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I think you believe that good posture means rigidity. When you’re playing the piano, it’s the opposite.
Relax, Izzy. Relax your feet. Keep them flat on the ground. Keep your weight centred. Keep your back straight, but relax, so you can move with the music.
You need to relax.
*
The man Izzy assumed must be Roach arrived the second the clock struck one in the afternoon, out of breath and in the stupidest t-shirt Izzy had ever seen. It was bright green, and proclaimed that NUTS FEED MILLIONS across the chest. He was tall and slender, with curly hair that was being kept out of his face with one of those claw clips. He had a pair of wire framed glasses that sat slightly askew on his nose, and he had a water bottle as big as his head perched on top of his stack of sheet music.
The bottle itself was filled with something amber coloured and slightly cloudy. There were weird orange bits and whole flowers floating around in it. That, at least, made sense. Izzy was no stranger to the bizarre concoctions singers drank to keep their voices going.
“You’d better not make a habit of being late,” said Izzy.
He was already sitting at the piano. Granted, it was his studio that they were rehearsing at so it was significantly less difficult for him to get here on time, but he’d been ready for an hour already, warming up and looking through the new song suggestions Roach sent through. He’d been gratified to find that at least most of them seemed like blues standards he was vaguely familiar with.
“I was not late today,” said Roach, glancing pointedly at the clock, “and I can assure you that I will not be in the future, either.”
Izzy grunted and nodded, then shuffled some of his sheet music for something to do with his hands.
“It is nice to meet you in person,” said Roach, moving to put the pile in his arms down on top of his upright.
“Not on the fuckin’ piano!” snapped Izzy.
Roach’s eyes widened slightly, and he backpedalled.
“Sorry!”
Late, and no respect for his instrument. Roach had come highly recommended, but Izzy was beginning to think that perhaps Frenchie had been playing some elaborate prank on him.
This suspicion only intensified as Roach went through his vocal warmups, which included sticking his whole hand in his mouth as he sang, meowing like a cat at different pitches, and then making a series of strange bubbling noises with his lips, punctuated with a shouted MAH! at the end.
Izzy was already drafting his polite rejection email when Roach stretched, rolling his neck and then reaching upwards as high as he could go. The hem of his t-shirt rode up to show a sliver of skin above the waistband of his shorts, and suddenly Izzy found that he couldn’t quite remember what he wanted to say.
Instead, he cleared his throat, and took out the little pile of Roach’s and his repertoire that matched up.
“Evenin’ is a good one to start off with,” said Izzy, “do you a lot of Cab Calloway?”
“As much as I can get away with without being called an impersonator,” said Roach with a wink.
Izzy nodded his approval, then launched straight into the first few bars.
“Evenin’,” sang Roach, “every night you come and you find me-”
God damnit. He was good. He had a voice that was warm and rich, deeper than Izzy had been expecting. Now that he was focusing on the keyboard, Izzy could only hear Roach’s voice, the way it seemed to reverberate through him down to his bones.
“And you always remind me, that my baby's gone.”
He seemed to operate on a less extreme scale than Edward. Edward was an explosion, a powerhouse on the more upbeat songs, and he drew out the slower ones, revelling in the drama of a pause or a held note.
Fuck. Izzy had promised himself he wouldn’t make the comparison, but here he was. It was hard not to, after so many years of playing and singing together. But Roach didn’t rush nor linger on the notes. He seemed to taste them, savouring the sounds of the words in his mouth. His accent was less pronounced when he sang, but there were still echoes of it in the softness of his vowels, the hint of a roll to his rs.
Izzy found that he had to work to focus on his playing, dividing his attention between this new voice and the rehearsing he was actually here to do.
There was no way he could let a voice like that go. Perhaps Roach’s little annoyances weren’t so bad after all. He could work with them, if it meant he could stop trying to find a fucking singer.
It seemed that Roach was sizing him up as well. He could feel the other man’s eyes on him as he sang, and out of the corner of his eye he saw him begin to relax, to sway his hips a little to the music as he relaxed and loosened up.
“You have a delicate touch,” he said, once they’d been through a few of the songs, “you are very precise. And you keep tempo well.”
