In the back of my mind, I have carried reminders of evenings engaged with Keith Jarrett’s 1975 The Köln Concert recording of improvisations played on a Bösendorfer Imperial Concert Grand. Solo piano is a precise arena for many a pianist. At once revealing, yet intimate and rewarding. Much to do with the broad range, possibilities, command, touch, and the instrument at hand. Jarrett achieved something few before had ever tested in front of a vast audience. Sit behind the piano and play. No script, no set list, no banter between entertainer and admiring crowds.

In the ‘50s, Era King looked after the boys as dad worked the night shift at Colgate’s, and mom hemmed parachutes at the Quartermaster Depot. Era was my grandmother, old country in style, manners, and as stern as a woman could ever be. A weary upright piano stood near a soft lit window, the centrepiece of her daily life. Mid afternoons, the soap opera The Edge of Night and other Christian programming held her interest.

When playing, Era whispered along, invariably something sacred. I’d study her squinting eyes as they peered above wired-frame glasses while she leafed through a hymn book, hair rolled in a bun, and understood the wheezing soap opera organ in the background, the soundtrack of her daily life. The hymnals - a reprieve from separating agitated kids and averting the devil’s grip.

It was the most primordial sound. Melody and broken chords. No frills, just the occasional inverted triad, one that never disrupted a lyric or directive from the Lord. Slow-moving melodies, distinctive and meaningful. Folkish and rooted deep in civil soil.

I’ve long been intrigued with melody. The cry of a single note as it seeks a partner, suddenly a community member, and then a composition. It’s those moments when sound moderates the brain, and one tunes in. How and when a single note, a second, and third merge - stream down through the soundboard resting at the feet of the damper pedal.
Paradise Blue is the piano talking back at me. That light in the head momentarily eclipsed, hands in receipt of inspiration. Junctures of sweeping colour and others of blue intent. Fingers jabbing and prying at the space between black and white notes, the overtones, the undertones, wedged between the crevices. A solitary moment where melody and harmony linger beyond invitation.

In memory of those piano teachers that brought so much joy and clarity to my playing. Eva Smith, Don Murray – The Louisville Academy of Music, Jamey Aebersold, Oscar Peterson, Composition studies at Ursuline College and piano at the Louisville Conservatory of Music. That other worldly miracle of influence, pianist Martha Argerich.
Remembering Doug Tipple whose Yamaha C-3 resides in our kitchen, a gift from Laura Tipple and the love and care Doug shared with his beloved friend. Big hugs to my piano finder and friend – Helga Stephenson.

To Kristine for the lovely cover art, Jesse - cover design, Mike Haas the critical mastering – friends, Gary Slaight, Derrick Ross, Pat Silver, FYI MUSIC News, Saturday Night Jazz, Mark Ruffin, Martine Levy, Jane Harbury, Stephen Smith, Ilona Kauremszky, Jessica Bellamy, Ken Stowar, CIUT 89.5 FM, Gloria Martin, Mark Hebscher, Susan Perly, John Harris and my brilliant cousin, Linda Michelone Lang.