Piano week

This time last week I was rushing from a wedding gig in a marquee.  We were chilly until the hot air machine was switched on and then baking as it was pointing at the band. Then it was switched back off and the sweat cooled on our backs.

 So it was good to go from there to a bonfire-and-firework birthday party on a friend's farm. He had been storing school pianos for a tuner and four of them had been condemned, after having all useful parts removed. These pianos formed the heart of the bonfire and, surrounded by pallets, they made a fine fire.

 My own piano gets little use, I'm afraid. I like to bash out carols at Christmas but the children have stopped playing and during recent and continuing building work it has been almost inaccessible behind boxes and papers. So it was good that the piano tuner came last week, forcing me to tidy the room and rediscover the instrument. Hopefully it will be some years before it ends up on a bonfire, although it would be an effective cure for the woodworm with which it is afflicted.

A voice project

As part of my work on the soundtrack for 'There's a Monster in My Piano' for Garlic Theatre I am collecting true stories about, and people's early impressions of,  pianos.  This has involved sticking a microphone in front of my interviewees and so I am learning the knack of helping them relax while keeping my own mouth shut. An excellent discipline.

I didn't have much to do with pianos as a child myself.  I was just getting interested in the unplayed instrument in our sitting room when we moved abroad and left it behind.  But one teenage episode sticks in my mind.  I was a boarder at a minor public school (private school, if you live across the pond) and weekends could really drag.  So I had plenty of time to walk up the steps onto the stage in the memorial hall.  But the lid of the grand piano was closed and this was the most direct route:

Step 1: the piano stool

Step 2: the top of the piano

Step 3: the stage 

The music teacher, also a boarding master, was young and keen and when he saw a chalky footprint on the top of his pride and joy he was livid.  He determined the shoe size and print pattern (basketball boots were the 'trainer' of the day) and went on a Cinderella-style hunt for the perpetrator. Fortunately the story doesn't have a fairy tale ending. It was a nervous time but I was never caught because:

Step 1: I hid the offending boots at the first rumour of trouble

Step 2: Though tall for the times, I had taken the precaution of growing feet small enough to pass for those of a much younger boy 

Step 3: I had had the foresight to be made a prefect and so, as part of the establishment and old enough to know better, I had placed myself beyond suspicion

I have met a number of non-players with piano related tales to tell.  If you have a tale to tell, as a pianist or not, do let me know.

A Festival Event

The annual Norfolk and Norwich Festival is taking place at the moment and last night I went to the Theatre Royal to see Philip Glass perform some solo piano works. As you might expect for such a big name the audience was an even mix of people who were into his music and others just curious as to what the fuss was all about.

To the untutored ear the music is much of a muchness and I found my thoughts beginning to wander as the same note patterns and chord sequences seemed to be reworked in successive pieces. Not being a piano player I had never attempted any of his work but watching his fingers move I realised this was music composed by and for the piano. Add or take away a finger from either hand and it would all sound very different. Change from a piano to an electric guitar or a bassoon and he would have made another music altogether. And then I couldn't help thinking that although he's not a bad player himself he's hardly a concert pianist and that perhaps someone else might have performed it all with more technical accomplishment. And somehow I don't think he would disagree.

At some point I realised I had been immersed in, was still immersed in, a wonderful feeling of calm introspection brought about by the music. And the performer's demeanour was so warm, matter-of-fact, unassuming and yet tremendously respectful of his audience that I was enjoying that connection to the music that only the composer can give. The concert wasn't about technique, it was about intent and communication.

At the end he did the obligatory encore; that part of the set that is really the final number but which is saved for after the applause because that's what the audience expects. After further enthusiastic applause he played what I believe was a genuine encore, an extract from the soundtrack to The Thin Blue Line. I am not sure how well be had prepared for the piece. It ended abruptly with a loud staccato chord from nowhere as it to say 'enough's enough'.