Lessons
I’d dreaded this day for several months but inevitably, as is as it always does, the day had arrived.
So it was with feigned optimism and unrealistic determination that I opened the door to the church and, accompanied by my wife, Elizabeth and my two sons Larry, 16 and Matthew, 11, took the stairs on the left down to the basement meeting room, transformed for the evening into a recital hall. The room was large, windowless and plain, with fluorescent lighting, a few non-religious art pieces adorning the concrete walls and about 100 folding chairs set up in auditorium style.
The Piano sat at the front of the hall and at the sight of it, I felt a slight tremor starting in my hands, making its slow descent down to my gut.
We were early, so it was easy to find good seats. The room seemed very warm as if the thermostat had been turned up to sauna level, but when I mentioned this to Elizabeth, she said that actually, she felt chilly, but that my face looked red. Now my hands were clammy, and my heart was beginning to race. I took some deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself, but I knew it wouldn’t work. I lowered my head, closed my eyes and silently wondered, how did I get myself into this?
Then I remembered: because I had said “yes.”
***************
Although music wasn’t a significant part of my family life when I was growing up, I practiced the accordion for eight years, between the ages of eight and 16. I enjoyed the accordion. I even played a hora at my own bar mitzvah with my brother backing me up on the drums. But when I was 15, my mother bought a piano, and I thought that if I could learn to play the piano, girls would be much more impressed than they would be seeing me squeeze a large, heavy bejeweled box strapped to my chest. Although I continued with the accordion for a while longer, I knew in my heart that my lessons would soon come to an end. The new piano, with all its promise, awaited.
At the time I was listening to a lot of jazz, the music of Brubeck, Bill Evans, Errol Garner, Oscar Peterson, and many more, and I dreamed that someday I’d be playing that kind of music. So my mother arranged piano lessons for me with the same teacher who taught my brother the drums for a few years before he left for college. Supposedly, the teacher was multitalented, but at my first (and last) lesson, he gave me the sheet music for “How Much is That Doggie in the Window.” Not exactly what I had in mind. So I decided to teach myself and, with the help of a “Fakebook” with just the melody for the right hand and letter chords (like accordion sheet music) for the left, as well as a chord cheat sheet, I was able to play many of the tunes that I’d been listening to on my record player. Of course, my playing was rudimentary and amateurish, but still sounded better to me than my more skilled playing of the same songs on the accordion, so I put away the accordion for good.
Then came four years of college and five of graduate school and somewhere during that time span, I got married and became a father. I still played the piano on my occasional trips to my parents home, trying to learn new tunes and keep the old ones in my hands. However, it was increasingly difficult for me to play when other people were in the room. I had developed stage fright, right there in my parents’ living room.
Adulthood, a career, and a divorce came next. In 1984, I obtained a piano for my first post- divorce apartment. It was a large, old, out of tune piano, painted bright blue with more than a few keys that stuck and one or two that were missing altogether, but it was free and therefore better than no piano at all.
During the first half of 1988, the year I would turn 40, several events occurred which put me on the path to the recital. First, I bought my first real piano, a Yamaha upright. Then very early in the year, my family learned that my brother was dying of cancer and would likely not last very long. Three weeks after learning this, in late January, my father died of what I was sure was a stress-related heart attack. Finally, my younger son, Matthew, told me that he wanted to take piano lessons.
Mostly to distract myself from my grief over my father’s death and my worry about my brother’s illness, I decided to take lessons with him. I found a teacher named Shadow who had a good reputation for teaching children. Since I was really a piano beginner, I didn’t think that would matter very much.
When we approached Shadow’s home for our first lesson I heard some wonderful piano music coming from inside. I assumed it was Shadow herself, but it wasn’t. After Shadow’s husband, James, let us in, we stood at the back of the living room and watched a teenager finish his lesson. As the lesson finished, he collected his music and turned and I recognized him. This was Joseph, a high school friend of Larry’s. I had met him on several occasions, but had no idea he played the piano and certainly no idea he was so talented. What Matthew and I had just heard was superb.
