12/08/2026
James Pearson & Jamie Safir
The Piano Room
“If These Walls Could Talk”
There is something rather magical about Soho on a warm summer evening.
This summer in particular.
Long after office hours officially end, the streets refuse to slow down. Thursday has quietly become the new Friday, and nowhere illustrates that better than Wardour Street. By six o’clock the pavements were already overflowing. Pints balanced precariously on window ledges, wine glasses caught the evening sunshine, and conversations spilt effortlessly from pubs into the street. There was laughter, optimism and that unmistakable feeling that London, when the weather allows it, remains one of the world’s great cities.
The sun beat down on pavements bleached almost white by weeks of relentless heat. It is a summer that will surely be remembered for years to come.
You couldn’t help wondering how many more evenings like this Soho has left. Rising costs, changing habits and an ever-evolving hospitality landscape mean the great British pub and the after-work drink no longer feel quite as permanent as they once did. All the more reason to enjoy them while we still can.
Just a few doors away, however, another story was waiting to be told.
Hidden behind an unassuming frontage sits one of London’s best-kept musical secrets. Today it is Yamaha Music London, but for generations this building was known as Novello House, headquarters of the famous music publishers Novello & Co. Long before Yamaha’s magnificent concert grands occupied the room, sheet music destined for concert halls, churches and homes across Britain was produced here. Even today, the elegant Piano Room carries the quiet confidence of a building that has been at the heart of British musical life for well over a century.
Watching over proceedings are marble busts of Handel and Bach, silent custodians of a room whose walls have heard more music than most concert halls could ever dream of.
If these walls could talk.
As it happened, they almost did.
The title comes from James Pearson’s wonderful recent album with the Ronnie Scott’s All Stars, If These Walls Could Talk, but as the evening unfolded it became something much more than an album title. It became the perfect description of everything that surrounded us.
The walls of Novello House.
The songs.
The stories.
The musicians.
Everything seemed to have something to say.
Yamaha and Ronnie Scott’s deserve enormous credit for creating evenings like these. There is an effortless warmth about them that immediately dissolves any sense of formality. Guests were welcomed with a glass of Moët before taking their seats, while generous hospitality continued throughout the evening with excellent red and white wines. Rather than feeling like a concert venue, it felt as though you’d been invited into someone’s beautifully appointed music room.
It is difficult to imagine a more fitting setting for what was billed as A Salute to the Songwriters.
There could hardly have been a more appropriate opening.
Pearson explained that next year marks the centenary of the birth of Antônio Carlos Jobim before the pair gently eased into Triste. There was no dramatic flourish or virtuosic statement of intent. Instead, the music simply appeared, almost as though it had always belonged in the room. As the first delicate phrases floated beneath those marble busts, there was something quietly symbolic about beginning a celebration of songwriting with a composer approaching his centenary inside a room that itself has witnessed well over a hundred years of musical history.
Past and present shook hands.
It was the perfect beginning.
One of the evening’s most memorable moments came with London Pride.
True to form, Pearson quietly stepped aside and invited Safir to introduce the piece. It was Safir’s arrangement, and Pearson was perfectly happy to allow him to tell its story.
That simple act probably revealed more about Pearson’s character than anything else that happened all evening.
Safir explained how Noël Coward wrote London Pride during the Blitz, inspired by the extraordinary resilience of ordinary Londoners carrying on with everyday life despite the nightly bombing raids. Then came one of those fascinating details that sends an audience collectively leaning forward.
Coward had based the melody on a traditional German folk tune.
It was, as Safir observed, a delicious irony.
Rather than becoming a symbol of Germany, Coward transformed it into a celebration of London’s courage and quiet defiance. It perfectly reflected Coward’s wit and his refusal to surrender either his humour or his humanity.
Hearing that story inside Novello House somehow made it even more poignant.
Coward and Ivor Novello had been close friends. Their music had once passed through this very building. History suddenly felt remarkably close.
Safir wasn’t finished.
He then recalled being invited to Sunday lunch at Julian Clary’s home, Goldenhurst, near Dymchurch in Kent. Goldenhurst had once been Noël Coward’s beloved home, and Safir spoke with obvious affection about the privilege of sitting at—and playing—Coward’s own piano.
It was one of those stories that could only enhance the music which followed.
James Pearson has become synonymous with Ronnie Scott’s. Whether leading the Ronnie Scott’s All Stars, accompanying visiting artists or introducing audiences to the remarkable stories behind the music, he has become one of the club’s defining figures. His brilliance as a pianist is beyond question, but what continues to impress is something rather less tangible.
Generosity.
Throughout the evening, Pearson never sought to dominate. Instead, he continually created space for Jamie Safir to speak, to explain, to tell stories and, ultimately, to shine. It is the confidence of a musician completely comfortable in his own skin. Great accompanists understand that sometimes the most important notes are the ones they don’t play. Great hosts understand that sometimes the best thing they can do is allow someone else to take centre stage.
