some say love...

It’s quarter to midnight on a Monday and I’m downloading a copy of Bette Midler’s “The Rose” to my hard drive. There can be no other culmination of a week of incessantly playing the song in my dining room, hitting the fifths, working the pedal, my tongue firmly secured between my teeth as I fret over the upcoming ritardando and screwing it up so that I must go back to the beginning and play it again and again. This past weekend, Timmy came up for Old Man Breakfast and the first thing he said as I opened the door was, “You’re playing The Rose, aren’t you?” Instead of worrying that maybe my downstairs neighbor doesn’t want to hear an abridged version of this song played over and over at 11 in the morning, I’m thrilled that he can recognize it.

As the weeks of practice stack up, I can slowly feel myself getting better. I can actually sight-read simplistic sheet music, a realization that only occurred to me when my teacher opened to the next lesson, pointed to May Dance and told me to play. Then she pointed to the next page, When the Saints Go Marching In and told me to play. My flash cards go a bit faster, I’m no longer intimidated by hand changes, even if it takes me a few measures to figure out where my hand goes. Those few weeks back in July when I taught myself to bang out a crude Fur Elise seem like some long ago nightmare of undisciplined tomfoolery. That person didn’t even know what the C pentascale was or how to properly hit a staccato note.

I have learned that while Jingle Bells is a really complex song, Haydn’s Surprise Symphony is a walk in the park and while John Williams’ Star Wars theme gave me two weeks of trouble, Grieg’s Morning from Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 made complete sense after a couple run-throughs. Piano practice is a study of famous musical numbers, from Camptown Races to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, as well as a repository of songs no one like me has ever heard. Matchmaker? Simple Gifts? Hell, I’d never even heard The Rose until I finally downloaded it. My piano teacher seems stumped that every other song is one I’ve never heard, the same way I still mull over her Randy Newman ignorance like a sore tooth.

I’m supposed to take notes every time I practice, logging my time playing and things to work on. God, I hope my teacher isn’t reading this, but I fudge my notes, waiting until Sunday, about 2 hours before my lesson, then I bang them all out in one fell swoop. Initially I was afraid to use the same pen to make all entries, opting to change ink quality and do one in pencil. I also practice a lot, trying to essentially cram all those lost minutes of practice with high-intensity stretches of repeating pieces until they’re drilled into me, until I have no choice but to let my hands curve and take over, while my eyes try to keep track on the page. Of everything I learned in high school, somehow this is the knowledge that comes back the easiest.

This nervous preparation leads to nervous practice and I find myself flopsweatting on the piano bench. It’s a little embarrassing. The backs of my knees start to sweat, I can feel moisture accumulating on my forehead and I keep wiping my hands on my jeans. It’s not until I get up to leave that I realize how much I’ve sweat through the hour. I enjoy practice, really, and my Sunday doesn’t feel complete unless I’ve driven myself to the point of frustration, eagerly trying to gain my teacher’s approval. So songs that I can play flawlessly at home get jumbled up at my lessons; I race ahead, I hesitate; I forget everything but how to laugh at my own stupidity. “You’re about to make a huge mistake,” she’ll say as I set my hands to begin playing and sometimes I just stare at my hands and wonder silently why they’re making me look bad and hope they figure out where they’re supposed to go because I have no idea.

One Sunday I was crapping out on pieces like Hungarian Dance by Haydn and Procession, and, frustrated, I turned to her and explained, “I swear, this sounded much better at home.” She then stopped, told me about this practice guide that had all these clues on how to practice more effectively and how to target your weak spots. She then pointed to the very first line on the pamphlet: “’I played it better at home!’ Perhaps.” Now every time I screw something up, I plead, “But I played it better at home!” Hilarity usually ensues.

While we’ve spent months meeting once a week, my teacher and I know very little about each other. I felt twin moments of relief when I saw the Kerry Edwards sign in her front lawn and the library of Jonathan Lethem on her bookshelf, including a hardcover of Amnesia Moon I’d never seen before. But still, we’re not friends. Friendship with someone who threatens to bean you with a music book or chastises you about the way you bob your head when you play is probably an impossibility. But for those few moments when I slide down the bench and we play a piece together, all four hands working in concert, friendship dims just a shade in comparison.

Posted by xtop at November 16, 2004 12:26 AM