Sometimes applied to people who are as far away from being geniuses as I am from being teetotal.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines a genius as being someone possessing exceptional intellectual or creative power or other natural ability. There is absolutely no doubt that Brian belonged in that rarefied category.

It would be simplistic beyond belief to describe Brian as a jazz pianist. For those of us who were lucky enough to see him play, it was obvious that his talent and spirit transcended any mere musical notations which may have sought to constrain the extraordinary flights that Brian wanted to take you on.

Whenever he walked into a bar or a club or onto a stage, he would throw that familiar cheeky smile out to those he knew and to those he didn’t. For my money, it was a smile that always reminded me that here was our friend, a quiet, funny, gentle and unassuming kind of a bloke, who didn’t possess an ounce of arrogance or egotism.

He was just at his work. And when he settled onto his stool at the piano, with no musical notation to guide him, he would hover those seemingly possessed fingers over the keyboard and then take you to places you never knew existed.

Sometimes, one of Brian’s collaborators would announce which number they were about to play, and even for those of us with little or no jazz knowledge at all, we would recognise the title of the song and sit back to enjoy it. Summertime by George Gershwin, Moon River by Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer, or Georgia on my Mind by Hoagy Carmichael & Stuart Gorrell. Then Brian would get hold of them…

And from those instantly recognisable refrains, he would weave some kind of shamanistic magic which elevated the music to heights and shapes which simply blew your mind before gently guiding you back to your comfort zone and laying you down with a reassuring, “there you are” at the end.

He was unique. Nobody, nobody, embodied the free-for-all spirit of jazz in the way that Brian did. Insert genius here.

And boy could Brian swing. Yes, he could break your heart with ethereal interpretations of classics, but he could also fill your heart with joy employing his mischievous and completely joyous bouts with Count Basie, Duke Ellington, and my own personal favourite, Fats Waller. However, Brian didn’t imitate anybody.

Sure, he incorporated Waller’s Harlem stride style into his playing, but it always remained Brian’s song. And during these unforgettable jousts, you could also see the joy flooding through Brian. He loved this stuff and he was always so grateful for the talent and opportunity to share his joy with everyone else. Which brings me to the guy that we knew.

Brian became a really close friend in the way that many do; through friends of friends. And we would see him almost every Sunday for a couple of beers after his regular gigs at the Shore Bar with his long-time collaborator and friend, Kenny Ellis. Brian loved to laugh and he found like-minded souls in “Clooney Corner” in the Carriers Quarters.

He had an amazing sense of humour and revelled, like me, in the sometimes ridiculous notions that we would pull out of the air. We talked once about putting on a show at the festival celebrating the life of Chet Baker. It would be called “Did he fall or was he pished?” With new versions of classic tunes: “The man who broke the bog at Monte Carlo”, and “I’ve grown accustomed to her feet” and the like. I can still see him now, throwing his head back and laughing it off. We loved him and he loved us.

Brian died recently and there is not enough space here to convey how sad and bereft we all feel about his passing.

And the broken bed?

Well, Brian used to stay at my flat when he had double-header of weekend gigs in town. I would stock up the fridge with Tennent’s and pork & pickle pies, and leave him to it.

One Sunday morning, I found a piece of the headboard had escaped its moorings. Did he fall or was he pished? We’ll never know and I don’t care.

He was just a lovely, lovely guy and now he’s gone.

Sleep tight gadge.