Izzy’s shoulders tensed as he waited for the inevitable “but.”
He knew his own shortcomings. Edward had reminded him of them often enough. He was too rigid. He lacked imagination. He was not a pianist so much as a music making machine, but it was enough for him.
“You are very easy to sing along with,” said Roach, “I think perhaps this will work out well!”
Izzy stared at him, waiting for the punchline.
None came.
“I - okay. Sure,” he stammered, “uh, I just. Let’s, uh, let’s try one of m-mine. It’s. Do you know this one?”
“I have, in fact, done my homework, Izzy Hands,” said Roach exasperatedly.
“Sorry.”
Roach patted him on the back, then withdrew immediately when Izzy’s shoulders visibly locked up in response.
“Sorry!” he said quickly, “it is - it is fine. I just - when you said that I was late-”
Izzy winced, grateful for the fact that this particular instrument allowed him to be turned away from Roach so that he couldn’t see his expression.
“I - I was worried you have perhaps invented an impression of me that does not exist.”
Izzy nodded.
“You’re very good,” he ground out, “very good singer.”
“Thank you,” said Roach quietly.
Silence descended upon the two of them once more as Izzy’s thoughts raced.
What do I say to that? Is there anything else to say? Should I apologise. Fuck. I definitely fucking judged him on sight. Shit. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t-
He had no idea what to say, so he simply played the opening bars to Tipitina , breathing out a sigh of relief when Roach began to sing.
“I prefer to wear a dress,” Roach said, when they were done.
Announced, more like. Fidgeted while he did it, like he'd been waiting for the opportunity to bring it.
“As in, all the time?” said Izzy, looking him up and down, “or just on stage? I don’t particularly care, you don’t have to dress like this if you don’t want to-”
He gestured at Roach’s current outfit, ragged and bordering on being pyjamas.
“Just on stage,” said Roach with a laugh, “I do not have the time nor the patience in my day to make myself look nice all the time.”
“Alright,” said Izzy, “well, in that case, I’ll start you on a Thursday. Quieter crowd. Arrive an hour early for warm-ups.”
“I will see you there!” said Roach brightly.
His hand moved as if to touch his shoulder, but it stopped halfway.
“Yes,” said Roach, “I, uh-”
“Thank you for today,” said Izzy.
“Yes!” said Roach, “thank you!”
And with that, he fled out the door.
*
A good accompanist needs to be steady.
They need to be observant.
Watch what your singer is doing, because they’re the main feature. You will need to learn to fade into the background.
So really, most of all, when you’re an accompanist, you need to be okay with being overlooked.
*
Roach took a little time to warm to the crowd. Much like their rehearsal, he stuck mostly to singing during their first set, thanking everybody for coming, pointing out which songs were his favourites.
Izzy couldn’t take his eyes off him. Several times during the set he found that his hands had run into an autopilot he usually tried to avoid, because he needed to keep thinking. He needed to stay in control of the notes, the tempo, the push-pull between Roach’s voice and his piano.
But Roach was stunning in the elegant blue-grey gown he’d opted for tonight. A lacy bodice hugged his torso, while the skirt fell in soft, gauzy folds around his ankles that moved as he swayed along with the music. He was wearing makeup too, and his hair fell in curls that he’d pinned away from his face with little flowers.
All in all, he looked absolutely breathtaking.
The club-goers seemed to think so too. It was easy to tell - there was usually a low hum of chatter in the room as people enjoyed their drinks and the company, but as Roach’s confidence gradually grew throughout the night and he tossed his hair, toying with the microphone stand as he leaned into a long note, the conversation dipped until it had all but dissipated.
“They like you,” said Izzy, in between sets.
Roach was buzzing with energy, excited to get back on stage and resume their performance. Izzy watched him with faint amusement, then got up as the little electric kettle boiled.
They were in the little converted office adjacent to the bar, set up as a green room for the performers. It was fairly bare, but it was a pleasant enough place to sit and rest a little during their breaks.
Izzy half filled a cup with hot water, added a spoonful of honey, then some cold water to bring the temperature down from scalding. He passed it silently to Roach, who took it with surprise.
