We might swing by Satchmo’s, blow out of town on aeolian pipes, hammer blow, tapping toe, jam with the Lotos-Eaters. Then again, we might head somewhere entirely different.

I can’t say exactly what notes I’m going to play. Not till the moment they spill out onto the piano keys, commit themselves to the past, the rear view mirror. Don’t look back. Decisions on the bonnet. I'll be your pilot, your tour guide.

Piano solos, stories and the stuff of life.