"Play ‘Purple Rain’!"

Gordon Kent, slick in a baggy beige shirt and narrow black slacks, stands there half smiling, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, his fingers poised along the keys of a silver Yamaha keyboard. "I'm not gonna play ‘Purple Rain,’" he shouts back, "it's too early in the night for that. You all will leave if I play that!" The women at the bar, the ones partial to the provocative stick figure we all know as Prince, give a light-hearted jeer and then go back to sipping their mojitos. Kent waits silently for another request. For a few moments, discordant noise fills the Banana Cafe's piano room. Friends giggle maniacally at one another, shot glasses thud the bar, heavy restroom doors push open and slap shut.

"The Way It Is." That's what he decides to play. Kent's large hands knead the Yamaha. Harmonic chords snake the room. Somehow he makes Hornsby's early ‘90s fodder sound good, emotionally resonate, like something you wouldn't mind dancing to at your wedding.

A few minutes later, bringing the piece home, his voice rattles the window panes and vibrates the cherry barstools. People sway. Kent, a lifelong performer and graduate of the New England Conservatory of Music, doesn't have the nicotine-ravaged vocal chords, the subpar instrumental skills, or the cheesy repertoire one might associate with lounge singers. He's scarily talented. Even on a weekday his stuff sounds concert-worthy.

At the end of "The Way It Is," his expression goes slack and expectant. The audience applauds and whistles enthusiastically. But afterwards a voice rises clear and defiant.

"You not gonna play ‘Purple Rain’?!"

Four days before, it was a Saturday, and the piano room was pretty well packed. The mosaic-tiled bar, the modish couch near the stairway and the wood tables were all occupied by attractive 20- and 30-somethings. As the graying 52-year-old crooned, not too far away from him two pretty brunettes eked out an area in which to dance, touching flirtatiously, giving their dates a show. Kent, wearing dark “Terminator” sunglasses and leaning into a melody, seemed not to notice them.

Tonight, as he takes the seat next to me at the bar and orders a drink, he's shadeless. I can see his eyes, upturned the way a prophet's might be … he's blind … I finally hypothesize. But tall and knobby enough to be a basketball player, nothing about the way he handles his bulk confirms my suspicion. Comfortably situated on his stool, he rests a pointy elbow on the bar and smiles at me. We're 15 minutes into our conversation before I get the guts to ask him.

"I've been blind since birth," he says, maybe slightly amused at how I prattled through the question.

Being a music virtuoso (besides keyboard, he plays French horn, sax, trombone, guitar, bass and drums) and also blind invites certain obvious comparisons. Kent tells me people assume he'll want to play lots of Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder, a stereotype he doesn't like. "I'm not obsessed with blind guys," he says irritably.

As it turns out, his musical tastes have always been pretty diverse. Kent's first crush, at 6-years-old, was Ella Fitzgerald. And with bebop-loving parents, he spent his wonder years feasting on musicians like Oscar Peterson, Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker. By his teenage years, his love for music had stirred up an interest in rock. "When I started doing the garage band thing," he says, "our place (his family's) was the hangout. I had a studio in the basement." Kent would eventually go from rocking out in the basement to studying classical music at the conservatory, and from studying classical music to doing road work with bands like Ashford and Simpson and the Village People.

Some eight years ago, living with his first wife in Little Falls, New Jersey, he played mostly New York clubs but also did "weddings and corporate stuff." When I ask what brought him to the District, he chuckles."A woman. I fell in love with my second wife." After a smitten Kent made the jump to DC, he landed the Banana Café gig. He seems to adore the place. "I think this place is a microcosm of how the world should be. It's tolerant, everybody gets along."

Downstairs, in the restaurant portion of "The Banana," as some call it, waiters in pastel Guayaberas rush to-and-fro, strangely efficient and polite to be operating at such breakneck speeds. A friendly hostess smiles and seats people as the scent of Pollo Criollo Enceballado wafts through the dining area. Kent is right; the Banana doesn't seem to carry around the social tensions and divisions other Washington eateries do. Working class families, half-napping from an exhausting day, sit next to Hill lawyers having a late night meeting; phone-texting hipsters sit across the aisle from seniors squinting at menus.

A menu that happens to be very good.

The Banana's menu includes Ropa Vieja, Cuban Picadillo, Puerto Rican Piononos ... and other dishes that reflect owner Jorge Zamorano’s island roots. Much of the fare, one manager will explain to me later, is based on recipes Zamorano's family brought with them from the Caribbean.

The owner's heritage can also be seen in the decor. The yellow and lime-green walls smack of warmer climates, and the banana tree that greets patrons at the entrance shades a royal (albeit stuffed) peacock, the kind you might find pecking the grounds of the Hotel Nacionol in Havana Cuba. Well done, seemingly Latin-inspired paintings and masks, along with the whirling ceiling fans and simple wooden tables and chairs, add to the space’s romantic appeal.

Upstairs in the piano room, Kent tells me he has to get back to work. As he dismounts the stool and heads toward the stage, I thank him for talking to me. "No problem," he says. But once in front of the microphone, he affably pokes fun at me. "Sorry about that folks, paparazzi you know." A moment later, ready to play another set, Kent again asks for requests.

"Purple Rain!" says the voice that's been haunting him … and then, upon sober reflection, "Darling Nikki!"
Kent launches into Funky Town.

Gordon Kent graces the Banana Cafe (located at 500 Eighth St. SE) on Tuesday, Friday and Saturday evenings. For more information, call 202-543-5906, or visit the café website at www.bananacafedc.com.