“Oh, hi Mr. Novik,” he said when he saw me. He was a handsome boy a few inches shorter than me with dark blonde hair and a light mustache just beginning to reveal itself.
“Hi Joe,” I said. “That was fantastic. I had no idea you played the piano.”
“Yeah” he said shyly. “I’ve been taking lessons since I was seven.”
“Well it shows.”
“Thanks. Well, I have to go, my mom is probably waiting for me outside.”
“I’ll tell Larry I ran into you.”
Joe left and I introduced Matthew and myself to Shadow. Matthew had his lesson first. It was fun to watch and brought back memories of my own early music education. After a half hour, it was my turn. I nervously played some tunes that I knew but told her I thought I might be ready for something else.
“Classical?”, she asked
“Maybe,” I said thinking, yes it might be time to get serious.
“How about Bach?”
“Sure.” I said, thinking maybe not that serious.
“I think you might do well with the Bach inventions.” she said. “Let’s start with number 1 in C Major.”
“OK,” I said, thinking what have I gotten myself into. “What are inventions?” I asked.
“They’re just fairly simple pieces he wrote for students to teach them how to play counterpoint in different key signatures.”
She laid out the sheet music for the C major invention. The right hand music was fairly easy to play. After eight years of accordion, I could play right hand music pretty well. Then I tried the left hand. No chords, just another melody, much harder because I’d never read or played real left-hand piano music, but with Shadow’s help, not impossible.
Before the lesson was over I tried hands together. Two independent melodies, one played on the right hand one on the left. Suffice to say that it was a non-starter. I couldn’t get through the first measure.
“Well, take it home,” she said, “and see how far you can get. Don’t get too discouraged. This is hard.”
“You said it was simple,” I said.
“I did,” she said, “but simple for Bach is hard.”
I looked at her quizzically and scratched my head.
What she didn’t know was that in order to deal with the anxiety over my brother‘s worsening condition, I was going to practice as much as I could. Over the next week, anytime I wasn’t working, sleeping, or eating. I was at the piano. For five or six hours a day, I bulled my way through the piece, learning it note by note, measure by excruciating measure. By the second lesson I had gotten through half of the first page of the two- page piece. Quite an achievement according to Shadow. I wasn’t so sure.
During the ensuing weeks I got used to playing for Shadow, but I still knew that, being all grown up, I no longer possessed the carefree, unabashed notion that I could play music for other people, like I had at my bar mitzvah, without being nervous. Very nervous. Hand trembling nervous. Perhaps it was because I was now playing or trying to play Bach, not some easy jazz tune. But more likely it was due to the ridiculous inhibitions and embarrassment that children typically are not mature enough to experience, but often accompany adulthood.
About three months into our lessons, in late March, Shadow asked us what we’d like to play at the June recital.
“Recital?” I asked, already beginning to feel a familiar pounding in my chest at the very mention of the word.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she asked, looking more innocent than she should have. “Every June, I organize a recital with all my students.”
“Well, you didn’t tell us, but…but…I can’t do a recital,” I stammered. “I can’t even play in front of just a few other people. I get so nervous my hands shake. A recital? With an audience? I don’t think so.”
She would not be deterred. “I’ll help you,” she said. “Look at how far you’ve come. You’ve already learned three inventions. It’s amazing. I think you’ll do great. You’ll see.”
I felt my resolve starting to crumble. “Well….”
“I’d also love it if you and Matthew played a four-hand piece. Here’s an easy piece for children called “The Boogie Woogie Blues,” handing me the sheet music. “It’s perfect for the two of you.”
Had the decision already been made?
Matthew was excited at the prospect. “C’mon, dad, can we do it?
Shadow looked at me waiting for my answer. I could almost hear the opposing voices on my shoulders, whispering in my ears. “Don’t do it. You’ll screw up. You’ll be humiliated,” said the voice on my left ear.
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“What are you afraid of? It’ll be fun. You can do it. Matthew really wants to and you can’t let him down,” countered the voice at the right.
Finally, giving into the pressure. I told the voice on my left to shut the hell up and I said “Yes, okay, we’ll do it.”