“Oh-”
“Drink it.”
Roach stared at him like he’d just been handed some sort of extravagant gift, instead of a standard fucking part of the night. If there was anything Izzy had learned as an accompanist, it was that singers were notoriously bad at looking after themselves whenever there was a stage involved.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“Drink,” huffed Izzy, “you’re starting to sound a bit hoarse.”
Roach nodded, then sipped at the cup.
“My voice is not quite in shape for these long shifts yet,” he said.
“Yeah, Frenchie mentioned you were more of a light dinner entertainment fellow.”
“It is… nice having a crowd who is interested in paying attention,” said Roach with a smile.
In the second half of the show, Roach loosened up a little further, giving the audience little snippets of history of the songs he was singing, pointing out some of his favourite lines and blues singers.
Izzy happily faded into the background while Roach worked the room, stepping down at one point and perching on the front table while he sang. He still sang everything as rehearsed though, avoiding throwing in any unexpected riffing or any of Edward’s extended mid-song audience banter.
At one point, he came and sat next to Izzy while he sang, too. He crossed one ankle delicately over the other, perching on the edge of the stool while he dipped his voice down low.
I'm gonna haunt you so, I'm gonna taunt you so
It's gonna drive you to ruin!
Roach was trying to make eye contact with him while he sang, but Izzy stared resolutely into his reflection in the well-polished piano.
Absolutely not.
Izzy wasn’t here. If Roach wanted engagement, there were plenty of willing audience members for something like that.
Roach ended the interaction smoothly, blowing him a kiss and then feigning shedding a tear as he moved back up to the microphone stand.
“Sorry,” Roach said afterwards.
His voice sounded rough, and Izzy held up a hand to stop him.
“It’s fine,” he said, “just… ignore me, while we’re up there. If you can.”
“I cannot guarantee anything,” said Roach, nudging Izzy with his shoulder.
Izzy shook his head in exasperation, but there was no heat to it.
“Stop talking,” he said, “save your voice for rehearsals. I want to start putting you on more often as soon as you’re ready for it.”
“You like me!” said Roach, grinning, “you really like me!”
“Stop fucking talking, you stupid twat.”
*
I just think you might struggle a bit.
The best accompanists are also good improvisers. You need to be able to judge the situation. Be flexible. Changeable.
Izzy, you play everything exactly the same every single time.
*
Roach had his half finished honey water in his hands when he dropped the bombshell the next week.
“Do you know the Weed Smoker’s Dream?” he said innocently, sipping at his drink.
“That’s not in the fucking song list!” hissed Izzy, “you can’t do that!”
“I just think they’d go for it-”
“No!”
Izzy resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair in frustration. They had a plan. They’d both agreed to stick to it.
This was going to be just like Edward all over again. He should have known Roach was the same.
Maybe all singers were the fucking same, because at the end of the way, who gave a shit about the accompanist? He didn’t fucking matter!
He sure knew how to fucking pick them-
“Hey-”
Roach’s fingers closed gently over his wrist, light enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. Izzy didn’t, but he shot Roach a glare.
“What?”
“We can talk about adding it later,” he said, “it is not so important.”
He held out the printout of their set list, the one Izzy put backstage every night he was playing, just in case. Like a peace offering.
“Tipitina,” said Roach, “we are starting with Tipitina.”
And just like that, Izzy could breathe again.
Every night, it had been like this with Edward. Every night, finishing at the piano, shaking with adrenaline with his shirt drenched in flop sweat. He was a brilliant man, a master entertainer and a genius musician, but inspiration seemed to strike him best when he was on stage, leaving Izzy to scramble to keep up.
With Roach, evenings were starting to feel a little less like a mad sprint to the finish line. He found himself enjoying the songs again, letting himself feel his way around familiar tunes that he’d not really stopped to listen to in a long time.
But Roach… Roach smiled at him at rehearsals and called him dependable.
“We can look at it at when the rehearse next,” said Izzy, “I think you’d do a good job of it.”
“Wonderful,” said Roach, “thank you.”
*
I know you like your music, but you can’t get too caught up in it. That’s for soloists.