Pearson possesses both qualities.
Safir responded with genuine affection.
He spoke warmly of watching Pearson perform with the Ronnie Scott’s All Stars while establishing himself as a musician, describing him as both an inspiration and a mentor. He also congratulated Pearson on the release of If These Walls Could Talk, a title that seemed almost prophetic as the evening progressed. Surrounded by walls steeped in over a century of musical history, there could scarcely have been a more appropriate phrase.
If Pearson provided the framework, Safir brought an infectious sense of discovery.
Seated behind Yamaha’s magnificent nine-foot concert grand, he demonstrated a touch of remarkable delicacy. There was never any temptation to overpower the instrument. Instead, melodies were allowed to breathe naturally, every phrase unfolding with elegance and restraint. Pearson, seated at the slightly smaller grand beside him, complemented that approach perfectly.
Yet it was what happened between the notes that fascinated me most.
Time and again the two men instinctively looked up from their keyboards. Sometimes it was nothing more than the briefest glance. Occasionally a knowing smile. Neither needed to speak. Each seemed instinctively aware of where the other was heading before the music arrived there. It was less like watching two pianists performing together and more like listening to an effortless conversation between old friends.
Chamber music in its truest sense.
The evening’s subtitle, A Salute to the Songwriters, barely hinted at what was to follow.
This was no straightforward recital of familiar standards.
Every song arrived carrying a story.
Every introduction became a fascinating detour into musical history.
Hoagy Carmichael rubbed shoulders with Lennon and McCartney.
Stevie Wonder found himself alongside Noël Coward.
David Bowie encountered Bill Evans.
The Beatles unexpectedly met Erroll Garner.
Each arrangement asked the same irresistible question.
“What if?”
What if Bill Evans had been asked to interpret Life on Mars?
What if Erroll Garner had wandered into Abbey Road and discovered Lovely Rita?
What if Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely had been conceived as a jazz waltz?
None of it felt gimmicky.
These were affectionate conversations across generations of songwriters rather than impressions or musical party pieces.
History was no longer something being described.
It was sitting in the room with us.
And that ability to make musical history feel alive became one of the great joys of the evening.
Ronnie Scott himself, of course, understood better than most that a great night of jazz was about more than simply playing the notes. He was a famously gifted raconteur, his dry wit and stories between numbers becoming almost as legendary as his tenor playing. Audiences went to Ronnie’s to hear world-class jazz, but they also went to be entertained.
We have known for some time that Pearson is entirely comfortable wearing those shoes.
His knowledge of jazz history appears encyclopaedic, but crucially he never makes it feel like a lecture. A story is delivered with a raised eyebrow, an aside or a perfectly timed punchline before somehow arriving exactly where it needs to—at the music.
What became increasingly apparent during this recital was that Safir is developing much the same gift.
By now he had the audience firmly in the palm of his hand.
His stories were warm, self-deprecating and genuinely funny, none more so than when he recalled recently sailing aboard the Queen Mary 2. Surrounded largely by performers from the world of musical theatre, Safir described himself as the ship’s “token jazzer”, a line that brought immediate laughter and applause from the room.
But, as with so many of the stories that evening, there was a point beyond the punchline.
Safir had used his own show aboard the ship to explore the transatlantic relationship between British and American jazz. Ronnie Scott himself had made that journey from Southampton to New York as a young musician, desperate to experience first-hand the revolutionary new music emerging from 52nd Street.
There is something wonderfully romantic about that.
Today virtually every piece of music ever recorded can be summoned from a telephone in seconds. Ronnie belonged to a generation for whom hearing something genuinely new could require crossing an ocean.
Safir had followed the same route decades later, albeit in rather more comfortable circumstances, and the story provided the perfect introduction to another wonderful piece of Ronnie Scott history.
Lady Madonna.
Pearson had recorded a beautiful version with his trio, and Safir recalled learning from him that the tenor saxophone heard on The Beatles’ original recording was none other than Ronnie Scott himself.
Suddenly another wall disappeared.
Ronnie Scott.
The Beatles.
Abbey Road.
Wardour Street.
Once again, seemingly separate corners of British musical history found themselves occupying the same room.
The stories continued.
There was the wonderful tale of Stevie Wonder turning up at Ronnie Scott’s and joining the musicians, apparently preferring not to be announced. Of course, remaining anonymous becomes rather difficult when you are Stevie Wonder and produce a harmonica.
Even better, he didn’t simply arrive and play a procession of his own hits. He played jazz standards.
That anecdote beautifully supported Safir’s point about Wonder’s place within the great songwriting tradition. The harmonic language of the American songbook runs deeply through his work, and Safir’s arrangement of Isn’t She Lovely—written for Wonder’s daughter Aisha—recast one of his most familiar compositions as a graceful jazz waltz.