We had three months after all. I had been a college teacher and was totally comfortable speaking before large audiences. Playing piano in public shouldn’t be that different, I thought. I’m not a teenager anymore. I can do this. Matthew and I would play Boogie Woogie Blues together and I would play two Bach inventions, C Major and D Minor, solo.
Over the next few months the voice of my left returned on a daily basis to remind me of the disaster I would be facing. Sometimes it was a whisper, other times it was a shout, but it was always there, perched on my shoulder, its mouth pressed to my mind’s ear, despite my daily admonition to leave me alone and stay out of it. Not surprisingly the voice of my right was not heard from again.
*********
My brother died in mid April. After sitting shiva with my mother in New York for a week, I returned home, determined to escape my grief through the piano, and I practiced more than ever. Matthew and I practiced Boogie Woogie Blues together often and we managed to polish the piece sufficiently for what I hope would be an adequate performance. And by mid-June, I thought I was as prepared for my solo as I’d ever be. The voice disagreed.
On recital Eve, Shadow called me. Joseph had just called her to say that he couldn’t go through with it. He was too nervous. Aware that I knew the boy, she asked if I could call him to try to change his mind. I agreed.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked Joe when I got him on the phone. “No one‘s gonna hurt you. It will be a very friendly crowd, and people will easily forgive any mistakes you might make.”
“What if I forget the whole thing?”
“You won’t.”
“But my hands shake when I play for my family. This will be in front of a lot of people I don’t even know.”
At this point I felt like I was having a conversation with myself.
“I know what you mean. So do mine. Listen, you’ll have the music in front of you. Shadow will be behind you if you need help and once you get started, you’ll breeze through the whole thing. I’ve heard you play.”
There was a long silence. I continued. “I think that if you don’t do it, you’ll regret it. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.” I felt like I was channeling Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and expected Joe to react to the Bogey quote. He didn’t. I could’ve continued, but I stopped there figuring the kid had probably never even seen the movie.
There was another long silence.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said. Surprised by his easy willingness to change his mind, I thought why can’t I get my own kids to agree to something this easily? Maybe I should watch more old movies to get other ideas for persuasion
************
When I looked up, the room was almost full. I had never laid eyes on most of the people occupying the seats, and many of them had video cameras. I left my seat to find Shadow. “You didn’t tell me the crowd would be this big,” I whispered loudly with a tremor in my voice.
“I didn’t?” said said, “Well, don’t worry, you’ll do great. Just try to forget that there’s an audience out there.”
So many possible comebacks. So little time.
Matthew and I were third on the schedule and when our names were called, he jumped out of his seat, waving the sheet music, and practically ran up the aisle to the piano with me lumbering behind him.
We sat at the piano. I was on the left, he on the right. I announced the song title and we began. The first two measures were mine alone. So far so good. Then Matthew jumped in and that’s where the trouble began. My mistakes started about the fifth measure. Things began to go totally off the rails a few measures later. Not for Matthew, who didn’t miss a note, but for me, not able to keep up with him, and playing more clunkers than should’ve been allowed by law. Now Matthew was laughing, happily playing his part perfectly, without fear, and without the slightest hint of embarrassment for me. Meanwhile, my fingers, totally independent of my brain, were playing something, but certainly not what was on the page. I did, however, manage to play the final chord of the piece, F major, in perfect sync with Matthew, believing that this tiny success would help restore at least some of my lost dignity. My thoughts also wandered to my solo act coming up in about 45 minutes. The audience applauded with surprising enthusiasm. I wondered if whether they imagined that the song was supposed to sound like that. I turned to Shadow. “This doesn’t bode well,” I whispered. She didn’t appear to disagree.
I was second to last on the schedule. Joe would be last, after me. Shadow introduced me and told the crowd that I had been taking lessons for only five months and that I practiced a lot, “… so kids,” she announced, adding heat to a pressure cooker already about to blow, “you’ll see how well you’ll be able to play if you keep up with your practicing.”
Great, I thought. Practice a lot and you kids can also totally screw up at a recital.