You need to focus on what’s happening around you. Listen. Observe.
Try not to get too caught up in the emotions.
*
Love, oh love, oh careless love.
Izzy grit his teeth. He’d never been too good at handling this particular song. It had started getting to him near the end, when Edward had spent nearly all of his time out in the crowd, in between shifts where he could barely get a hold of the man, calling in a string of favours and second rate singers to replace Edward while he spent half his time doing fucking open mics at some new bar down the road.
Because he wanted variety.
Night and day, I weep and moan
This had been one of the last ones they’d added to their set. Edward had been going through something of an Eric Clapton phase, and he’d wanted it, so Izzy had acquiesced.
To Edward, it was just another song. Another blues standard to throw into the mix to appease his annoyingly rigid accompanist.
You brought the wrong man into this life of mine
To Izzy, it was goodbye. It was the end. He’d hid out the back and cried on the step out the back at two in the morning, his cigarette burning itself to ash between his fingers, not knowing that this would be the last time they’d play together.
For my sins, till judgement I'll atone
And yet, when Roach had suggested it, he’d found himself incapable of denying him anything.
Not when his shoulders had learned to loosen in the wake of his easy smile.
Not when he dared to throw in an embellishment or two from time to time, just to see Roach glance back at him, pleased and surprised.
Not when Roach, quickly gaining confidence in the spotlight, remained so patient with an old man who’d grown too brittle to change his ways.
It was hard, to keep denying Roach his requests.
Izzy tried to focus on the notes, and realised for the first time that somewhere along the way, he’d stopped looking so hard at the keyboard and thinking so consciously about every note and chord. Instead, he’d been listening to Roach. He’d been playing around his voice, knowing, finally trusting himself to play these songs that were as familiar to him as breathing.
And now, he’d committed the sin of letting himself really listen to what Roach was singing.
The words sliced right through him, and he felt himself heat up as he played. His face burned and his eyes stung, and he drew in a shaky breath through his mouth as he played through the panic.
Roach sang on, oblivious, though his voice remained low and perfectly melancholy, cradling the words in total sincerity. It was devastating.
His mind scrambled to tamp down on the emotion rising in his chest, but it was still there, the song was still playing, and he found himself helpless as his breath hitched and the first tear slipped out and rolled down his cheek.
He held his breath out of desperation, but the tears kept coming, streaming silently down his face.
Love, oh love, oh careless love.
Izzy had never been so grateful that he was angled away from the audience. He played his way through the next song on autopilot, barely listening to anything including himself, focusing on getting his breath back under control as quietly as he could, praying that nobody in the crowd had noticed.
“Thank you everybody, I’m so grateful to share these tunes with your lovely selves tonight. Mister Hands and I are going to take a short break, and we will be back with you soon with the second half of our show! Make sure you are ready to catch, my friends.”
Roach blew a kiss into the microphone, and Izzy breathed a sigh of relief.
He startled when a gloved hand hovered just above his arm.
“Would you walk me back to the green room, Mister Hands?” said Roach.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes, which were wide with concern.
Izzy nodded, offering Roach his arm to take.
Roach walked the two of them along the back wall to make their escape, using his considerable height to block him from being seen by the rest of the room.
“Which song was it?” he said, once they were back in the green room.
Izzy blinked at him, then finally swiped the rest of the moisture from his eyes. He hoped he didn’t look too much like he’d been crying, but from the way Roach’s brow creased with worry, he suspected that he hadn’t been successful.
“Careless love,” he said, hating the way his voice caught on the words.
“Oh.”
A cup was put into his hands.
“Drink,” said Roach.
The irony of the reversal was not lost on Izzy.
"And stop saying yes to things that will hurt you. Silly man. There are other ways to use your words."
*
Last of all, things go wrong on stage sometimes. You have to learn to deal with that with a smile on your face. The show must go on.
You have to be able to improvise.
Do you think you could learn to do that, Izzy?
*
Izzy twirled a magnolia between his fingers as he made his way in to work that night.
Roach liked to wear flowers in his hair. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he owed the man… something.
