Bringing Back the Romance

The fateful first chords that ensnared me forever

You know how familiarity has a tendency to wear off that initial starry-eyed enthusiasm one has for something cherished?  Practicing a piece over and over again, picking apart passages a phrase at a time or even a note at a time - ad nauseam - is inescapable if we are to play something well.  While that is all well and good, the rigors of study can make us forget why we even liked the music we're playing to begin with!

I fell in love with Ravel's Valses Nobles et Sentimentales at first sight (or hearing) at around age 8 while watching a 1966 recording of the Bolshoi Ballet perform excerpts of the simply titled ballet "Ravel Waltzes." It was hands-down the most romantic, mysterious, intoxicatingly beautiful work I'd ever encountered.  Since then, it had been a (sometimes forgotten) dream to play these waltzes.

The View from the Trenches
Since reigniting my efforts at the piano earlier this year, I've now been in the trenches for several months with Valses Nobles.  Eight waltzes, each of a very different character, have stretched my reading, understanding of phrasing, listening, hands (literally - there are some magnificent chords), and most prominently, my patience.

Whether it was getting the waltzes into my body the first time or memorizing them, it's been a challenge.  All of a sudden, passages I'd counted on playing smoothly would fall apart.  There were days I felt like I couldn't play at all - my hands simply wouldn't obey.  I'd play certain tough passages, each time the result worse despite herculean efforts at concentration.  I'd throw my hands up in the air with the drama of Moses in a classic MGM film and exclaim, "WHY?!"

On a particularly trying night of practicing, I sat in silence at the piano bench and felt rather empty. Suddenly, I knew I had let go for the time being.  I had to step away from the piano, and go back to find the romance within me I'd felt so keenly since childhood.

Recapturing That Feeling
I cued up a playlist that would run through an orchestrated recording of Valses Nobles with Charles Dutoit, and then the original piano solo version with Louis Lortie. I got comfortable on my bed, and closed my eyes.

It's amazing how sound can bring back so much.  I could picture it perfectly: A ballroom full of revelers who move purposefully yet chaotically.  Two people make a piercing connection but find themselves constantly thwarted in their attempts to reach one another. I could feel their desperation, their hearts' yearning.

I could smell the perfume and the delicious sensation of yielding to the intoxication of the first bloom of tentative but undeniable romance.  As the waltzes cycled I felt hope, desire, regret; the embers stoking once again. I could hardly sleep that night; the music swirled in my head and demanded attention.

And Then ... 
This past weekend I played all eight waltzes from beginning to end, entirely from memory for the first time.  After the final, haunting bass G note died away, my teacher Mr. LaRatta sat in silence for a moment.

"Do you know how proud I am of you?" he said slowly, his hands folded over the music book.

I looked expectantly at him, not quite believing what I was hearing.  My playing had been far from perfect ...

"No, I'm really impressed," he continued, "you're doing some very wonderful things with the music. I can see you dancing to this; I can hear it in your playing."

He could hear the dancing - that broke me out of my freeze.  He could hear the dancing in my playing!  That was the best thing I could have heard.  It meant that I'd begun to, in some way, recapture the wonderful feeling of the waltzes I'd cherished for so many years.

Before I knew it, I'd launched both fists into the air above my head and exclaimed, "YAY!"

And now, whenever I feel bogged down by the inevitable rigors of practice, I'll know when to take the occasional step back.  I'll know when I need to revisit my memories and stir up the timeless, magical feelings within me wrought by beautiful melodies.  It'll be time to bring back the romance.

A Love Letter to Hamilton

Hamilton with the top open, showcasing its timeless beauty

You might have seen the recent New York Times article about the increasing prevalence of (mostly upright) pianos meeting their end in a landfill dump.  I admit, just typing that sentence made my heart seize; the thought of any piano - even ones that I wouldn't really like playing - relegated to such a fate arouses such an immediate and visceral reaction.

I can understand the power of market forces; there simply isn't much demand for upright pianos anymore. What a remarkable journey since the mid-1800s, when the rise of pianism made one requisite in every well to do home.

It is true that a piano is an embodiment of lifestyle, onto which the hopes and dreams of generations are projected.  It's not too unlike the statement we make with our choice of car.  My Honda Civic Hybrid says: "I just want a reliable, slightly environmentally friendly vehicle to get me safely from A to B."  In contrast, a friend of mine recently ordered the new Tesla Model S: "I am the cutting edge of technology. I am sleek, I am cool!" (Or is it, "I am rich!"?)  So, too, is a piano, be it a practical studio piano or flashy, shiny grand.

The Story of Hamilton

It seems like an act of hubris to decry the dumping of upright pianos, when I myself have given up one. When I decided with conviction late last year that the piano and music needed to take its rightful place in my life, my dream piano replaced the old workhorse.  In came Steinway (born 1976), and out went Hamilton (born 1920).

Hamilton - that's what I called it - was a Hamilton full upright, with a big, brassy sound. It was found on Craigslist and had been languishing in an old house occupied by Stanford grad students. It was covered in dust, papers, and various beverage holders. Nobody knew where it'd come from and who actually owned it. It was being sold for a song, and within a week it was in its new home.  It cost more to move than to acquire!

The first time I played Hamilton after its move, I was shocked by how bright it was.  For the first few months, I consciously toned down my playing so as to not drown myself in sound - I couldn't hear myself in such an intensely acoustic swirl.  Some years later, I realized I was no longer playing quietly; I'd eased into playing Hamilton.

Sadly, Hamilton had suffered neglect for so long that the soundboard and strings were all but gone.  The lower register felts were literally non-existent, giving a dull, rumbly, bass-voiced lion purring kind of sound.

The E-flat two octaves down from middle C insisted on going flat, no matter how much it was tuned. In fact, the tuner had to tune 3.5 steps down from A440 for fear of the strings snapping right off if tuned any tighter.

Still, Hamilton was well loved, and well played, for a number of years.  Ragtime sounded particularly nice on it. Debussy, well ... not quite as much, but it allowed the music to manifest!

When Steinway finally arrived, my heart pounded with joy and excitement.  And yet, I hadn't fully realized that it meant Hamilton was going away.  Tears, unbidden, welled in my eyes and my instead of pounding, my heart seemed to stop. I trailed after the two men who were pushing it out of the door, and stood unsteadily outside as Hamilton was loaded onto the truck.

"Bye, Hamilton," I called out in a small voice, and the movers smiled at me.  

Vince from Sherman Clay San Francisco, to whom Hamilton was going, had led on that he intended the upright to go to a school or community center.  I hope against hope that this was the case.  I wonder, and yet I haven't dared to ask.  I don't know if I could handle the answer if Hamilton had met the fate that so many other uprights have.

As I write this, I've had to wipe my eyes more than a few times.  Again, I'm surprised by the fresh, palpable emotion the thought of Hamilton arouses within me.

Now I feel as though I've done what I should have done a long time ago: I've written a farewell, a kind of love letter, to Hamilton.

It still doesn't plug the hole I find in my heart, but it feels better.  Thank you, Hamilton.  You were well loved.