At the piano, I didn’t sit. Instead, I decided to first give a mini-lecture on Bach and the inventions, hoping that talking first would calm my nerves. It didn’t. I sat at the piano and looked at the music. I didn’t have to look because the piece had been memorized for two months already, but having the music would be a crutch just in case. I began to play with a racing heart, a sweating. face and trembling hands. As in my first piece with Matthew, my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, but that mind now appeared to be suffering a schizophrenic break. My first mistake came in the second measure. Starting over is much easier than correcting as you go, but my second attempt proved to be just as unsuccessful. So was the third. And the fourth.
I turned to Shadow, sitting a few feet behind me, now finally looking a little concerned.
“I think I should move along to the D Minor,” I whispered.
“I think that’s a good idea,” she whispered back without hesitation.
Before I started the next piece. I turned to the audience and thanked them for their patience and understanding. I heard some nervous tittering. Four or five people applauded quietly.
I started the D minor. It was a no go by the third measure. The second attempt lasted only two measures. But then I felt an unexpected surge of …. adrenaline? Confidence? Not caring anymore? And so I stopped looking at the music and ripped through the piece, playing it, as I was later told, faster than I had ever played it before. There was no subtlety or musicality in my playing. It was just fast. Apparently, my fingers, finally thinking clearly, had gotten a grasp on the situation and decided that this needed to be over as soon as possible.
Certainly, the thunderous applause that followed was more out of relief than for my highly questionable virtuosity. I almost applauded myself, feeling that relief more acutely than anyone else in the room.
Joe followed me and played a very difficult piece beautifully. No mistakes at all. I watched him as he played. Midway through the piece, he stopped looking at his music, and I could detect a faint smile on his face. He finished with a flourish, and the crowd gave him a standing ovation.
The recital was over. Joe and I had both survived. As we were leaving the hall, several people came up to me to say that I had handled that with great panache. I heard the word “panache” four or five times on my way out. I wasn’t sure that was the right word, but not wanting to argue the point, I took these as compliments. Someone tapped me on the shoulder just as I was out the door. It was Joe. “Thanks Mr. Novik,” he said. The simplicity of his acknowledgment that he had made the right decision not to ditch the recital almost made me forget about my own less than stellar performance. Almost.
…………….
Five weeks later, on a warm, overcast, late July afternoon, I was window shopping in front of the only shoe store in Great Barrington, focusing on a pair of Timberland half-boots that were on sale. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, but didn’t recognize the man. He was about my age and height, clean shaven, wearing a Red Sox baseball cap that I suspected was hiding thinning, if not absent hair.
“Excuse me,” he said, “didn’t you play at the recital last month? Kept on making mistakes and restarting?”
I laughed, but felt my face redden. “Yep, that was me.” I extended my hand and we shook and exchange names
“I thought so. You know, I have a videotape of the whole thing.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” he said with more humor in his voice than I thought it was called for. “So does a friend of mine. His daughter played just before you. He was sitting in the front row, so his tape is very clear. We even watched it last week.”
“You did?”
“I bet lots of people have a tape of that night. There were video cameras all over the room.”
“There were?” I said, not knowing what else I could say, but imagining my disastrous evening being played for amusement up and down the county.
“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” he said. “Remember the kid who followed you? Joe or James, something like that, I think. He was fantastic. I play a little piano too, but not like that. Man, he looked so poised and confident. I would’ve been nervous as hell.” He glanced up the street. “I’m sorry, I have to go, my wife and kids are waiting for me,” he said “but you know, you handled your thing with a lot of panache.” He shook my hand again and headed off to the ice cream shop on the next block.
I stood there, watching him go, and thought about Joe. What, if anything, had he taken away from the experience? Would the confidence he may have gained from his recital success have any influence on his success as an adult? Did watching me handle my humiliation teach him anything about surviving failure? Of course I didn’t know, and I never saw him again.
I looked up to the sky half expecting the sun to break through the dark clouds like a B movie cliché. It didn’t, but I went into the store and bought the boots anyway. Then I went home to practice.
