Schwartz - Piano starts here: the young Art Tatum

Copyright 2008 by Robert Andrew Parker

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Robert Andrew.

Piano starts here: the young Art Tatum/Robert Andrew Parker.1st ed. p. cm.

ISBN: 978-0-307-98355-8 (ebook)

1. Tatum, Art, 19101956Childhood and youthJuvenile literature.

2. Jazz musiciansUnited StatesBiographyJuvenile literature. I. Title.

ML3930.T2P37 2008

786.2165092dc22

[B] 2006102105

The illustrations are rendered in watercolor.

v3.1

In memory of Dan Mooneydear friend, fine pianist, and great teacher

This is the house in Toledo where I was born.

This is my father. Hes a mechanic.

This is my mother. She often sings in the church down the street, but she isnt singing here. She has too much cleaning to do.

This is the living room. Thats the piano. Every once in a while my mother plays it, but otherwise it sits quietly in the corner.

One day, I can reach the keyboard on tiptoe. I play with one finger, then two fingers, then my fists and hands.

My mother says, That sounds nice, do that again, and I do, until she says, Enough now. Why dont you go play while its still light outside?

But because of my bad eyes, day and night, dark and light, dont really matter to me. Not the way sounds and smells dopiano notes, streetcar bells, corn bread baking in the oven.

As I get older, my eyesight gets worse. An operation helpsbut just a little.

Still, bad eyes cant keep me from playing the piano. My hands get to know the keys, the short black ones on top and long white ones below. I play more and more. And more.

When my father leaves in the morning now, he gives me a quick hug and says, Dont wear out that piano today. In the evening when my mother calls me to supper, I say, Ill be right back, Piano, dont go away.

Just after my tenth birthday, Reverend Johnson asks me to play in church. I love our churchthe way it smells like soap, furniture polish, and flowers; the way footstep sounds echo off the walls. Still, I feel nervous.

But when I touch the keys, all my fear vanishes. My foot taps the rhythm, and my notes fill the space between the music of everyones voices.

Afterward, Martha Chemples asks me to play at the annual YMCA bake sale. Mrs. Bradford asks if I can play at Mr. Bradfords seventieth birthday party. My mother says, He cant be out late, but she squeezes my shoulder, and I know she is pleased.

On summer evenings when it is too hot to even turn on the lights, my parents sit on the porch swing with my little brother and sister. The neighborhood children run around catching lightning bugs in mayonnaise jars.

As their jars grow brighter, they hear my music pouring out our window. I play Moonlight Bay and Shine On, Harvest Moonall the moon songs I can think of. My, my, isnt he something, my mother says into the night.

Denise and Janet, twin sisters who live next door, walk me to school every day now. They make sure I dont get lost or step in front of a streetcar.

In class, Denise sits next to me and helps me. And on assembly days, the principal, Mrs. Hendricks, asks me to play.

My father never says much about my music, but I know hes listening. Sometimes he even dances. Though he hardly moves, I can feel his big feet shake the floor. His rhythm matches mine, and I imagine Im playing with a bass player tap-tapping his feet and slap-slapping his fingers. When I start Memphis Blues, my father pulls my mother from the kitchen, throws her apron on a chair, and swings her across the floor until she laughs in spite of herself.

After school I spend a lot of time at the Pick-a-Rib caf around the corner. Mr. Bartlett, the owner, is a friend of my fathers, and he lets me use his player piano. I like to wind up the handle and hear the keys move by themselves. Then I play.

Sometimes Mr. Bartlett comes out of the kitchen and says, Arthur, was that you or the piano? And other times he says, Well, I know that was youthe player piano isnt that fast!

One night my father and his friend Eddie take me to a bar nearby. My father finds me a chair and whispers, Play Tiger Rag just like you heard it on the radio, only faster. And because it is so noisy and smoky and crowded, Im not nervous.