Taking a song everybody knows and making an audience hear it afresh is no easy task.
They did precisely that.
The same sense of adventure ran through Lovely Rita.
The premise sounded almost mischievous: what might happen if Erroll Garner had been presented with Lennon and McCartney’s song from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band?
The answer, apparently, is something rather wonderful.
Pearson captured the joy and rhythmic personality associated with Garner without allowing the exercise to descend into impersonation. That distinction mattered throughout the recital. These weren’t novelty versions designed to demonstrate how clever the arrangers could be. They were explorations of musical language—taking the DNA of one artist and seeing what happened when it encountered the work of another.
Then came perhaps the most intriguing proposition of all.
Bill Evans meets David Bowie.
Or, more specifically, Life on Mars?
On paper it sounds improbable. In the room it made complete sense.
The familiar Bowie melody emerged through the harmonic world of Evans, revealing colours that had perhaps always been there but needed someone to uncover them. It was another reminder that a truly great song can withstand almost anything you throw at it. Strip away the production, change the rhythm, alter the harmonic landscape and, if the writing is strong enough, the song survives.
Sometimes it becomes even more beautiful.
For all the musical intelligence on display, however, what prevented the evening from ever becoming overly cerebral was the relationship between the two men.
Pearson and Safir clearly enjoyed themselves.
That sounds an obvious thing to say, but it isn’t always obvious to watch.
There were smiles, laughter and those repeated glances across the pianos. Occasionally one would play something that seemed to catch the other by surprise. An eyebrow would rise. A smile would appear. Then the musical conversation continued.
No grandstanding.
No battle of the pianos.
Just listening.
And generosity.
Pearson’s generosity as a musician deserves repeating because it was perhaps the defining quality of the performance. He could easily have dominated proceedings. Instead, he continually created opportunities for Safir to take the lead, both musically and conversationally.
Safir took those opportunities and flourished.
By the latter stages of the recital, the distinction between host and guest had all but disappeared. This had become a genuine partnership between two pianists who clearly admired one another and an audience who had become completely invested in both of them.
And what an audience it was.
There was an attentiveness in the Piano Room that evening that is increasingly precious.
When Pearson or Safir spoke, people listened.
When they played, the room became completely still.
Then came the applause.
After virtually every piece, it seemed to continue just long enough to prevent either pianist from immediately introducing the next. Pearson and Safir would sit patiently at their instruments, sometimes exchanging another of those knowing looks, waiting for the room to settle.
It wasn’t polite applause.
It was appreciation.
Warm, generous and increasingly enthusiastic appreciation.
By the final medley, something had shifted again.
As the last notes disappeared into a room that had heard more than a century of music before them, the applause erupted. Then, almost instinctively, people began getting to their feet.
One person.
Then another.
And another.
Within moments, a significant number of the audience were standing.
There was nothing choreographed about it. Nobody needed encouraging. It was simply the natural response to what we had witnessed.
In little more than an hour, Pearson and Safir had travelled through more than a century of songwriting and somehow taken all of us with them.
Jobim.
Coward.
Carmichael.
Lennon and McCartney.
Stevie Wonder.
David Bowie.
Erroll Garner.
Bill Evans.
And, hovering somewhere over everything, Ronnie Scott himself.
The saxophonist.
The club owner.
The storyteller.
The raconteur.
That last word feels particularly important.
Ronnie understood that stories and jazz have always belonged together. James Pearson has long demonstrated that he understands it too. On this evidence, Jamie Safir is rapidly developing the same ability—the knack of holding a room with a story, making people laugh and then, almost without them noticing, leading them directly into the music.
It is a rare gift.
To educate without lecturing.
To entertain without performing for effect.
To tell a story without making yourself the story.
Between them, Pearson and Safir achieved all three.
Eventually the applause subsided.
Glasses were collected, conversations restarted and we made our way back downstairs before stepping through the doors onto Wardour Street.
Soho was still very much alive.
The pavements remained crowded, the pubs were overflowing and the warmth of the day still clung to the buildings. Somewhere further along the street another band would be preparing to play, another singer stepping towards a microphone, another story beginning.
Yet for a little over an hour, behind an otherwise unassuming doorway, something quite unique had happened.
A room built on more than a century of musical history had welcomed two musicians determined not simply to preserve that history, but to play with it, laugh about it, reinterpret it and pass it on.
I have been fortunate enough to witness some remarkable performances over the years, but this felt different.
Intimate.
Generous.
Funny.
Beautifully played.
And utterly impossible to recreate.
Perhaps that is why so many of us instinctively stood at the end.
We knew we had witnessed something special.
If these walls could talk?
On this particular Thursday evening in Soho, they didn’t need to.
Pearson and Safir had told their stories for them.
Glenn Wright
