High Drama in the Pit

The things you worry about in performing are the things you can’t practice or predict. Pianists often do not know the quirks of the instrument on which they will be playing; when accompanying, one never knows what the other performer might do or not do. When playing outdoors, keyboard players know to assure their power source, take lots of clothespins, minimize the page turns. All these reminders have been learned the hard way.

The wedding for which I most wanted to play beautifully, my niece and namesake Mikie’s marriage to Mark Newton, took place last week in an apple orchard in Napa, in gale-force winds.

Charles and I had prepared our favorite cello and piano pieces, had packed the instruments, stands, books. A few days before the wedding, the father of the bride, my musician brother Les, said that his friend the trumpet player would be able to make it after all, and would I mind playing the Clarke with him for the processional. Unfortunately, there would be no opportunity to practice, so we would just have to talk it through beforehand.

Which we did, scant minutes before we had to play. “It’s the ‘Trumpet Voluntary’, right?” “You’re playing it in D?” “Do you take the trills from the upper auxiliary or the principal?” “Which repeats do you want to do?” “And, by the way, why don’t we do the Jeremiah Clarke ‘Trumpet Tune’ for the first part of the recessional?” “How does it go again? Oh, yeah. Got it.”

So out in the apple orchard, everything set up and clips in place, my aunt’s old faux fur covering my pretty wedding dress, the music stand blew over and cut my hand, which began to bleed. The cello music was scattered everywhere. I adjusted the keyboard so that the wind would be blowing from the side instead of the back. I asked my son Ed to hold the books down; Charles changed music stands to one which had less wind resistance and held his scores with his bow until he could get the clips on. When he picked up the cello again, it had gone completely out of tune in the cold.

Miraculously, the sun came out as soon as we began to play.

Between Larry, the trumpet player, and Ed, both reading music upside-down and sideways, the books more or less stayed in place for the seating music, lovely Barber and Bach.

All went well except that we had to play the Brahms “My Thoughts Like Haunting Music” instead of the Bach Air on the G String for the first part of the processional, since that’s what we had clipped down to the stands and there was no way to change all the clothespins in time. Brahms is never easy, especially under pressure, and I was paying really fierce attention to the page.

The little flower girls walked very slowly, adorably, scattering petals and investigating the bottoms of their flower baskets. The Brahms finished before they reached their destination, and I did a quick take on what key to modulate to before the Trumpet Voluntary. OK, C to A; no problem. Thank God for harmony classes. Later, I asked my brother Les if he liked the special piece I composed for part of the processional, “Noodling in A Major.”

Larry picked up his trumpet for the second part of the processional as someone signaled that the bride was ready to come down the aisle. “I’m freezing,” he said, putting his lips to the cold brass instrument. I can only guess at what accommodation a brass player must make for an instrument which has grown as cold as that trumpet must have been.

The wedding was brief and beautiful. Larry played the recessional and then Charles and I played Elgar’s “Chanson de Matin”. By the time we finished, all the guests and the wedding party had bundled up and were walking toward the Carneros Inn, where the dinner and reception were to be held.

Everyone said the wedding music was beautiful and nobody had the least idea that we had been fighting for every note.

Guilt, Resistance and the Graceful Exit

I have suspected for a long time that my former students who still live nearby hide when they see me coming. I have even been in the same room with a talented piano dropout, and I swear that she managed to be behind a post or a friend or in another room the whole time I was there. Not a word of greeting after four years of one-to-one lessons.

When I did a kind of survey for a piano teachers’ magazine some years ago, I figured that I had taught close to two thousand students, not including my college piano classes or students who dropped out before six months. The average length of study was about 3.5 years; the longest was 14 years; the average drop-out age (which will come as no surprise to other teachers) was 12.

Since many of these potential pianists still live in my small town, you would think I would encounter them on the street or in the stores once in a while, but I don’t. I think the answer is guilt. They think they should have practiced more; they think they should have kept on with their lessons.

“Why did you let me quit piano?” is a complaint parents seem to hear frequently from their children. "Why didn't you MAKE me practice?" I have heard this one from my own brother and mother. "You made Mikie practice piano; why didn't you make me practice?" (Of course, I have to add that Les grew up to be a trombone virtuoso who practices and performs all the time.)

Granted, piano lessons are not for everyone, and I have more than once discussed with a student getting him or her off the hook when the lessons were the parent’s idea and the student really didn’t care for anything about it.

So I have come up with the idea of the graceful exit, something a friend once advised me when I thought the way to stop using a computer program was to turn the computer off. If a student lets me know he or she will be terminating piano lessons, I update their Repertoire list, write down what level they have achieved, and note any special accomplishments or abilities they have shown. I list the beginning and ending dates of their lessons and tell them they are welcome back at any time, whether to study or just visit.

Occasionally, a student given this kind of exit will come back to lessons, but whether or not this happens, I hope it does something to reduce what seems to be piano guilt.

Guilt is not our friend. It is a vain regret. I am really against guilt. The pianist Gary Graffman wrote a book called “I Really Should Be Practicing”, and I have said this to myself more times than I care to admit. Of course, the answer is to get over to the piano and start to work, but many times a former student would rather feel guilty than to practice. In this case, I suppose I must be a reminder of a failure, a kind of Jiminy Cricket (Pinocchio's conscience).

Another dismaying phenomenon in music is Resistance. Pianists hit walls of resistance just the way long-distance runners do. They don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Doubt rears its ugly head. They get discouraged. Very often, this will happen after a big surge in musical achievement.

I think such a wall of resistance is a period where we are assimilating new information. It is a time to review old repertoire, to listen to recordings of our favorite players, to go to the Wiki Public Domain website and download some new sheet music. I have hit this wall more times than I can say. My teacher, Mr. Sheldon, once said to me “You’ll be a good piano teacher, because you will never encounter a problem in a student which you have not had yourself.”