Julius Katchen
is playing Brahms
on the car radio -
long after his death
're-issued', we're told.
The name brings back the only
outing Dad ever took me on.
In the early 'fifties -
New Zealand was so far,
music-lovers so few -
top musicians seldom
risked the slog to Auckland.
Our cinema tycoon
took a chance, fitted out
his biggest theatre
with a Steinway -
on came Katchen.
He didn't look to me
like a top pianist -
for that he'd have to look like Dad.
From the circle, front row,
we saw perfectly
his hands' strength and grace,
eclipsing his stocky
neck and torso. What did he play?
Sixty years on I don't recall -
some Beethoven, Brahms,
Schubert, I think.
Who now will contradict me?
What is fact is this:
after our applause,
Katchen returns for encores.
What would you like? he asks,
in a warm American voice.
Dad calls out first, firm,
competitive - Jesu,
Joy of Man's Desiring.
I seem to hear it now,
the virtuoso playing for us.
Dad's eyes have watered,
his fingers move on his knees.
Back home, he seldom
played again, Bach nor Brahms.
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