He made his way in, and was surprised to find Roach was there already. He was nursing what looked and smelled like a hot toddy, sipping at it as he sat on Izzy’s piano seat. One of the straps of the burgundy dress he was wearing had slipped off his shoulder, and the satin fabric spilling over his lap was bunched up awkwardly around his thighs.
Izzy was about to hand him the flower when he looked up, and stopped Izzy in his tracks.
His gaze was clouded and tired, and now that Izzy was looking at him properly he was slumped on the seat like he needed it.
“Roach,” said Izzy, a note of warning in his voice.
“It is too late to call someone else in,” said Roach, waving him off, “just let me drink my drink and I will be as right as rain.”
“If only whiskey actually cured anything,” said Izzy, rolling his eyes, “I don’t want you in here if you’re sick, anyway.”
Roach shook his head.
“Not sick. Just tired.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Because you are used to people lying about these things,” said Roach, a little more snippily than he normally would have, “but it is true. I simply… find it difficult to sleep, sometimes."
Izzy narrowed his eyes.
"Occasionally for a few days in a row," said Roach, grimacing, "it is nothing.”
“I think you maybe oughta look up the definition of nothing,” said Izzy dryly.
Roach swatted at him, but paused when he noticed the flower in his hand.
“Oh! That is very pretty,” he said, reaching for it.
“You're lucky it's for you then,” said Izzy, “for your hair.”
Roach's hand stilled. He looked up at Izzy, then tilted his head towards him instead.
“Would you help me?” he said, “there is a little clip.”
It took a few moments, but Izzy managed to get the stem through Roach’s hair, and secure it in place with the clip.
“How do I look?” said Roach, smoothing out his dress.
“Exhausted,” said Izzy, “you really should just go home.”
Roach chuckled quietly.
“And leave you to do the show on your own? I would not do that to you on such short notice, little man.”
Izzy hated to admit that he was right - it was either keep Roach or call off all the music for tonight, and it was a Saturday. Those tended to be fully booked.
Astoundingly though, they made it through the first set without a hitch. Roach’s voice held up just fine for even their longer Saturday sets nowadays, and if he finished his phrases a little early, it was no trouble for Izzy to make up for it with those little embellishments of his own. He slowed down a few of the more upbeat songs too, noting with pleasure the way that Roach took the silent cue from him.
Slow down. Take it easy.
Roach didn’t move around as much either, but he was just as captivating onstage as he was doing his usual walk around the room. To those not in the know, he seemed perfectly fine.
Nevertheless, he made a valiant effort at The Weed Smoker’s Dream to round off their first set, stepping off the stage to sashay around the room and favour a few people with his attention. He wiggled his fingers coyly at them, keeping enough distance that they couldn’t tell how tired he looked.
Why don't you do now… like the millionaires do?
Roach wandered back up to the stage, walking his fingers across the edge of the baby grand until they came to rest just near the keyboard.
Put your stuff on the market, and make a million too.
Izzy couldn’t help himself, he looked up directly into Roach’s eyes, and the two of them shared a fond smile right there, in front of everybody.
Roach seemed surprised that it had happened too, his eyes widening as he realised his mistake… and then realised that perhaps it wasn’t a mistake after all.
Not anymore, at least.
Izzy couldn’t even find it in himself to feel embarrassed. His hands moved of their own accord as Roach finished off the song-
Put your stuff on the market, and make a million too.
And he echoed the tune on the keyboard, too busy looking at Roach to realise he was riffing on that final phrase, chasing it up to the end of the keys with a final flourish.
In the green room though, Roach was quiet and subdued. He sat at the little table and let his head hang forwards while they waited for the kettle to boil, and when Izzy lay a careful hand on his back as he handed him his cup, he jolted like he’d been falling asleep. Roach’s skin was clammy under his palm.
“Don’t worry,” said Roach, “I will be alright. I have already made it this far, hm?”
“Why the fuck are you still reassuring me?” said Izzy, “worry about yourself.”
Roach leaned over so that his head rested lightly against Izzy’s arm, sighing into the contact.
“I think perhaps you do enough worrying about me for the both of us,” he said, “now let’s go over what we are doing in the second half.”
