Solo Man

The house lights dimmed and the crowd hushed as a burly Negro was led to the piano. He seated himself, cocked his head to one side and played three smashing chords. Then he was off in a cascade of flashing arpeggios which resolved themselves into the haunting strains of Jerome Kern's Yesterdays. After a two-year absence, Art Tatum was back in Manhattan.

Almost totally blind, Tatum is generally acknowledged as the most brilliant technical virtuoso of the jazz piano. A musician's musician, he has been praised by such men as Paul Whiteman ("Tatum is a genius") and the late Thomas ("Fats") Waller ("That Tatum ... is just too good"). He delights in swift changes in tempo and key, becomes so involved in complex contrapuntal rhythms that his listeners are certain he will never find his way out. But he always does.

Old Standards. Toledo-born Art Tatum played his first professional engagement at 16 as a dance-band pianist. Two years later he left the band to go on his own as a soloist. "The other boys used to razz me," he says. "They said I had no left hand, so I made up my mind to show 'em." Tatum is still sensitive about criticism of his bass, but can claim, with the enthusiastic approval of his fans, that he does more with his left hand than most pianists do with both.

Although one of his biggest-selling records was made with a band (Wee Baby Blues with Blues Singer Joe Turner), Tatum's fame has come from his solo work. "A band hampers me. I hafta watch out for them." His solo records of standard tunes (Tea for Two, Sweet Lorraine), his jazz renditions of popular classics (Massenet's Elegy, Dvorak's Humoesque), and his showcase novelties (Get Happy, 9:20 Special) are part of most jazz collections.

New Ideas. Last week, after his 10 o'clock show at Cafe Society, 40-year-old

Pianist Tatum sat at a corner table, his customary bottle of beer before him, and admitted he was tired of the grind of nightclub shows, sometimes thinks of retiring to his home in California with his wife and two Doberman pinschers. But as the intermission pianist swung into a chorus of Basin Street, he turned his head attentively. "He's got some good ideas," he said. "You can't create everything. You hafta listen to the other fella." His strong fingers flexed in an imaginary run. "I'm always tryin' new ideas. No matter how far you go with a tune, there's always something else you can do."

The fans at the table exchanged pleased glances. As long as Art Tatum talked of new things to do, no one had to worry about his going into retirement.

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