Song of the Shank

We are pleased to have with us in the recital arena a singular Negro virtuoso during this era which has been largely defined by virtuoso-frenzy. This sable personage is none other than Blind Tom, who has returned to the stage after an absence of five years or more, a murky period with much still unknown, unasked, and unanswered since we the public and the press had no clue as to his whereabouts or his well-being for half a decade. Notwithstanding these facts, his talents were on full display last night as of the days of old. He is all the musician of a Liszt and Rubinstein. Indeed, it goes without saying, his technique is superb. We expect nothing less of a virtuoso. Both hands share complete equality, the interaction and rivalry between them being a constant source of new inventions. Let us celebrate the return of the most famous musician, indeed the most famous celebrity, in the world, who now tours under the name Original Blind Tom to distinguish himself from the many imposters.

I have a new song.

No new songs.

Let me play it for you.

No new songs, Seven says. Do I have to tell you why? He does not have to tell Juluster why. Of late Juluster has been running his mouth too much:

I am ignorant of my Father’s reason for choosing the piano as the instrument on which I am to illustrate my wondrous gift. My dear mother told me, she said, My son, the Heavenly Father gave you certain gifts in exchange for depriving you of sight.

Tom, the journalist said, that is such a beautiful song about your dear mammy. She must be so proud of you.

Mother is a jewel, Tom said. Father is a mirror.

My dear mother, do you know what else she told me? My son, she said, you had not long been from my belly when I received a sign. A rock dove set down on the rafters above where you lay and shat down on your forehead. From that moment on I knew you were destined for greatness.

And this:

“The Rain Storm” received its title because in the opening statement of the composition, I tried to give the feeling of something coming down — descending octaves — and then overflowing. In a way, it’s musically analogous to rain. I wasn’t, however, thinking specifically of a flood, but rather of an overflow of something. In a way, I suppose the original impetus for this piece came from my first years of being taught the Holy Bible in Sunday school and of hearing about deluges, good old Noah and the ark and all that. Of course, I wrote the piece at a very young age when I still accompanied my good mother to church almost every Sunday and when we attended Bible study together several hours before service began. With one thing or another, I am no longer afforded the chance to attend church all that often. So, now, at my present age, I certainly would approach the song differently. I would even give it a different title, “Deluge,” or something like that. Have I said too much?

Yes, Seven thought. You have said too damn much. Let him do the talking. Who knows Tom better than he does? The person he invokes when he thinks of Tom is accurate to the inch. He has memorized Tom’s measurements, knows all of Tom’s dimensions, the space between Tom’s fingers and toes and teeth. Knows. They had that between them. Not for nothing has he taken pains to come to this city where Tom gave his last concert and where he is thought to have died and may have died, probably did die. To the consternation or delight of many, he, Seven, will resurrect Blind Tom right here in the city. Do this in memory of me. What he can do for Tom. What he owes Tom is beyond action and expression. Tom has given his life a size and shape that no man can diminish. Tom would want this, he tells himself. Tom wants this. Tom wants this for me.

And how does it feel to be a nigger, Tom?