Floating in the Caribbean, on the top-most deck of a cruise ship, off the coast of Puerto Rico, I was sitting at the fancy piano bar.
It was after midnight, and I was listening to Gene Taylor playing just for the fun of it. It was his down time from performing with the Fabulous Thunderbirds.
It was a very intimate atmosphere. The ocean seemed to surround us in the small, heavily-wooded, glass-walled bar.
There were four of us sitting around the piano, three others at the bar. Taylor’s music flowed from ragtime, N’awlins-style boogie-woogie to standards like Georgia on my Mind.
Right outside the piano bar, a bandstand was set up for any ‘wandering minstrels’ to act on their urges. Only a glass wall separated us from the electric instruments. During Taylor’s soothing performance, a few people outside started playing reggae rhythms that boomed into the piano bar. I was getting irritated at this invasion of discordant sounds. But I underestimated the master musician at the piano.
Taylor adjusted his key, changed the tempo ever so slightly, did other things beyond me and continued playing in the vein he had been, only now the previously invasive sounds were his rhythm section.
I looked at him in amazement. How easily he had made that transition, in mere seconds.
In that moment, I totally understood his value as a sideman, and how lucky any band would be to have a magical keyboard man like Gene Taylor.
It was after midnight, and I was listening to Gene Taylor playing just for the fun of it. It was his down time from performing with the Fabulous Thunderbirds.
It was a very intimate atmosphere. The ocean seemed to surround us in the small, heavily-wooded, glass-walled bar.
There were four of us sitting around the piano, three others at the bar. Taylor’s music flowed from ragtime, N’awlins-style boogie-woogie to standards like Georgia on my Mind.
Right outside the piano bar, a bandstand was set up for any ‘wandering minstrels’ to act on their urges. Only a glass wall separated us from the electric instruments. During Taylor’s soothing performance, a few people outside started playing reggae rhythms that boomed into the piano bar. I was getting irritated at this invasion of discordant sounds. But I underestimated the master musician at the piano.
Taylor adjusted his key, changed the tempo ever so slightly, did other things beyond me and continued playing in the vein he had been, only now the previously invasive sounds were his rhythm section.
I looked at him in amazement. How easily he had made that transition, in mere seconds.
In that moment, I totally understood his value as a sideman, and how lucky any band would be to have a magical keyboard man like Gene Taylor.
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