and Piano,
lovers surrendering to each other in sensuous ecstasy.
Sweat rolls from his forehead,
splashing onto the ivory rectangles;
he balances, never releasing the rhythm,
and reaches into his back pocket for a handkerchief,
holding the piano to him now with only one hand,
never missing a beat,
he wipes the perspiration from his face.
For two hours the audience stirs, shifts in its seats,
murmurs with the music,
echoing the pianist’s own soft groans of pleasure,
exploding into shouts, whistles,
round after round of applause,
as the musician-composer finally stands without moving,
head bowed, exhausted,
yielding to his own and his listeners’ exhilaration
in this wondrous sharing
of spontaneous creation.