Playing the Piano … Again
The more you practice the better you'll play. The better you play, the more fun you'll have. The more fun you have, the more you'll want to practice. The more you practice, the better you'll play….
photo by pingyuchiu13
I'm on my third piano keyboard in as many years. True, I have made progress, but I also have an explosive temper especially when inanimate objects hinder my efforts. It's all the keyboard's fault, right? (sigh)
How can someone play a very simple piece from the First Level book of Alfred's Basic Adult All-in-One Piano Course and forget how to play it during the second run-through? How is that possible?
Senility. I'm seventy-four. It makes sense. What's more, my computer read my mind because this article popped up about a 61-year-old woman taking piano lessons to prevent dementia.
At least she spotted the signs early and didn't deny the inevitable. So far, I still remember how to set up the coffee and haven't put my car keys in the frig. If I add piano to my growing list of brain-stimulating activities, maybe I won't get dotty… er.
Playing the church organ was a career path my mother chose for me when I lay fingers upon Middle C at age five. It was torture. John Thompson's Teaching Little Fingers to Play started me on traditional music training. Alas, I didn't have Elton John's talent … or discipline … to turn that legacy into explosive rock music. Also, for a five-year-old to sit for a full hour of mindful learning could be considered child abuse. I did a lot of sitting rather than learning, but I put in that whole hour nonetheless.
After a couple of years, I quit only to start up again as a teen. Most kids I knew played some kind of instrument. My best friend had mastered lots of complex pieces and played well. I realized I was missing out on all the fun, but how could I learn the cool music?
I asked my teacher if there were some jazzier tunes. It was the 1960s after all and I wanted anything but the Three Bs and Mozart, even if he was a prodigy at five. She suggested a book of boogie-woogie tunes. It was fun, but being totally undisciplined, I waited until the last day to study new assignments. I continued this malarkey throughout my life.
At age 72, a siren call to return to the keyboard screamed in my ears. It corresponded with the birth of my grandson. My daughter wanted to home school him, as we did with her from fourth to eighth grade. We collected books, learning toys, and art materials for this effort. Wanting to teach him to love music, I needed to give him the basics, but I also had to model the joy of making music.
He loved the noisy buttons on a little $20 keyboard I found at the drugstore, of all places. One button in particular urged us to join hands and dance a swaying waltz that inspired giggles from us both. Could I show him that same joy in playing the instrument as well? Or would the torture I experienced haunt the process and bring disastrous results?
Alas, failure and frustration are emotions we must conquer if we are to become mature and functioning adults. I had to push through my lazy, anger-inducing lack of character if I was to pull off this charade for my grandson.
So, I ordered all three books in the Alfred series and turned to Lesson One. At first the tunes were just bits and pieces for the sake of learning a particular skill. Rarely a complete melody. My childhood exposure to music added to the disappointment toward these etudes. I even found partial melody lines in a beautifully-illustrated book of historical songs. Some had all the words and the complete song. Others didn't. What was the point of this? To make room for the beautiful illustrations?
It was such a betrayal of parental trust, especially if parents didn't have comprehensive music programs in their schools. Music, essentially, was removed from curricula somewhere in the 1990s. Promoting bands is expensive, no doubt, but using music to augment other lessons disappeared as well. In some high schools now, band practice happens at six in the morning, while sports teams have the luxury of long afternoons. Who can play a horn at six a.m.?
In the 1950s, we learned folk songs, patriotic songs, anthems, and songs from other cultures from books that have been discarded rather than reprinted. I found a copy of one of these gems in the reject stack at the library where I worked. Why didn't I grab it at the time? I tried finding it on Amazon to no avail. Those books contained the original words and explanations. Johnny Comes Marching Home told the story of greeting soldiers returning from the Civil War. Now, it's "the ants go marching one by one…." Cute, but totally void of historical significance. So the ants go marching two by two….
We also learned square dances and reels, ballroom dances, even a Hopi Rain Dance to perform for a spring festival. Whether it was accurate or not, or blatant cultural appropriation, it widened the view outside our own little bubble.
To build a repertoire, I listened to melodies online, The Entertainer for instance, to hear the entire piece. Then I pecked out a simple version on the keyboard. I discovered just how vast my exposure to music had been. Between church and school, movies, TV and radio, music of all kinds was everywhere in my childhood. As far as I witnessed, my daughter's school lessons consisted of some pathetic guy teaching them "down on the corner, out in the street, Eddie and the poor boys …." Give me a break!
For home schooling, I started her on a children's piano book that was easy for her to follow on her own. I never had to hound her to practice. When she learned Dancing Elephants, she started playing it forward, backward, and upside down. It was that simple. And she played it exclusively for about a month. Then she quit playing totally. Just like me, she came to a stopping point and moved on to other interests. At least she had the joy of playing an instrument for fun. This episode shows how lack of discipline can continue unabated, though. Luckily, she paid more attention to her other subjects in high school.
With the maturity of seven decades, I finally developed the ability to practice effectively. In the beginning, I worked until my back started to hurt … maybe a half hour. Soon I was building a repertoire as well as muscles. The memory blanks were deepening, though. And the rage! That's why I'm on my third keyboard.
"Why can't I learn this," I would scream, pounding on the keys. "This is an easy number. Sure, it has some tricky fingering, but … damnit! Why do I keep getting lost?" I would play it well one time then totally lose it the second time. The more I played it, the more befarkled it got. It was madness.
Serendipity struck, though, when I watched the movie, Coda, starring Patrick Stewart. A concert pianist, he lost track of where he was in the music while performing. It shattered him. One scene still speaks to me. He looks at the keys and all the black ones are missing.
That's how it felt. My brain would blank out what I had just played. Coda helped me understand that other musicians have these moments. They work through it and I should, too.
While I struggled, my husband surprised me, saying he enjoys my playing and I am improving. I was making progress. Very slow, begrudging progress. As muscle memory took hold, the time at my third keyboard became more delightful. I moved the keyboard out of the back bedroom to the kitchen. While dinner simmers on the stove, I do run-throughs of whatever comes to mind. Now I have memorized a dozen pieces and have moved on to the second book. It's only taken three years.
Maybe my grandson will find joy in music from my playing. Or maybe his mother's playlist while riding in the car will turn him on. I heard his father used to play guitar in a band. Who knows what or who will inspire him? The fact is, I've discovered how much fun I can have. There are still bouts of frustration, but finally, my keyboard has become my friend. A very devious friend.
Music - and access to making it - is so special, Sue. Lovely post.
Cool story, Sue. I wish you the best of success with that little grand baby! He may surprise you!