He did Poinciana his way

It’s a hot day. All the windows are open. Different thoughts are competing lazily for attention, if such a contradiction is possible. It’s the right day for listening to Poinciana, the song Ahmad Jamal released in January 1958. It’s a perfect foreground to the ear-splitting grinding of roof tiles going on three doors down the road. Ahmad Jamal, 79 today, was a favourite pianist of Miles Davis, who felt that his playing revolutionised the use of space and time in jazz. Both got a huge amount out of very few notes. Loads of people have recorded Poinciana, before and since. Dave Brubeck, Glenn Miller, Keith Jarrett, McCoy Tyner, Nat King Cole. It wasn’t Jamal’s song, but it was after he’d recorded it live. He owned it. Just as Sid Vicious owns My Way, leaving Sinatra’s version trailing in its wake. And, yes, Jamal’s version of Poinciana is also better than Sinatra’s. OK, one is instrumental and the other vocal. But, hey, Nat King Cole’s is better than Sinatra’s.

Today, last night, in fact, a very long, lost friend came to the forefront of my mind. I haven’t seen or heard from Martin Higgott since we were both 12 years old. We’d spent the previous three years growing up on the same housing estate. His father had been a triallist for Stoke City. His sister had got pregnant while listening to Albatross by Fleetwood Mac. Presumably, someone else was involved, though we all felt it was supernatural at the time. But, then, we were only 10. Martin didn’t have his own football boots. I was picked for the first team at our secondary school. First game, away to Rising Brook, 0-0 at half-time. Me, substituted. By Martin. Can I borrow your boots? Goes and scores a hat-trick. In my boots. 5-0 to us. He stayed in the team and I didn’t get a look-in till he left the school over a year later. I never lent my boots to him again. But they never scored three for me. Anyway, Martin, you’re 50 today, somewhere. So, happy birthday!

markgriffiths@idealconsulting.co.uk