Izzy looked at the run sheet, and frowned.
“We’re going to have to cut half of these. They’re too upbeat.”
Roach looked like he wanted to argue, but then, reluctantly, he nodded.
“We cannot cut everything,” he said, “let me see which ones I can manage.”
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” grumbled Izzy, “here, I’ll just get a pen-”
He scribbled out the songs that would be too energetic for Roach to manage, then tapped the pen against his chin.
“Kiss of fire?” he said, “we could do that one.”
“It was not on the list,” said Roach wearily, “Izzy-”
“Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot,” said Izzy, “I’m working with you here. Work with me.”
Roach looked at him in surprise, but nodded.
“Okay,” he said, “thank you.”
“S’the least I can do at this point,” murmured Izzy.
He didn’t like it. But it was a plan.
Roach wavered a little when he stood, holding a hand to his head and wincing.
“Roach-”
“Izzy-”
Roach leaned forwards and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Do not worry about me, little man. I will be alright.”
Izzy didn’t quite believe him.
*
Everyone is facin’ changes , Roach sang, no one knows what's going on
He moved away from the microphone just a fraction too late, and Izzy heard the heavy breath he drew before he pressed on.
And everybody changes places,
A glance behind him. Izzy tensed, but Roach was just sending him a gentle smile.
But still, the world goes on and on.
Izzy watched Roach carefully as he played, continuing to discreetly compensate for anything he seemed to struggle with. He twisted in his seat and watched beads of sweat slide down between Roach’s shoulder blades, wishing he could just slam the piano lid down and sweep Roach off his feet, carry him home, wherever that might be.
They were to finish this set with Kiss of Fire. Izzy held his breath in anticipation. They might really have made it through. He was going to see Roach home tonight, he decided.
Con este tango que es burlón y compadrito-
Izzy continued playing, but the next line never came. Panic rushed through him, but he forced himself to keep going. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Roach swished his dress from side to side, then turned.
Izzy noted the exact moment Roach’s expression turned, from his relaxed, pleasant mask which dropped to reveal his own panic.
Izzy kept on playing the accompaniment with his left hand, then peppered in pieces of the tune with his right, mentally filling in the spaces where Roach should have been singing, swapping seamlessly between tune and backing as he carried it through for Roach.
It wasn’t too difficult, he realised. He just had to think of what Roach would be doing with his voice, and echo it back to him through the keys. Practice and muscle memory did the rest of the work.
That, and a little courage.
He looked up at Roach and nodded minutely, letting him know that he had everything in hand.
“Everybody,” said Roach, and - yeah , it was obvious now that he was sounding a little ragged, “Mr Izzy Hands.”
Roach leaned on the piano as he watched Izzy play through the rest of the song as a solo. Izzy found that that wasn’t too bad either, watching Roach enjoying his playing, swaying in time, like he was the only audience member that really mattered.
As Izzy neared the end, he saw Roach clear his throat, then bring the microphone to his lips once more. Izzy switched smoothly back to his accompaniment, and Roach began to sing.
Give me your lips, the lips you only let me borrow,
Love me tonight and let the devil take tomorrow,
I know that I must have your kiss although it dooms me,
consumes me,
the kiss of fire!
Izzy let himself echo Roach’s tune, bringing the song to an end with a dramatic little chord played as high as he could manage.
Roach was grinning at him, like he’d forgotten that the two of them were on stage. On a sudden whim he darted forwards and grabbed Izzy’s hand, pulling him up so they were standing beside each other.
“Thank you so much for sharing our music with us tonight,” he said, “I hope we will all see each other very soon.”
Roach squeezed his hand, and the two of them took a bow.
Izzy let out a sigh of relief. They’d made it.
“And thank you,” said Roach softy, “for sharing. Everything.”
In that moment, Izzy felt braver than he had in many, many years. In the middle of the spotlight, he brought Roach’s hand to his mouth and kissed it.
He felt very brave indeed, for having been the first one to try anything. And in front of the whole audience, too.
He hoped it would be alright.
It wasn’t until he caught his reflection in the piano as they were packing up, that he realised he’d had Roach’s lipstick mark on his cheek the whole time.